every friday is repost day

For the lack of imagination to post new things, am instead going to post old prose written dunno how many donkey years ago when I was still in a creative mood.

-

"connect"

somewhere, in a lonely corner on this lonely earth, is a girl.

sometimes, when she’s feeling down, when she’s feeling lonely, she’d pick up her cellphone and dial a number.

somehow, no one’s ever there, no one ever answers, no one cares.

and she’s alone.

.

somewhere, in her lonely corner, in her lonely world, is a feeling.

sometimes, when she reaches inwards and touches them, she'd talk into her cellphone, hoping for an answer.

somehow, there's always a silence in the answer, a coldness in the care.

and she walks alone.

.

because maybe, there isn’t really a cellphone, and that in her little fingers all she’s playing with are imaginary numbers for imaginary friends, playing imaginary conversations within her head.

because maybe, she’s quiet and shy and timid and awkward and afraid - afraid to open up, afraid of the people around her, afraid of everything that could ever be.

because maybe, she just doesn't have anyone to turn to.

and she’s still alone.

.

but what she holds in her hand, in the conversations in that imaginary cellphone - she’s assertive and forward and she’s chatty and happy and she’s everyone’s favourite person and that everything’s right.

but what she’s thinking of everyday, that someday she’ll be every bit the person that she wants to be, that someday she’ll grow up and stop having these silly dreams and fantasies and that she'll be alright, in the end, just like everybody else.

but what she hopes, she wants, she is - inside that imaginary cellphone of hers.

and she’s gotten used to being alone.

.

yet everyday, she dials… and dials… on that imaginary cell of hers.

.

and maybe
maybe one day
i’ll be able to pick up my imaginary cell

and connect