Dear Macbeth

"I am in blood stepped so far, that should I wade no more returning were as tedious as go over".

I would like to believe...

I would like to believe.

There are no certain things that are going to be added to put weight into this line. No emotions or poignant discourse on the human condition. No promises of a better future or something better than what things are.

I would just like to believe.

When, who, what, how is all subjective

Just like I breathe

Just like I have a smoke at the end of the day reflecting on the day

Just like there is....

I would like to just believe.

Waiting.....

This part of my life is called waiting.

This is similar to that feeling that made me have sleepless nights just before the exam results would be there.

Do I do decently? That normal expression for those average students out there who may be excellent students in their own right and could tell you amazing nuggets of knowledge that was not in the school curriculum?

Do I do fine? That expression for those students who have aced the exams but couldn't find a place where they were promised by their parents, that fabled place of happiness which they bartered guitar lessons and football sessions for?

Do I fail? That expression where I have just passed through like the countless cattle of people. Who will never matter according to their parents or society because a piece of paper has written in on stronger markings than the birthmark I have on my left thigh or that hamstring after the cricket match that let me tell you I won.

This part of my life is called waiting.

Waiting to fit into the shoes of a male because my father led by example.

Waiting to fit into the role of a son because my mother did not have me 9 months in her stomach and I can never forget about it.

Waiting to be the perfect loyal man to the perfect girl because infidelity or sporting a bit of male chauvinism in any way would give rise to the idea that I am a despised being.

This part of my life is called waiting

For things to churn out between the days that go by and will pass by.

Waiting for that illusion of happiness that I think is mine but has thorns planted around it.

~|~

Jack Napier a.k.a Joker

Look into his eyes and tell yourself he's just a man.
Tell yourself he can't know the things he says he does. He can't know your fears. But he has Alfred. he has your friend. And his eyes....
     .... you have studied the human eye. There are six eye movements that reveal motive, then fifteen variations of each one. On everyone you face -- even the most hardened criminals -- the pupils contract or expand depending on emotion.
     Happiness, laughter, affection. The pupils open.
     Fear, anger, hatred. The pupils close.

But not his. His pupils stay fixed, tiny points of blackness, the eyes of someone who hates everything, everyone.
Eyes that let in no light, that see through the darkness, stare into you, each pupil a tiny black pearl fixed in space.
A bullet coming at you. Eyes that say he's more than a man, eyes that say he knows you.

No.... you know what he is. Tell yourself the truth. He's just a man who fell in a vat of chemical waste. He's just a man... like you, made of bone and tissue and blood.