First and foremost, before I enfold you guys into something pretty interesting, I need to say I hate this new blogger. I hate its new look so much I feel as though I could really click the delete button to this blog, and start afresh on Tumblr.
Yeah, that's how much I hate it.
But then, who couldn't agree with me? Writing a new post here on Blogger is almost identical as to writing on Microsoft Word. It's the same feel, and that's not what I want. It's as though, right now, writing in this kind of layout is like writing an essay to be submitted to a teacher.

What a nice new change.

The sad part is that that change will look completely minor and petty to what changes took place since March. And that's what I'm going to tell you about, while eating this egg tart that literally tastes like it's gone bad since 2008.

My mother passed away on April 3rd 2012, meaning it's been exactly 7 weeks and 3 days since her last breath. But if you add in the extra two weeks that she spent unconscious in the hospital, it's been 9 weeks and 3 days since I last talked to her.

I can't go into the details of what had happened because I know I'd end up crying all over my brother's computer, which will cause him to shout at me again. So I won't go there, until my dad finally decides to send my computer for repair.

But I will tell you what happened this morning.

So, I dreamnt about my mom. It felt so, so real. We were watching Hannah Montana, and I know that doesn't feel odd because that was what we used to do when I was eight years old. I was sitting down next to the yellow couch which, by now looks very worn out and out of place in my new house, and my mother was lying on it. We were having such a great time, and Gina was sleeping next to me, as she always would last time whenever no one had the intentions of playing with her.
Then the whole scene blurred up, and then my mom appeared again. We were shopping this time, at Nichii, my mom's favorite clothing store, and I was teasing her sense of style because all the colors of the clothes she had picked out were so dull.
It blurred up again, and it was as though I was watching it from a TV set now which kept changing channels. This time, I was hugging my knees to my chest and crying my heart out and my mom was trying to calm me down. It was night-time, and I was around 11 years old. I could already tell what exactly happened although this whole scene never happened in my home, but similarly took place in my grandparents' house.
I was crying because I was afraid of sleeping. I just knew that when I lie on the bed, in complete darkness, the feeling of loneliness would just be tugging at my sleeves so painfully.
It wasn't because I was scared of the dark. It was because of my fear of other things, like being alone in complete silence, and when all the negative thoughts would just invade my brain and go on repeat.
Not only that, but all the hurtful things people used to say to me would come back as well.
It frustrated me so much at times, I would just end up crying and waking my mom up who would read me the Bible.
And then I woke up, and suddenly felt the rush of excitement to tell my mom about the dream, like how I normally would whenever I could remember my dreams, though extremely rare.
I turned over and was about to call her, but her bed was empty.

And the truth hit me again, this time so hard I could feel my heart breaking into a million more pieces. She's gone, and not coming back.

I spent the next 10 minutes shouting at God for letting me have that dream, and reminding me of all the great stuff my mom had done for me, but not letting me recall of the times I showed gratitude towards her.
I ended up crying, and gave myself 5 minutes to calm down with the fact that tonight I might die and see her again. Then I dragged myself out of bed and made breakfast.

 & perhaps I'm still hoping in the next 40 minutes, before the day ends, I might see her.