You tell me that I look faraway now, that I am quite different from the person I was before. Then, I was happier; and I was always being funny, in front of you especially. And we would both laugh on the bridge, as the cars and buses and the trucks and lorries zipped beneath our feet. I remember those times rather fondly. What was it like back then? I wonder how we saw each other. You must probably be wondering the same thing as well; how you could ever have carried yourself unto someone like me. A friend asked me recently about my feelings since. I told him that I have nearly forgotten the past; I don’t think back anymore, nor do I wish for a repeat of any of those blissful memories. The centerpiece, I told him, no longer appeals to me. But the more I reminiscence, the more a part of me aches. And I don’t know why. The void maybe. That might be why I am always appearing faraway; I am searching for the lost well of contentment.