I don't know how to look at life anymore. I went to find a pair of eyes today, deep and melancholy yet blazing from pain and guilt and shame, but I did not come across any. Perhaps I wasn't looking hard enough or in the right places, so I came home, read a little and looked through friends' blogs. They are living meaningful lives, celebrating Christmases and birthdays and every new day with a certain zest shown by their colourful and cheerful photographs, and as I read I envied but also hated them for they have moved on from that fateful week, now merely a memory swimming among many other memories in their heads. As your birthday approaches once more—even Friendster sent a reminder but what do birthdays matter anymore—I wonder what all these mean and what might have been. I don't know how to look at life with these eyes that sinned; I don't know how to live by this body that sinned; and I don't know how to move on without any last words. So here in the void I go on looking for a pair of eyes, hoping someday to come across my double so that for my limited perspective on life I may be redeemed: here's another me, searching too for an answer.
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