tokyo in december

what i will remember about tokyo is how insecure it made me at first - after all, how intelligent can you look as a dithering idiot reduced to pointing towards pictures to order food and then bowing to signify a thank you?

as the days went by, tokyo separated itself from taiwan and hongkong, where i had unconsciously classified it with. how the subway lines seem to be the only way of getting around, how small snack-shops sprout up at every unimaginable corner, how the bright lights of the city never fade and how the flashing billboards reflect a certain restlessness　that cannot be conveyed in words.

tokyo is a paradox. you have the cherubic schoolgirls who may one day be selling their used undies to salarymen, you have the innocent looking schoolboys who look like little men, dressed in their black jackets and slacks, who will grow up on a diet of porn and erotic manga. then the demure looking office-ladies who cross their legs when they sit and may moonlight by night. and the salarymen togged in well-cut suits who may pay for someone to piss on their faces. you have the land of the rising sun and the day that ends at five in december, looking set to continue this way till march. you have traditional shinto shrines like the meiji shrine and tall skyscrapers in shidome. you have the city that never sleeps, spied from a train on a private railway - men still in the offices at half past nine, people standing at the copier machines, and you have the drunkards along shinjuku and in the love hotels.

that said, when i initally thought there was nothing much to enjoy, the rising yen which renders the steals from japan not quite steals anymore, i found great enjoyment in navigating the railway lines - no biggie, really, the search for places on the various maps and as always, the journey is as fulfilling as what comes after. now, if only that could apply to life.

so today, i woke at 6, visited the Tsukiji Fish Market, had the freshest sushi ever from a stall that drew crowds, then headed down to the Meiji Jingu Shrine, walked a mile on a dirt-paved road, thanked god that i wore my trainers instead of my books, tourist-watched people being led around like sheep, wrote out a wish at the shrine, visited the imperial palace, the tokyo metropolitan government building and watched tokyo come alive in a fairytale land of billboards and bright lights in the night, and then went to Oedo Onsen where i sat in hot springs and watched naked girls sashay their way past me.

and so, just as well that my phone is a 2G type that cannot be used in japan. i want to feel free and uncontactable. though how ironical it is that i am in touch with the world through the world wide web.

i am happiest when there is no one to follow, literally or figuratively. that life could meander its way past me and see me just indulging in moments like these.

is

sadness is a hard, cold hand encosconed in dread, gripping your heart and squeezing every tiny drop of joy from the well of hope that used to exist.

waiting is staring out at the night sky, listening out for your name to be called, knowing that no one knows of your existence.

parting is going through the motions, keeping emotions under cloak, walking, walking, misery with a bottle of wine before the realisation hits you and you wonder why you hadn't thought to cry.

uncertainty is knowing that you have not been in control and never will be, that time has willed its slippery way past you and you are left at the end of Time, wishing you never were.

silence is being in a group and having laughter echo all around, with your laughter being the loudest of all and you noticing your own laughter, crystal clear and shrouded in farce, uncertainty and sadness.

grief is having a precious part of yourself being forcefully dug out and hidden where it can no longer be found. and though you may function like before - on clockwork - things have changed and you will never forget the missing part of yourself.

an eternity lasts as long as you are unsure of yourself, when release just needs one answer, but instead sees you meandering along, plodding along the path called Life, with no end or answer in sight.

i appeared beneath the night sky one evening in june when a cool wind blew past me and made me blanch. that act of cringing, the exertion of my facial muscles, and the realisation that i was digging my nails into the flesh of my arms made my limbs come alive, and it was to the rhythm of - right, left, right, left that i placed my feet, left foot in front, then my right. only when i maintained a steady walking speed did i picture an aerial view of who i thought i should be - hair parted neatly in the centre, leaving a thin line of scalp, visible from the top. jet black hair, the ends just touching my shoulders and curling outwards as a consequence. an oxford plaid coat pulled around me and a grey cashmere scarf adorns my neck, no garish trinkets for me.

noise pulls me back into time, tugs at me and demands that my attention now be drawn to the busy street around me. the angry honk of a streetcar and i feel air whipping past me, my scarf flying into my face as cold metal hits my elbow and i stagger backwards. my heel catches onto concrete raised unevenly and i fall to the ground. my hand smacks into a small puddle of water and i feel tiny droplets of water edge their way down to the tip of my nose.


