I spent a while today thinking about you.
In many ways, I thought you would be special. And for a brief period of time you were. I can deny it all I want but the fact remains that I really thought you could be more. I thought I dated you because I loved you.
But it wasn't true.
I dated you because you fascinated me.
The way you put your heart and soul into your business, just so you never have to live in the shadow of your dad's success. The way you have the most manicured eyebrows but the dirtiest fingernails because you worked hands-on beside your own staff. The way you ploughed on at work despite it being your birthday. The way you answered customer calls even till 2am in the morning, driving over to their place for a 15-minute service. The way your eyes shone with pride when I asked you about your name card. The way stroked your invoice book and told me you intended to fill it up before 2015. The way you talked about that service girl in Malaysia, who advised us against buying another side, laughing genially about how you'd cry if she was your employee. The way you took care of your employees and made sure you did weekend calls instead of them. The way you joined them in doing the nitty-gritty instead of laying back in your managerial role. The way you made an effort to sound vaguely impressed when I told you about my own ventures and how I never pursued them despite their potential. The way you clicked your tongue, visibly annoyed as you told me my lack of a business plan was what led to my failures.
I think about the romance too.
The way you remembered me in Hongkong and bought me the agnes b shirt. The way you drove me to nowhere just to spend time together. The way you switch the radio every time a Chinese song came on because you thought I was English through and through. The way you told me again and again that you wanted me more than just a friend. The way your distorted jealousy shows. The way you got angry when I don't reply your whatsapp. The way you drove into my carpark for the last time, recklessly parking your subaru diagonally across three lots and staring at me with eyes of raw anger. The way you coldly acknowledged me excusing myself because I was intoxicated out of my mind. The way you drove off even before I closed your car door properly. The way you ignored me for three days straight before finally whatsapping me again and pulling the truth out of me. The way you said goodbye.
I know you, I do. You never believed me when I told you that what made you so special was your hunger. You said all men were ambitious. You couldn't be more wrong.
Many men have little ambition. They live their entire lives content with building someone else's dream. They spend their days filling it with petty pleasures and thinking that's that. They are content.
You are not, and you have never been.
Your ambition led you to climb out of bed every morning at 9am to answer your house calls. Your ambition led you to concluding work only at 11pm on a good day. Your ambition led you to answer 2am house calls. Your ambition led you to forgo weekends and birthdays for more house calls. Your ambition robbed you of your life and you gladly let it, driven by the thought of what you could have once you have this hard part settled.
One of the most powerful conversations I had with you was about death. You told me, in passing, that you worried about sleeping one day and never waking up. I asked you what three things you won't be able to let go of, if you did indeed die tomorrow.
You said, without hesitation, that the first thing you would not be able to let go of would be your business. You struggled a while thinking about the second thing, as if the idea of losing your business is still haunting you. You gave me the rest of the answers that you knew would make my cookie cutter responses, but they were pointless because we both knew that your business will always, always consume you.
Consume.
That is true, isn't it?
You were consumed by your company.
Towards the end, I stopped vying for time with you against your business because very simply, I knew you wouldn't part with it. You would give up your sleep hours for me, but you can't give up your business hours for me. And I accept that, I welcomed that.
Towards the end, you apologized for being so busy and promised to spend more time with me when your appointments start clearing up. But as you said it, we both knew - you never want this to end. You live for the day to day punishing calls you had to answer. You are alive for this festive season, not because of the bullshit Christmas and New Year that the rest of us are celebrating, but because so many companies are taking a break that you got to clean out the cream of the crop, and then some. We both knew you wouldn't want that extra time on your hands, simply because you wouldn't know what to do with it.
Towards the end, I knew to keep quiet during supper because you would be busy checking the stock markets on your app and deciding what you had to cut off or buy within the next fifteen minutes. You could never keep still. You were always antsy and pulsing. You knew money like an old friend and you knew exactly how to bring more of them to you. You were a business enigma.
You taught me that big things have small beginnings. You taught me how to hunger for success. You taught me hard work will get you further than what people think. You taught me how, in the pursuit of a better future, all pain is worth it.
You always told me how much you envied my job and how carefree my days are. You said you don't understand why I don't appreciate it the way I should.
You never knew it, but it was you. It was seeing you pour hours and sweat into your business that made me realize my job is temporary. It was watching you passionate about what you do that made me realize I'm fulfilling my director's dream and not my own. It was hearing your well-concealed, but unmistakable, pride when you told me you completed your invoice book that made me realize I wanted that. It was you who threw the anchor that dragged my head down from the clouds.
Thank god for you.
You never knew it, but you and I are powerfully alike in that way. I recognized the hunger you have inside you because I have it too. I recognized the steel in your voice when you talked about work because I have it in my own too.
But the difference between us is resources. Your dad paved the way for you and much as you hated it, you knew you had an entry because you had his resources.
I have none. I always had none. Everything I have now I fought for and painstakingly saved for.
But I will not let that be my excuse.
I will not let my lack of resources hinder me from having what I can have. I will not let anything stand in my way of being the difference in the world I want to see. I will find my place. And one day when I make it, I will thank you.
Till then, I will commit to memory the car ride when I saw the pride shine in your eyes when you speak about your company.
One day.
That will be my glint.
No comments:
Post a Comment