Onslaught of songs

Your love is like a weed in the garden of bliss.
You creep in my heart and widen the cracks.
You suck me dry
Yet you keep me company in the darkest of night.

It took a musical and a love note competition to get out the words that held me back. I feel like the girl in one of Enid Blyton's stories. I forget the title, but I remember reading it over and over and over because it struck such a deep chord in me. Even today, I still use one of the analogies from that story to tie my shoelaces. It was about this girl who talked nonstop till someone told her off. So she tried to talk less, only this time she couldn't get the words out when she needed to say something because the words she suppressed blocked the words that needed to come out.

But now, my heart's been purged!

All this time, I was trying to find something that represented what I still believe about love, about life, about all the bittersweet situations I find myself in. It's so cheesy though...of all the times and places, it had to happen when I was writing on a lil' pink heart. Lord, Lord, Your sense of humour is once again impeccable.

Then today, I flipped through one of the poetry books we published (I love my workplace!) and found a poem that described this moment of utter unchoke-ness perfectly.

She said write me some sadness
To fit the crescent moon, damn thing shining
Down on me on this chill and windless night as I walk
The streets alone, and I said oh what a terrible cliche
That is, don't know why grief's exclusive to the night and the moon
And dark jazz cafe settings with husky singers
They are tinkling on dusty pianofortes
Singing loneliness like rain. Oh boo hoo hoo
Why not exclaim it in the bright open sun and what about happy things
Have you forgotten - has she. Like swings on a summer's day and cool
lime flavoured ice-creams licked while laughing down the street
Or postcard perfect sunsets fading to dusk of grey-slated tile
Can't remember, can't remember. She claims no memory
Those days when tears were left behind on the pavement
With the skin of our knees
She can't remember playgrounds by Fauziah Daud

Maybe I'd have more to say if I didn't have to bite my tongue every so often. These people have got to learn that cynicism isn't necessarily depressing and romanticism isn't always about rose-tinted glasses.