a car pulls up next to me and i stare hard at the driver before noticing that he isn't stopping for me, but for a red-light. it is a honda accord in a shade of metallic blue. i file away this piece of information into my mind which feels like a blank slate, a wet wad of toilet paper. the doors of the car are not locked. reaching over, i open the car door and slide into the car, my coat catching on to the knob that is used to adjust the seat. a small wave of memory assaults me and i dig my fingernails into the side of my thighs and i wince. nails digging into flesh would not cause this much pain. ignoring the bewildered look the man gives me, i hitch up the hem of my skirt and see red scabs on the surface of my skin. there are three deep scabs and two others which look as though they were caused by a blunt object being driven repeatedly across the same area of skin. i run my fingertips over the scabs and feel the ridges of the scabs. how? the light turns green. Behind us, a car honks repeatedly. the man puts the gear into place and the car moves. there is a pizza joint ahead and the man stops near the joint. we pull up alongside a dustbin, one with the lid just dangling off the top of the bin, the bin overflowing with trash. styrofoam cups and plastic containers litter the area near the bin. a cat slinks away in the darkness and i watch its glimmering green eyes in the darkness.


the man turns to me. i feel my hands fumbling for the knob used to adjust the seat, remembering the wave of unpleasant memory that hit me as i saw what my coat had caught on to, and i remember a memory slipping away from my mind as quickly as it appeared - the car seat suddenly falling back, my head hitting the headrest of the seat .

the man is watching me closely. i watch him as he takes me in. i hardly know what he is seeing, except that i remember the way his eyes, like the rest, linger on my chin. i raise a finger to my chin and i feel a raised scar. i look into the rear view mirror and see the bodily entity i have been accousted into existing in - olive skin, blotchy cheeks, dark eye rings and what appears to be a scar on my chin. the person in the mirror spoke to me of a life waiting to be uncovered and then lived, but for then, it was - .

the man turns on the ignition suddenly, the gentle purr of the engine highlighting the fact that I was so deep in though, i didn't even know that he had turned on the engine. a sudden fear grips me, a fear that makes me taste my dry tongue in my mouth, tighten my clammy hands around my thighs. throwing the car door open, i run as fast as i can, not even slamming it shut.

when i start running, i smell the cold that whips against my face. it smells of the city and traffic, of fog late in the evening. of stale cigarette smoke. my heels hit the sidewalk in my clumsy attempt to run. i don't even think the man is even bothering to run after me now, i picture him opening his car door and looking over the roof in confusion and bewilderment, his mouth open in a rounded O. i like this memory, the first i've created for myself - a mouth open in a rounded O. the pain in my feet slowing me down now, i don't remember the last time i've run, but a stinging pain shoots its way up from my toenails. i carry on running anyway.

when i have lost all track of time, of how far i've run along the dark street with the odd glimmers of light from passing vehicles, i slow down. oddly enough, i have come to the end of the street, an end which tapers to the right. a brightly lit building beckons at the end of the dark alley i will run through if i continue running. click-clock, click-clock.

the mail hotel. the mail hotel? what kind of a name is that? what is a typical name for a hotel, really? i imagine pleasant phrases, exact phrases of which escape my mind. le - maybe it should be a le somewhat hotel. royal - maybe a royal hotel. mail brings to mind, shady underground rooms full of mailmen sorting, well, mail out. strangely enough, it is a pleasant hotel. white and bright are what come to mind when i look at it. then in front of me- in gold lettering - staff only. staff? the word conjures images of a brown table and magnets. i place my palm on the gold doorknob, relishing how warm it feels on a chilly evening. tighten my grip on the doorknob and feel the warmth of it around my fingers, then turn it and hold my breath as i pull the door open gently.

smudge

we smudge against each other, the thin upper epidermis on the back of my hand running a smudge against your pores. the distance narrowed, reality runs a rim between us again and we move apart as if on cue.

***

your words, like flat stones, are what i turn over and over in my hands.
i trace the base of the stones and graze my fingertips over them. i observe the nuances of the stones, the way your words change when i play them over in my head. i imagine words not said, words exchanged.

we could have all the time in the world and not a single thing to talk about.

to sleep, perchance to dream.

as if the room has been stuck in a time warp, nothing has changed. i smooth my palm over the decorative sheet placed over the quilt at the foot of the bed and feel slight ridges in the fabric. they are squares imprinted upon the fabric, each overlapping the over, linking each other up, as if in a jaunt to nowhere. i run the back of my hand across the fabric and my nail catches onto a kink in the fabric. my mind wills me to walk across the carpet to the window, to push the curtains away and gaze across to the busy shopping malls, but that can wait, time is now mine to have.

