Nicotine and Tea

"She had failed to understand his apprehensive attempts to save thier love from banality..." (Milan Kundera, Unbearable Lightness of Being, p.83)

I closed the book, sipped a pool of mint tea, puff a menthol cigar and stare blankly at a distant space. Now, I am beginning to write...

Can we blame overestimation of our emotions when we suddenly realize, just a little too late, that we cannot think of somewhere to go from here?

Will it be easy to accept when we confess that we are better off at a distance than when we feel the nearness of each other?

Can overcommunication be a form of overdose to worsen the disease called longing to be less alone?

Are we just trying too much and overeager for a better second chance for another nothing at all?

Can we still escape the banality of this regularity?

How can a marathon exchange of thoughts be intimate than making love?

Why can I understand you more from your loneliness than teasing laughs?


Then maybe, I am just being too speculative.

But there can be no more lucid manifestation of my thought's uncertainty than to allow my body be polluted and cleansed at the same time.


"Sex must be liberating, not binding."

Your norm still swims with my confused thoughts even if it was already several months since the last time I heard this from you.

Then I suddenly realize you're right. This longing to unite my body with yours can never transcend into the unity of anything but physical. Touching you fails to make me know you better. And how I began to know you deeper than your surface may just be a mere accident.