I love my stuff. I mean it. I mean everything I said or say. From my $0.80 ballpoint, $2.80 highlighter, toilet paper-roll, pencil, $10.00 watch, books, bobby pin, bed-sheet, $9.90 flip-fl...
Because they are all mine. Regardless as cheap as peanut, or as huge as pearl.
Because they are all mine.
I am their protector. I have known them well enough. Whatever I lend out, they might come back to me in different forms. Sometimes to a point where it could upset me and makes me boiling inside.
Every my-stuff that I lend out, I have a tendency to turn my head around to observe where they are being brought along with the stranger's hand. I could be watching at my-stuff being used. Keeping my straight face, squinting my eyes. Feeling what my-stuff is feeling.
They are being TOR-TURED!!!
They always fall to the wrong hands. Wrong users. I could hear they are crying out for me. I tell them to be patient. Just a little while longer. That he will be back with me again. Together, we will live happily ever after.
My-stuff know well I only give empty promises. How could I let them down each day?
One is being abducted. Right at this point, I am still asking around.
Where is he?
I wish he is in good hands. If he ever comes back to me, I swear to God, I'd shout f*ck off everybody! At their pathetic faces.
Because you give me strength.
I could feel my heart is full. At any moment, my eyes would welled, burst into tears before I know it.