I have lost to February
Friday, February 28th 2003, 1545 hours
Location: Brewerkz
Weather: overcast
In the glass: India pale ale
t's crowded here in the afternoon. Word's obviously been spreading about the cheap lunchtime beer, and several groups of people are now sitting around and chattering endlessly. Mostly expatriates or tourists, that's my guess; but still several groups of locals (they're mostly the ones with the jugs).
It's yet another cloudy, overcast day, and that's doing nothing for my mood. It's been this way for the past two weeks now, Lord knows. It may rain (again). I rather envy Lizzie, who's spent most of the week out on a beach in Malaysia; I miss the sunshine. Here it's just heat, thick, wet heat that does nothing for anyone, not even people trying to do their laundry.
It's the last day of February, and it hasn't exactly been the best of months: the days just go by, just go by, mostly spent in a funk of uninspiration. It's cold in Carolina (well, at least some of the time); temperatures, from what Beth tells me, can be sixty-five one day and twenty-five the next. I sit and look at the river and wonder if I'd prefer winter.
Singapore does have several good things about it I won't, right now, find elsewhere, though. Tasty, cheap food. My book collection, which I spent most of yesterday evening resorting. A very high degree of awareness of both local and global issues (though, as always, such people are a minority). A high standard of living without a correspondingly high price. These aren't things to be sniffed at. And then there are friends, people I've known for years and who've grown dear to me, close to me. There are more of them gathered here than in any other place, and I know I'll miss them when the time comes: these friendships, slowly built up over the years. Sine amicitia vita est nulla. But even so this must end, this will end. A day will come when they will leave, or I will; even if I were to remain, they won't. How does a man love people he may never see again? But that's life.
Time is so short now, so short I can count the years. I missed little while I was away, but that was with the full knowledge that it would all still be here, waiting for me when I returned. What happens when I leave for good, make the journey whose end I cannot see? Perhaps it's easier just to live than to think about it.
We could fly / you and I / on a cloud / kissing...
You and I? Over the rainbow?
Perhaps March will bring better days.