Almost like an autopilot, I typed his site url again before I could stop myself. Before my mind even had the chance to process what my fingers were up to. And when the all-too-familiar site finally loaded up, I slapped my forehead smacking that little mind that was too eager for god-knows-what. And immediately clicked on the 'x' button at the righthand corner of the window. Reality and dream should not interfere with each other's course - dreams are only supposed to be in your sleep, not tricking your mind when you are awake.

I am a bit annoyed at myself for that. Raked out the why's and the reasons why I am still stuck on him. Scoffed at my own mind for thinking of the same person. Sad. But the mind says its the heart's fault, even though the mind is charmed by his mind. Charmed, but that is not reason enough isnt it?

If silence can speak, it says no. And in the cool silent night, I analyse and reanalyse my thoughts once again, coming up with reasons to hold on to that resolution again. Make this an early new year resolution for the approaching year; my mind agrees. Satisfied, I shove back that resolution in the specific 'for-keep' compartment of my mind, before sealing it off.

With that done, I coughed up my heart since it was already in my throat the past few weeks anyway. And there it was; big, pulsatile, alive. Very much alive, but bleeding, trickling blood on my laps. Mesmerized by the trail of blood tracking down from the contracting heart, a red molten sauce which almost before my eyes turned into black, hardened ashes. Chafed. Burnt.

I am already 21. With that age, one would think that one has learnt so many great lessons that life has taught. Precious lessons like not be as so gullible as to believe that stars are glittery jewels when they are merely rocks, not to set too high expectations and believe everything will come true, and most importantly, not to give away your heart prematurely. Or rather, age should have taught you to recognize and select your persons carefully enough before giving away itsy bitsy piece of that little thing that beats with every beat of your breath.

Because when I am not careful enough, the bloody piece will only be bound to be taken for granted, scratched all over, squeezed to suffocation and returned back to me wrapped in a plastic bag; one lump of a heart, bloody, calling weakly to be mended.