The Sun Is Not Yellow: It's Chicken.
I have to believe that love prevails. I don't know if I mean true love or not, I'm not sure if there is a difference ... but I have to believe it. I like to think that I have had a fair share of the other end. I have notched up the odd bit of pain in my time. Don't we all. Huh?
I met a chap called Riva. A tour guide working for a pittance (is that how you spell it?). The locals know where to drink 50 cent beer. Whilst tourists go and hang in bars together, they will take you to drink what they call fresh beer. As the westerner, I am obliged to pay for both. This is not a hassle, nor heroic, it's just fucking cheap, sans Asian Pop music which does my head in.
We sat on Cat Ba Island, drinking beer and talking.
The sun went down as I made the Vietnamese Street Vendor Lady giggle through Riva's translation. She was a hard nut to crack, but I got there through persistance. I'm funny like cancer: I grow on you, and then spread.
Riva fell in love. He went to University for three years, selling books on the street, and embarked on a career in tourism. A year ago his girlfriend's parents told him he was unable to see her anymore; he wasn't financially viable. The look on his face when he told me this broke my tiny, tiny heart. He was clinging on, trying not to cry. I am familiar with this, but not as successful at holding it together (ask any of my friends).
I asked him if he could've supported them both. He said yes without hesitation. The same wince spread across his face. In time, this wince will turn into lines. The lines you see on the faces of those beaten by life. It ain't pretty, it's a bitterness sprinkled with self loathing that I know a little of too.
I told him to get out there.
He asked where.
'To wherever the ladies are.'
'I have lost my confidence.'
Then came the silence that killed me. It fucking grabbed me by the hair and cut my throat. I didn't want to change the subject, it just wouldn't have been right.
These two people loved each other but, as he said, he was forced to do the honourable thing and let het go.
I found this hard to swallow and told him so.
He told me I didn't have to swallow it, it was his meal.
I offered him money, like a true westerner c*nt. That will solve the problem. He did not take it. I dropped it on the floor, and told him I would leave it there. He picked it up and violently put it into my hand.
'You are my friend. I won't take your money.'
And now I have a heavy heart. But this is not about me.
I don't know what it's about. I simply don't want to hear stories like this.
Bring on the Killing Fields, I say. Give me genocide. Let's talk about a good old fashioned massacre. Hell, I hold the rope, and slip tie the knot myself.
I just don't want to hear about broken hearts.
I met a chap called Riva. A tour guide working for a pittance (is that how you spell it?). The locals know where to drink 50 cent beer. Whilst tourists go and hang in bars together, they will take you to drink what they call fresh beer. As the westerner, I am obliged to pay for both. This is not a hassle, nor heroic, it's just fucking cheap, sans Asian Pop music which does my head in.
We sat on Cat Ba Island, drinking beer and talking.
The sun went down as I made the Vietnamese Street Vendor Lady giggle through Riva's translation. She was a hard nut to crack, but I got there through persistance. I'm funny like cancer: I grow on you, and then spread.
Riva fell in love. He went to University for three years, selling books on the street, and embarked on a career in tourism. A year ago his girlfriend's parents told him he was unable to see her anymore; he wasn't financially viable. The look on his face when he told me this broke my tiny, tiny heart. He was clinging on, trying not to cry. I am familiar with this, but not as successful at holding it together (ask any of my friends).
I asked him if he could've supported them both. He said yes without hesitation. The same wince spread across his face. In time, this wince will turn into lines. The lines you see on the faces of those beaten by life. It ain't pretty, it's a bitterness sprinkled with self loathing that I know a little of too.
I told him to get out there.
He asked where.
'To wherever the ladies are.'
'I have lost my confidence.'
Then came the silence that killed me. It fucking grabbed me by the hair and cut my throat. I didn't want to change the subject, it just wouldn't have been right.
These two people loved each other but, as he said, he was forced to do the honourable thing and let het go.
I found this hard to swallow and told him so.
He told me I didn't have to swallow it, it was his meal.
I offered him money, like a true westerner c*nt. That will solve the problem. He did not take it. I dropped it on the floor, and told him I would leave it there. He picked it up and violently put it into my hand.
'You are my friend. I won't take your money.'
And now I have a heavy heart. But this is not about me.
I don't know what it's about. I simply don't want to hear stories like this.
Bring on the Killing Fields, I say. Give me genocide. Let's talk about a good old fashioned massacre. Hell, I hold the rope, and slip tie the knot myself.
I just don't want to hear about broken hearts.
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