I'm in another relationship. This time I do love. She loves me too. But not as much. She's certainly more experienced than I. In fact I'm not too sure if she really loves me. Ing can say she loves me because I love her. I don't think she'll love me if I don't. She was in a one-sided love, only about a couple of months ago before we met. Yes she'd have done anything for him. She's done almost everything for him, it seems. I don't think she'll do that for me though. Or, yes, she doesn't do anything for me. She was prepared to give up everything for him. She's NOT prepared to do the same for me though. Simple - she doesn't really love me. She says that one-sided love expired long ago. But she'd only erase his shadows in her only when I find them out. I know his shadows, things that remind her of him, still permeate in her. It drives me crazy. Somehow it's not that I'm jealous of him. Rather it's that I can't stand her lies. When she says she loves me, it's just not the same love she cherished for him. It's more of gratitude. Gratitude in response to my love.

My solution is to accept the fact. Accept that she doesn't love me. Be prepared to let her go when she can no longer pretend to really love me.

I had to call. Not that I had anything to promise. She was just the same. I could smell her flesh as soon as she uttered a word. It didn't feel like we're separated.

She's leaving next Monday.

On the fiftieth day, she called me.

I was listening to Tchaikovsky's swan song.

I am leaving here in two weeks, said she.

I thanked her for the call.

I didn't feel much.

It's taking its toll slowly.

That club going last night reminded me of her. Tonight I read Haruki's short story. There's a woman who cries in a man's arms. That brings me to the night when she cried hopelessly in my arms. I still don't know exactly why she cried. She was down all day. First real depressive side of her. I still don't know why she had to cry so hopelessly. She didn't tell me why. She just cried while we were watching some weird movie in my room. A lot of things I will forget. Unfortunately I will forget little details of happy moments that I spent with her. Somehow I am certain that if there will be one last thing that I will remember of her, it will be her trembling little body tightly clinging onto mine, sobbing endlessly. Why it is that I've developed this tendency of making big of sad moments, I don't know. I think I've managed to forget a lot of them. But if something persists its place in my memory, it usually is something sad.

I still remember the last glimpse of her, sitting right at the sofa right next to me right now.

Unbeknownst to me, someone appears to have polished it off. I guess that's how it was meant to be. I know. Who would have known the meaning that I've vested in that little nothing teabag. It does hurt me. I am watching my old self slowly dying. Mourn.

As soon as I returned from an all-day-walking-around-alone, the heavy silence that was floating in my room oppresses me like sea water of 2km depth. I've been thinking of her. I'm not sure if I necessarily miss her. I'm thinking of her because she's all there is for me to think of.

Having finished a book today, I thought I should take some walk outside. But the rain was pouring like a horny bitch. I gave up my journey at a bookstore and went to see the beach at the end of the street on my place. Having been here more than a year, I still haven't seen it in rain so far. It was charming, alright. Some gulls were fluttering around too. Looking at the see water under the heavy rain for a while, I was reminded of her again. Every damn thing in this little town reminds me of her. We've spent time together here long enough I guess.

Then I watched 'Tony Takitani', again.

7 sachets of Lipton 'Honey & Lemon' tea, a half-full can of walnut drink powder, a near-full can of men's daily facial cream, some avocado cream, perhaps some shaving cream leftover, a few sachets of moisturiser samples, a few sachets of men's skin products samples.

I like a glass of red wine with some dark chocolate. It rains now. I've felt rather frustrated (yes, again). I feel as if this blog needs a title. Something like, 'Lounge blog' or 'Alcoholic blog' maybe. Apparently they wouldn't give me such option. I guess I can't really complain as that absence of option was the very reason I chose this place. I listen to Brahms now. Richter is playing piano. I feel warm because the heater is on. I take off my firm-provided vest. The wine is doing its part in keeping me warm. Richter is doing his own bit too, may he rest in peace. I whined a lot today. Like that guy in Haruki's novel, I am finding this solitude very comforting as it is my refuge in this unsatisfactory real life of mine. I think I've poured a little too much wine. I thought I might as well empty the bottle as it was about to be emptied. It's not easy taking things in moderation, eh? Then again, sometimes I regret that I took things in moderation. Life in excess is cool and I've always wanted it. But I haven't been too successful in that regard. I do my best. I do my best to keep me warm, satisfied. I suspect that is the very reason I am frustrated for the most of time. But, oh, well.

