overpriced pancakes

That wasn’t all I took away (get it, took away ahaha) from lunch today, of course – and they were very good, very robust pancakes. The berry compote was a bit of a disappointment, though. I don’t think you get to call it ‘berry’ if there’s only one type of it in the compote. The conversation was worth it, though, and the company, jokes about maple syrup and grizzly bears and my accent notwithstanding. (Yes, I am saying this entirely for his benefit, since I know he read this ;))

I write a lot, now. In my private LJ and this wp and a separate journal and notes on my iPod Touch on train rides. None of them intentionally creative, or fictional. The middle of the night is always a time of confessions, it seems, something to do with the deceptive solitude of the lingering night, the reassuring silence. There are thoughts I need to purge, to bruise as overhandled fruits, to turn over again and again in my hands. I said aloud today something that’s been dawning on me since my arrival: my departure two years ago might have kept many friendships which might have withered in the circumstance of time and A levels and the daily friction of contact. Sometimes it is far, far better to end things on the rosy, hopeful anticipation of future friendship rather than the tired retrospective realization of its beleaguered wilting.

I think I understand the term ‘childhood friends’ now. They’re the people you haven’t lost touch with, exactly, but you don’t see them around that much, anymore, because, life, right, and sometimes (usually) you go months, years, often, without talking or contact or even thought, sometimes, and you don’t miss them, really. When you find yourselves in the same place, however, you have to meet and it’s comforting, if not familiar, and both because of history and distance, the tone of the conversation is distinctly honest, and then warm, and when it’s done, when it’s over, there are no childish promises to keep in constant touch, because life has moved on, but there is a quiet, residual fondness that, if it doesn’t offer tentative hope for the future, at least provides a grateful vindication of the past. 

It’s strange the associations I have of people, the specific flashcards of memories I keep labelled with people’s names. They’re sharper for some people, of course, and different in nature for all. I told S the other day that I had learnt, gradually, to like people for more than that irrational extension of affection, and more importantly, in spite of its absence, and rather, to appreciate specific honourable qualities about them and to recognize that that alone makes them worthy of friendship, though some of them will never be what I used to call ‘my kind of people’, which is okay. I’ll never be some of theirs, either, but it’s always nice to stop and smell the same roses when our paths cross. Through necessity (of maintenance of mental health and even just casual conversation), the people in your immediate vicinity will be the people with whom you have the most contact, but it doesn’t say anything about closeness or significance, not really, neither negative or positive. I used to think frequency of contact was commensurate with level of intimacy.

If only it was less hot – I’ll get used to it again, though, I know. Just as I know I’ll adjust to Singapore’s lifestyle again. The difference is that I don’t want to, of course, and it’s all about the choices you make, right? Not what you can do, because I think most people can do most anything, but what you want to expend effort on. I’m tired, but better confusing, conflicted freedom than sheltered, narrow peace of mind.

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