we are part of a group in a room, happily chatting away. sitting in a circle, you across me. she by my side. my phone outside the room. how do i know this? it rings. and the first time, the ringing is stopped by a short beep, which only sounds when someone presses the end call button. the second time, the ringing is stopped the same way. but there was no one outside the room. my blood freezes as the second beep sounds. we look at each other, you included, and i see her eyes glaze over in horror as she points to the gap between the doorframe and the door. i whip around and see an image of you drifting past, your eyes haunted by loss. confounded, confused, i turn to you. you are resigned, as if the game is up. your eyes downcast, you turn a pallor of grey, your lips rapidly fading to a ghoulish blue. in horror, i watch as you slump to the tatami mat, your skin now paper grey and riddled with brown age spots.

it is uncommon to awake peacefully from a nightmare, but i did. beads of sweat draped on my forehead, i did. i find myself gazing upwards onto the absymal white ceiling and i think of a dream within a dream. all of a sudden, it seems as though i have travelled several yards back in time warps.

perhaps the past never leaves us then, for it should truly exist in another time, place or reality.

and where does that leave me now? my youth gone, like a shrivelled flower still lingering onto its stem after its prime. petals turning yellow with time, i still hold on to that stem, as though hanging on would mean time could be reversed, that i could enjoy and savour everything in slow motion, to see my life all over again, even if i could not change things.

lost in slumber for too long, the blanket which pours a mist over my consciousness is lifted. suddenly the mist clears and i think i can see once more. for i have forgotten what it was like to be able to think after the day was done, that time could be seen in stolen snatches and fluidity, that it need not be compartmentalised into a regimented number of days and into a life that has been broken up into passages of time waiting to be lived out.

get lost, this poor imitation of a life. this poor pretence of living that hoodwinks every consumer into believing you to be the sacred vial everyone should drink from.

get lost, thoughts of sinking into bed arising every time the need to live out this poor pretence comes up.

instead, valour, impart and take over.

of california dreaming

an old song, by the mamas and the papas, that sustains me, for it is that song which reminds me of crampy hongkong, of sweatshops in torrid mansions and shady characters and sweat that forms a thin flim that plasters skin against a flimsy white singlet.

perhaps i should thank him, who picked up the call, for i had only deigned to ask for her presence, as though that alone would give me the courage needed to snap out of my limbo. to no longer leave my limbo peacefully, but simply to snap out of my limbo, the push arrived too late.

so of power dresses and killer heels and exquitisely priced bags, as though they could provide any comfort for the sorry old soul. for want of quirk, to pin a brooch on, to tidy off high waisted skirts with an elastic belt and so they go in the fashion magazines. once so eagerly anticipated, now the colours and whirls of products make my head spin.
for want of simplicity.

a tissue box between us as we talked, discreetly pulling out soft white tissue out of the cardboard hole and hearing the grate as softness catches and tugs upon hardness. the back of my eyeballs hurt and i don't recall the last time they did, so badly.

and so he went, in the still of the night, she spoke. of composure and yet the tears fall.

such an ironical moment, two women, united in grief and offering the oft said but not followed mantra - that life is too short.

i am who i am. you will not defeat me, neither shall you ever have a chance to break my spirit.

vivid dreams, please leave me. i've so much to do and it rains. the rain puts a damper on me, renders me comatose on the sofa. it doesn't remind me of a rainy night when i watched the raindrops falling past the lamp posts outside my window, opening my eyes wide till they strained and i had to close them.
back to school tomorrow and the fiasco goes on. not to mention that on top of the normal hours, i still have to make my way to the far end of singapore for an excursion that lasts till 5 pm.
when the church bells rang at 6 pm, it seemed like pure agony that in 12 hours, it would be time to drag myself out of bed again - to begin things as though in limbo once more. to change, to eat and retch at the breakfast table as my stomach rebels against the thought of eating before seven in the morning. drinking tasteless coffee.
in a crowd, in a crowd, that three's a crowd. wasn't it just yesterday that i was part of a group discussing my friend's bridal plans with her? and that i was thinking - who the fuck would care how long the train of your gown is? or whether the bow's tied in front? or at the back, for any matter. so i silently was an outcast, as even a male friend of ours joined in all the excitement.
in a group once more - a year ago, i walked my bridge of dreams, and this time round, though i had plans after the event, nothing matters. i sat at brewerkz, bitching, nursing a glass of singapore sling, finishing up a pal's fruit beer. what else transpired? an impromptu drive to east coast's carls junior for a burger at 2 am, random drinks at 7 11 and flipping through magazines. and at the end of it all, i came back with a spinning head and fell asleep.
i see empty faces breaking into smiles - i see genuine smiles, and i wonder why i have to watch all these, as if to reassure myself of my presence.