It has hit 10pm now. I guess I should go to bed within an hour or so. There's cello sound from the Brahms now. I feel slightly lonely. Why so much change of emotion so abrubtly? I don't know. Must be a wrong composite of chemicals in my brain. Or else. Come to think of it, I haven't done any exercise today. I think I've walked less than 500m in total. Definitely not good. When my shoulder goes lame next week, I should stroll around a bit. The area isn't so interesting as say Hong Kong or New York or Tokyo or London, but who knows maybe I'll be able to find a little wild flowery garden somewhere. Or there's water always nearby. It will be cold but I should try to move my body as much as possible. Oh how I wish I was away, far away, float like a bird in the distant air. I wonder if those birds do really go where they want to go to. Or is it the air that takes them, an armful load of birds, flying birds.

Having spent most of time at home in my private cell of room, I have decided that I should make use of the lounge room which is understandably bigger. Not only that, this unit has a built-in gas heater only in this lounge room. 3-seater sofa makes it perfect for lazy reading. Most importantly the space facilitates the sound quality of my speakers.

Listening to Shostakovich's jazz, his appearance takes a form of a physically attractive, 'you-will-never-be-bored', hopelessly mysterious girl. Like that girl, who we all dream of, who has this unattainable property that is so elusive that you can only imagine, whose unpredictable, all-defying soul captivates and imprisons my dreamy longing, he invites that I join her, my unilateral participation that's unashamedly frustrating. He knows grief, struggle, fun, freedom, lightness and unfathomable depth of a lone well in the middle of nowhere. All-knowing he who is a girl.

Seems like yesterday when I wondered whether I would ever own a CD player in my life. Tired of having a piece of junk that doesn't even play a CD properly, I have finally bought a proper CD player, an integrated amplifier and a good-looking pair of cherry-finished large bookshelf speakers. How have I managed without these? I've recently suspected that I don't really care too much for music. Now I can clearly say that music hasn't been so consoling as it used to be purely because my system was such a rubbish. With the new set, I can already feel my life has improved, enhanced and enriched. Time spent alone at home has become so much more enjoyable.

The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that I must accept the pain and suffering that certainly and rather necessarily precedes the elusive rewards that more often than not hide under a thick skin called fate. I do not know whether I will not regret the decision that I am about to make. But it is a decision that I must make as if there is no alternative.

Without a trace of desire, I feel myself void, empty and hollow. Full of desire, I am life again and the future is real and tangible. Desire, however, retrieves necessary pain, bitter disappointment and even disillusion. What to do?

I can only choose desire. Life may not be so consoling, but it still requires some substance.

Tuesday was cruel. I took the infamous pill that ended Heath Ledger and forced myself to sleep like a rotten log. I'm better now. Still hurt, but I manage to live on. When I think about it, it wasn't such a big deal. Probably it really wasn't. What matters right now is that I can't sleep again. Yes, I'm hungover.

Having recently been rendered a man without a girlfriend effectively, I have sought refuge at a cafe nearby, with a copy of Dawkins' atheist discussion (the title is so distasteful that I refuse to type). The cafe owner, despite being very friendly and kind and all, I suspect, has given me a wrong change ($1.50 rather than $6.50). As I was neither equipped with solid evidence to dispute the transaction nor prepared to incur expenses of a tiresome and embarrassing scene, I made peace with myself in consideration of her hospitable and unsolicited offer of extra glass of tab water.

What really annoyed me was the choice of music.

The usual so-called 'chill-out' music that features repetitive electronically-created drum beats plus another repetitive line of melody that looms in the air like garlic in Chinese stir-fried beans. I find this sort of music not only distasteful but also disruptive to my otherwise smooth, relaxing Sunday.

Of course, it's my fault. Who really listens to classical music in a cafe. If there was sufficient demand, I'd find a cafe that played Mozart, Schubert or even Chopin (I bet it would be his nocturnes), this world being capitalist and all. But no. Nobody really listens to those composers. Even where the majority of customers consists of silver-haired gents and ladies, the choice of music inevitably tends to be some old jazz tune or Sinatra at best.

It is somewhat disturbing that I nevertheless prefer those old tunes over the meaningless drum beats.

I wonder if there were some other cities where the cafes would play classical music. Perhaps in Vienna. But I suspect even in those cities classical music is being played for tourists, not the local inhabitants.

I used to hate sun. It made me dizzy and obnoxious. Having been in the southern hemisphere for more than just a few years, I've come to an agreement with the generally warm weather. Now I actually like the sun light very much. I like summer and its warmth. Even the blazing heat is still better than the fierce cold. My lame shoulder gets its blood circulation warmed. I can exercise without worrying too much about catching cold inadvertently. And I can enjoy beach and the sea breeze, not that I am in reality able to do this on a daily basis though. Beer tastes better too, although I somehow prefer wine when it's summer.

I wish I lived by great beach, in a wooden cottage, with a beautiful and kind company, and did not worry about earning my daily bread, in an all-year-summer land where it doesn't rain too much.

Wishful thinking.