"A man writes because he doubts, because he is tormented."

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Many Happy Birthday, N

‘Tis the time of the year when I hate to write. Not because it is a tedious task, but because this day is the day the siren of our old age rings again. I hate birthday because I don’t want to grow old. I don’t want you either to grow old. I hope you won’t get old. I want you to be forever young. You know, I always imagine you as a sempiternal doe, running around in the steppes. You are fascinatingly beautiful. So free and blissful, even death dares not conquer. That, my love, is my first and foremost prayer.

My second prayer is for you to be able to forgive me. I, for lack of better word, am nothing but thorns in your wilderness. I give you nothing but wounds. Yet you always give me grace and compassion. I took you – took us – for granted. I stopped listening to small things. I was clumsy and forgetful as ever. I harangued you even when you want me to just shut up. Yet you were always patient. Yet I did those mistakes again and again.

You offered me salvation. I put you on the cross instead.

I have nothing to give you as a birthday present but an apology for all these clashes I caused during this year.

Speaking of our little fights, here’s an equation I remember:

They say this is the key for lasting relationship. But what does it mean? It means that it would be better for a couple to argue on small problem and fix it as soon as possible than to keep the resentment build up. Of course, a relationship without a fight is more desirable. But it is impossible. After all, maybe it is true what Publius Terentius Afer once wrote in his comedic play: “Amantium irae amoris integratio est.” Fights are what bring lovers together.

So my next prayer is that I wish we can still argue about kittens and puppies and today’s millenials for years ahead, rather than become strangers again. Because I love you, and won’t cease to do so even when time and space divide us. I won’t cease, unless you wish for it.

Oh, and I hope we can travel somewhere. Of course you’ll be paying. Last year I wish you’d be richer than I am, and now you are. I’ll promise this time I won’t prefer staying on bed.

Live long. Live happily. And be prosper.

Amatus es. Ego semper amabo te.

Your kitten,


A


PS: Just this afternoon I saw a culinary travelogue on AFC. There's this bakpao vendor in Malaysia whose mom is still working in the kitchen, making the dough. She's 83. She's been working on the shop since 70 years ago. Yet she chooses to work there simply because she doesn't want to stay idle. I always imagine that how you'd be like 70 years from now.

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