The beat of a dull, weary heart that envisions far-flung places and visits them only in strange dreams. Accountability has its own entrapments. The powers of imagination comes into play upon a rainy morning, pressing one's nose against the window of the bus, wishing for a book in hand and waking up to the aroma of freshly-made coffee in quaint cafes.

The powers that may be, dream a little dream of me.

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Home becomes a foreign place and you start building another in you. Someone inhabits in your heart, inhibits your freedom of space and time to the home in you and you seek new-found places to build yet another sanctuary. Home - the innermost place within.

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Her pain becomes mine, two years on and two (or is it one-and-a-half?) faces between us.

Such mortal fragility.
I've seen friends shed tears for me. Humanity is redeemed when we feel the pain of another. It hurts, cos she's crying. It hurts, cos i know exactly what she's going through. It hurts, cos i can't do anything to protect her from going through it again. Cos this time it is not me who has the power to exercise damage control.