and why did i have to dream of you again when i lost myself in slumber?
first, the cliff, the high cliff with the ravine at the bottom. the corner of the cliff broke off as both of us stepped on it and i watched the hills shift slightly as i flailed and panicked. i grabbed hold of the edge of the cliff and felt your palms against mine before i watched you fall head-first to the ravine. and then your unmoving body across the ravine, as water chose to weave its way past your body and your shirt was drenched.

and the words i scrawled in red - i borrowed it. and i took it away. i hid mine, to make sure you would not know i wrote that note just to have an excuse for you to look upon my words, to have your eyes move up on the letters, and foolishly hoping that you might, decipher me too.

we entered and exited many rooms. rooms that were arranged in a circular pattern. rooms that led nowhere but round and round and through countless openings. and loud boisterous music. after a while, i felt lost, i was lost.

so near yet so far

you were right next to me
but we were miles apart in our thoughts.
and miles apart we'll always be.

my fingernails dig into flesh.

while at the junction on my bike i watched the image of a red man on the traffic lights and saw that while i was waiting, clouds were drifting across the grey skies. and i turned and saw cars whizzing past me and while i waited i realised that this was my life.
i was waiting.
and i still am, at the crossroads.

spurts of cold water

a wave of sadness engulfs me. i could die today, very peacefully. what a joy to revel in the beauty of sadness - the ability to feel tears springing forth from your eyes without even knowing why. and what a joy it is to sit, staring just ahead, at nothing at all. and the fact that i've felt this lingering desire to stay in my cubicle, though my mind has given up on me, miles ago, that facing scripts, i've lost my ability to mark, that i can stare and think of nothing at all. that the face of calm still presides me, above all odds. sad is a beautiful place to be.

***

i know that for everyone, there's a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. it's just when you can find it and the journey counts. i just wish that the journey wasn't so hard.

***

ever the expert at running away. you're so near, yet so far. the end of a life known, yet no beginning in sight. the strong sense of the end never nearing, the dread to wake up in the mornings and being so tired all the time.

***

it's 5pm when i hit the bed, inertia brought on by a heavy meal of seafood, body strung together by the constraints of being in a car throughout most of the journey, getting caught in a jam. the afternoon sunlight almost prys my eyes open to reality and harsh facts i have to face, but i immerse myself into the sheets, as though immersing myself into them would bring me away from this world. tears in eyes, i imagine a life not lived, children not born, a distinct line that draws me apart from everyone else running the rat race, indulging in wine and dine on weekends, burning the midnight oil on weekdays. i cry for the hand that used to fit in so well in mine, but now seems somehow haphazardly placed into my palm, like a foreign object that simply doesn't belong.
i think of pale wrists and protruding blue veins and white cloth being tied to the steel frame of a hospital bed. and when i wake up, my camisole is plastered to my back with sweat. i roll over and face the ceiling and close my eyes again, wanting to immerse myself in sleep once more, and when that proves impossible, i open my eyes again and discover that the rays of sunlight have disappeared along with my dreams and visions. i struggle to sit up and realise that the weight in my heart has not lessened, nor has the weariness in me. so this is what afternoon siestas render me to - an equally weary entity waking up in silence.
the house is quiet and dark. everyone has left the house. i stumble again the hallways, and turning into a room, bash my hip against the wall. there is a sharp pain and then a warm sensation. my legs feel cool now, as though my blood has curdled.

***

reminiscence is waiting for the bus, perched on metal railings with your feet swaying in flip flops - an ode to the holidays - with a hand draped lazily over your shoulder when you suddenly spy someone from the past drift over to you.
a few words exchanged and the past drifts merrily back to you. memories long gone dredged out, faces of people lain deep in memory almost as though a thin film of dust blanks out their faces, makes them somehow impenetrable to gaze, to scrutiny.

