The Winter Winds Litter London With Lonely Hearts

And my head told my heart, "Let love grow,"
 And my heart told my head, "This time no, this time no."

Prelusive warning: This is a past-midnight rambling post and nothing I write should be taken seriously. Not too seriously, anyway.

It’s past midnight. Normally, this wouldn’t mean much to the pre-Form-Four Michelle, since I used to never sleep earlier than midnight. But recently, my sleeping schedule has been through some overhauling and I find myself sleeping at hours so strangely early I surprise even myself, exempli gratia, 10pm.

The worst part is that I wake up feeling even more tired than if I went to bed at past midnight. What about it, slumber system?

Recently, I’ve found it hard to decide on song selections. I would scroll all the way down my iTunes library and feel lost, not knowing who I should listen to. Some Florence, maybe? Or something more adrenaline-inducing like Paramore? Or Sufjan Stevens, who seems to work in every situation? Or maybe I should return to my parents’ era and listen to The Beatles? None of them seemed right, and this made me feel very frustrated.

I don’t know why it did. It was such a trivial matter but I was so stressed out over it.

I finally chose A Fine Frenzy, and ended up weeping.

I blame my clingy-ness and unwillingness to move on. Because it seemed that any kind of slow-rhythmic ballad would automatically send me down the reminiscence road. From then on, I abandoned my iTunes library and iPhone headphones for a week.

Just an hour ago, I stumbled upon Ellie’s blog and her title reminded me of Mumford & Sons. Realising my thirst for music after having abandoned it for a whole week, I braced myself to listen throughout Sigh No More. Quite predictably, the flashbacks returned, and they hurt, but the whole period of one week managed to numb most of the nostalgia so the waterworks didn’t let themselves loose this time. Instead, nostalgia was replaced by a strange sort of calmness…almost wistfulness.

This is sort of sad, to think that I have yet to unclench my stubborn grip on the faded past. Aifa’s going to murder me for this. Nah, of course not, but give me a week’s time. Hopefully I’ll get myself together by then.

Published by

Michelle Teoh

26-year-old cynical Asian, book enthusiast and purveyor of fine sarcasm.

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