Crossroads

The other night, The Other Cat and I met for drinks and smokes.

There were several abortive attempts to locate a fictional pub which allegedly existed in arse-end Singapore. But after three rounds past some creepy temple which would have made a perfect setting for baby sacrifices, getting chased by dogs and being surrounded by virgin jungle, we couldn't find it. I even got out of the car at one stage to venture into some strange gate to check a possible location, but barely three metres in I started hearing voices from the darkness. Given that (a) they weren't speaking in anything resembling English and (b) I couldn't even see my hand when I put it in front of my face, I hotfooted it back to car at a trot just a little slower than that suggesting panic, abandoning any pretense at being cool and calm.

I don't usually have a craving for alcohol, mainly because I can't drink. But that night I had a thirst that would have led to Jack's if we hadn’t found a place serving alcohol.

So we found ourselves with a drink each ("Make it strong", I told the waitress) and food which I didn't eat.

And we talked, and talked and talked.

The night stretched on and the location changed. We spoke of things which were secret (censored) and of things which hurt (almost everything, right now). Of things that made us laugh (sex, boys and sex toys), that made us cringe (Pinky Pinky Pinky FBF and Pinky). And she echoed the words I wrote before: "If this is a joke, it's not fucking funny."

No, it's not fucking funny.

It's not fucking funny when you don't see the light at the end of the tunnel, and you don't know what you're fighting for. Or if you thought that the light at the end of the tunnel was a train. When you don't know what the divine bloody plan is, and honestly, you don't care because you're so damned tired.

"How can He be so cruel?" she asked me. I don't know. I don't have an answer either. To put you in a place where something is taken away from you and you think you've lost it forever, or that some part of you has gone dead. And to have it returned to you when it hurts the most. Sometimes hope is the cruelest joke. You don't know how you got there, and you don't like it, but you stay, because you can't help yourself. Sometimes the hurt you feel is because you let it happen to yourself. Sometimes we're all just masochists who need the pain to feel alive.

"How long can you keep doing this?" I ask her.
"I don't know. It has to end one way or another."
"And what happens then?"
"I don't know."
"...are you scared?"
"...yes."

Me too.

There is so little time left and so many things I have yet to do, and so many choices yet to make. There are so many ways in which to hurt myself still.

"I just want to be happy. Why is that so fucking hard? I just want to be happy!"
"I know."

There are times in your life when you look back and think, "Ah.", and you see that the choices you made, however unwittingly, changed everything. There were several of those times. Then there are times where you are standing at one of the many crossroads you reach in life and you know, without the benefit of hindsight, that whatever choice is made will bring fundamental changes, perhaps irrevocably. This one of those times. But my compass is broken and I don't trust myself. I wish there was some sort of great big illuminated sign which said "Do this", so I knew which direction to take. The Other Cat feels the same way.

"Wouldn't it be great if we had a schedule for each year? Like, 'January 2007 - meet the man of your dreams'. You could just relax! "No, thanks, I'm not going out with you. I'm waiting for January. I've got it sorted,'" The Other Cat laughs, making me laugh too.

Last night, curled up on top of The Boy (who was half-asleep), I was not surprised to find my cheeks were wet, though he never knew.