***

i dreamt a dream the other day, a dream which will one day seem wrapped thinly in a layer of dust as well, of a clear day. the skies were a lovely shade of blue and i was driving past the old cathedral. stopping the car, i looked at the steeple covered with bits of snow and the beautiful iron gates coated with white crumbs of snow. slowly, i turn into the driveway of the catherdral and realise that there is not a single car or person in sight. the pond has frozen over, no birds chirp as in summertime. something tells me to make a right turn towards the entrance of the cathedral and there i spy a familiar person looking up towards the closed gates, as though searching for a way to get in. i stop the car and watch him and a few minutes go by before he senses my presence and turns around. i remain seated as he walks over and comes to me, the glass window of the car being the only thing between us. he presses his fingers to the glass and i remember looking at the white on the glass spreading forth from his fingers as though a spread of the sorrow that pervades him. he speaks but i hear nothing - i am captivated by the face that i've not seen in ages. mind torn apart by the years that have separated us and this chance meeting that fate had arranged. the lines i've never noticed - that time has ravaged your face, though not in a bad way. the crows' feet arranged neatly at the corners of your eyes. my fingers shift to the button that makes the window slide down. i press down on it, not knowing that your face will slide down along with it into oblivion. i watch as your face moves along with the glass, as if a picture mounted on glass, the colours fading in the dying sunlight, the flicker of your eyes the only sign that perhaps you were real.
i wake facing upwards, my gaze taking in the ceiling.
an olive on my tongue, i watched the woman in front of me swirl the red wine in her glass, watching the imprint left behind by her lipstick from her sip. i think of the last time we shared a bottle of wine and downed it with baked mussels, the salty smell of the sea filling my nostrils, my skirt billowing past my thighs and how my beach chair sank into the sand as i threw back my head and laughed. red lips that will forever be etched in my memory, for from them i received the words i remember most painfully. a smudge of lipstick on her teeth is all i can think of as the news sinks in. perfect coiffed hair, a tiny wisp of fringe detaches itself from its place as i stare at her, the breeze reminding me of the last breeze that carressed us together, that was part of the moment as the sun went down and the red wine spilled onto the sand, making me think of drops of blood on sand. my mind searches desperately for reminders, for details to pry on, just so that reality does not sink in.
but it does. later on that night with a cheap bottle of whisky, i find myself in front of the television, crouched down on the cold marble floor, not even realising that i was crying till my tears fell on my arms, startling me.

***

I thought it strange how though the details of the dream had slipped through my fingers like fine sand, i could still clearly remember that the dream was about him. and i find it strange how fate intertwined and bestowed us with four days together, stolen hours and how time has conspired and stretched its way past me such that it's been almost a year and a half that i've not seen him face to face, not withstanding the two times i caught sight of him along the road, cold shock running through my veins like a spurt of cold water. i woke up knowing that i missed memories of him.

***

life moves on, time ticks by. or how should i have prayed before her niche? what was i to say? what am i supposed to believe? a small sliver of doubt that she still exists in the world today - her spirit? where is she? i really do miss her. or what should i recall as i stand before her niche, head bowed, hands together in prayer. sadly, all drew a blank. then i tried to think of her as i remembered her - the best memories ever - me springing a surprise vist to her laden with her favourite food and crying out to her loudly from the doorway, "GRANDMA!" and what joy it was to see her head raised in surprise and happiness slowly spread across her face. and the other good memories of sitting at the table next to the window with her, spooning out food that i'd bought, half for the maid and the ratty old fan that always freaked me out since it had no cover for its blades. i miss that house and all it stood for. and then i knew how i would never forget her and thoughts of her would still flit into my mind now and then and i really didn't have to think of how i should feel everyday or on the exact date of her death because i really do remember her in my own way, everyday. and that's why i can cry now typing this when i thought i'd healed after a year. grief never really goes away. i do love you. and i know you're happier wherever you are.

***

so, in a way, i'm glad for the push factor because i was starting to think - is this how i spend the rest of my life?

nights are shorter now that i've stopped searching. scraps of paper just amount to clutter. i want to de-clutter. i've thrown receipts away, unwanted piles of clothes. on any given day i walk into one of those shops selling new-fangled clothing - shapeless dresses, cotton pinafores, black leggings that are a bane to wear in sunny singapore. on any given day, i walk the streets of singapore and feel as though i've aged twenty years in the ten that has spanned me by since my last days of wearing the pinafore in secondary school.



indecision has caught hold of me, and i am more in limbo than ever. to stay or leave? moments of indecision that sweep past me and then hold me in grasp, me sitting at my cubicle, wanting to leave everything behind. we all need a break - who's to say who needs it more than any other person?



on days when i want nothing more than to lie in and sleep in - a waste of time? whoever cares?



no longer yellow pills, white ones now. and these white pills are scary, for they render me into a walking ghoul - i stumble along the hallways bleary for want of sleep. it seems so easy to wake. stumble along, take a swig from the bottle of vodka and feel acid burn my throat and then my insides, and then another white pill - i don't even bother to halve the dosage now.

naysayers view sleep as a waste of time - i want for nothing more than to bury my head under the covers and sleep the day away. breathless under the covers - for want of air, but still, i lie, under the covers.

you're on a plane now, sailing through the clouds, far away from me. a moment of indecision, i could have easily joined you, but i didn't. things have changed.

but still, i miss the days of yore. i despise the ability to be dependent on another individual - the knowledge that there is always someone to run to and to confide in when things get wonky. i used to solve things on my own - to grit and let go - what was so difficult then? what can be so difficult now?

reminiscent of those days - one particular day when i walked the bridge alone and watched two ripples spread in the water. and wished - and made a wish for you. have i made wishes for people over the years? it all seems so inconsequential now, childish, even. for how could i even bear to hope that my voice, my thoughts, were important enough to be heard?

and when christmas now seems such a long way away and march seems dull and dreary and just speaks of days to get ridden of, while april speaks of hidden plots and days to overcome - i foresee days again of getting up, half in slumber, stumbling to the bathroom to wash up.

this is why i have to wean off the white pills.

and what did thee have to offer me, december?

nothing but mild heartache, the lingering thought of events that transpired a year ago not quite cutting gashes into me anymore. the dull ache easing, giving way to a stale resignation.

october smelled of restlessness, of knotty shoes and the smell of freshly cut grass and concrete baked by the sun. closed doors, restlessness, a sense that the month would never end and a jaunt in the midst of it all - i ran away again.

november disappeared in a flurry of nothingness, a sense of just waiting for the end, a slow and unbearably placid way to journey to the last month of the year. knots to be tied up, a journey to the end and the impecably stark questions of wondering what came after the end. after all, when one only waits for the end, one begins to think about exactly follows after the arrival of the end.

the arrival of the end. - december came too soon, and thailand proved a wonderful distractor. amidst the sun on sunny Phuket, the sands that crept to my ankles and the orgasmic food - think thai tom yum, that, that under the bright blue sky, i could cease to exist, and the world could just continue spinning merrily on its own axis.

that november reminded me of jaunts to circular road, milling around the singapore river. of taking the bus home after that, of watching the blank painted faces of random pedestrians.

that december saw the roads all decked out in jolly christmas cheer, while the day itself passed on like any other day, with shopping centres doing a jingly-jang as their cash registers rang out in delight and the crowds thronged, spit-spat-spoot. that the decors looked sad and sorry and rain-spotted once the notion that christmas was over came through. the lights didn't seem quite merry, the mood flittered down to a damp and dimmering one. people trudging on in a sullen acceptance that another year was going to end, that the year did add a number of regrets to their growing list of regrets, despite the resolutions resolutely made.

and now, january. it's past mid january and the cheerily-irritating new year songs have crept their way onto the airwaves once more. the other day at my cubicle, a colleague stared at me in mock-horror as another new year song blared its way out of the speakers. i could only throw my hands up in resignation and declare that it was only serendipity that the song happened to be playing.

and so it's been a few years hence that i've longed for a visit to the noisy supermarket on the eve itself, people stomping their way across everyone else's feet to reach the cheap goodies. of floating past the expressway at midnight and catching random movies with teenagers and the anticipation of visiting the next day, visits to the temples, the smell of red packets and of falling asleep in front of the televisons and the smell of fresh money set aside as tiny bets for gambling.

when flipping over the pillow brings another state of mind into being. of the dreaded fear that tightens its icy grip upon your shoulder and the shivers that go down your spine as you realise how you can run away from anything but yourself, and the knowledge that to run away from yourself would only require one course of action.

and angry spurts of conversation, they are in vain. wake up. open your eyes and open up? i never want to have tears roll down my face again as they did in five years ago. five years - has it been that long? the world is moving too fast for me - leave me in my little cocoon - i never want to rear my head out again. let me lie in. i don't even want to feel the world spinning. sunday mornings at eight, my brain feels like a wet wad of paper.

the streets are the same and haven't changed from october. the street lights seem to pave the way, but i can only see an empty street. nor is there sunlight where i can see glimmers of dust dancing in the path of light.