i feel myself receeding in this cubicle. the more i work, the less i am, the less i have become. in giving myself to work - to colleagues, to children, to marking, to the endless setting of papers, i have lost myself -my desire to live life as i have always believed. i am giving up on living life as i have dreamed, in the pursuit of comfort and conventions. in eating lunch with mundane colleagues who inspire me to kill myself lest my life turns into something which resembles their lives. it takes all i have not to cry out in despair.
every day is a fresh day, a fresh day is supposed to bring new promise into life. a fresh day is supposed to make you feel revived just by thinking about the excitement that the day beckons. or am i just to naive to expect any more from life rather than just a comfy bed, family to return home to at the end of the day and a job that manages to pay the bills.
sometimes, i wish i were just like everyone else. or do i? i still adore my weird personality, my individuality.
every morning i wake up and i wonder if i should go to work early. the drive is no longer there, yet, a sense of responsbility still keeps me going ahead of others to finish up my work. every morning, the nice colleagues greet me, but it's all i can do but to tell them that i would rather be anywhere but here.

At such a time, i wonder if anyone knows where i am.

the underside of my thighs are frigid with cold, pressed against the partially rusted steel chairs. my fingers are losing the colour of their vitality and i will soon no longer be able to feel them. if tears rolled down my cheeks now, they would freeze just above my cheekbones and i imagine that anyone looking at me like that would think of a comic figure with frozen bits of ice on his cheeks.

lifting myself off the steel chair, i begin to walk. perhaps it is time to end the quandry of solitude, if only for a while.

i walk to my small log cabin. my toes feel pinched in my grey boots, my fingers are frozen in my gloves. to get the key out of my coat pocket, i would need to pull off my gloves, which make my hands so oversized they cannot fit into my coat pocket. i pull off the glove and then accidentally drop it on the snow-covered ground. bending down to pick it up, i see something else on the ground. it is a heart-shaped key ring. it isn't covered by snow, so i presume that it hasn't been there for long.

i open the door to my log cabin and enter the cabin. The place is, as i have left it. Sparse and smelling of varnish, with a carpet in front of the fireplace. there is an armchair and a low small table beside the carpet. a picture of a cottage in the countryside is the only thing close to any from of a decoration in the cabin. the bed is just across the fireplace. shutting the door, i ease myself into the armchair and start to take off my boots when there is a knock on the door.

there wasn't a peephole for me to see who is at the door. cautiously, i opened the door. i am a little alarmed to see a little girl, of about six, standing in the cold outside. i studied her for a moment. Her hair was in a neat bob, her eyes questioning, her cheeks red. She wasn't carrying anything with her, and certainly did not appear dangerous. she didn't look surprised to see me, neither did she seem frightened. Before i could say anything, she asked politely, "Could I come in?"

"Are you with your mother?" i ask, stepping out of the cabin to look around. but there was no one around her. Afraid that she would catch a chill, i hustled her inside and then shut the door behind us.

After entering the house, the girl's child-like demeanour seems to undergo a slight transformation. she faces the fireplace, her arms akimbo and her back facing me. "Do you like children?" she asks. I am stumped by her question. Why would anyone knock on my log cabin in winter, enter it and then ask me such a question? But i answer it anyway. Part of me wants to see where this all is going and the other part of me wants to know who she is. The other part of me feels as though i'm in a surreal state.

"Well, i don't think i'm a motherly person and i used to like children, but not anymore," i tell her.
She laughs without turning around, an action that seems contrary to her age.
"Why?" she says after her bout of laughter.
"Look, why have you come here?" i feel confused, as though she were the adult and i the child.
She laughs again and turns around. I study her again as she does so. She has full lips and eyes without the wide-eyed look of a child. There is a hole in the palm of her mitten, a tiny scar above her left eyebrow.
There was something about her that reminded me of someone i used to know, i was certain of that. i searched my memory for any clue that could provide me with a hint as to who she reminded me of. Then slowly, a faint memory crept into my mind.

It was a weekday morning, not unlike any other. I had just taken my breakfast with my cousins. It wasn't what i would consider a daily occurance. My cousins had a hardware businesss which they had taken over from their father, so they would take orders for goods like plastic and foil and then deliver the goods to their customers. One of their customers lived near me, so some mornings, they would call me and ask if i wanted to have breakfast with them and then they would offer to give me a lift to work. It was a pretty nice arrangement, and we always had a pleasant time starting the day together. My cousins and i were pretty close, especially since i had no siblings. So after breakfast, we crossed the road to where my cousin's car was parked and began the short drive to my workplace. It was a rather humid morning and i can remember some sweat dripping down neck as i asked my cousin about the decorative item in his car.
"Tommy, why's that cat not moving his arm?" I asked to bursts of laughter.
"Oh that, we got that from a friend. It's supposed to be solar-powered but stopped working after a day," his brother, Raymond chuckled.
Just then, Raymond's wife, who was also in the car with us, pointed at a middle-aged woman who was crossing the road some distance away from us. The cars coming from the opposite direction honked at her and she appeared to be startled, as she stopped for a while before crossing the road and pausing in the central road divider.
"I wonder if she wants to cross the road," Tommy remarked as he watched her. The woman had also appeared to be watching us coming towards her.
Tommy brought the car to a rather abrupt stop, making Raymond's wife cry out in annoyance as she was trying to get something from her bag and the slight impact had caused her things to spill out on the car seat.
"Well, I guess she's stopping for us then," Tommy said as he accelerated. What happened next will forever be imprinted in my mind. The woman dashed across the road just as he accelerated. i watched, too shocked for words, as we knocked into the woman with a sickening thud. her arms flailed, and for a split second, i saw her mouth agape in shock. for a moment, i thought she might just fall back onto the ground with little injury, but she she slammed onto the windscreen and i watched in horror as tiny cracks appeared where her head was. i probably would have let out a shrill scream at this moment, i couldn't even be sure if it was raymond's wife or i who had screamed. her body perched on the hood of the car at an awkward angle, i can hardly be sure if she was alive.

throwing open the door, i saw a birthmark on brown flesh. looking closer, i saw tufts of black hair emerging from under the worn orange quilt, a leg being stretched out from under the covers, a slender one. i was captivated. i realised with some surprise that i was not disgusted, rather, i was looking for a scene to unfold before me with some sort of morbid fascination. they didn't know i had thrown open the doors to my own bedroom, otherwise their movements would have quickened, their mouths opening in a wide O, the eyes becoming huge pools of surprise and would the words, i can explain would visit his mind.
i feel the doorknob delicately with my fingers for want of something to do. my fingers trace the curve of the knob as i watch their bodies move under the covers in a somewhat slow and swift movement. then she lets out a tiny gasp of pleasure and i see their bodies stop moving.
he emerges from under the covers, fingers around the shaft of his manhood, and is halfway across the room to the basin when he sees me.

***
i am tired. i no longer want to scold. i want to leave people alone. i don't want to tell people what to do, nor hang a silly smile on my face everyday as though everything is fine and dandy as i waste my life away.
i am tired, and i should sleep.

just the picture of snow makes me take a deep breath, imagining sharp cold air entering my nostrils and attacking my lungs. i can so imagine myself trudging down cobblestone paths, hands tucked into pockets and catching a snowflake in my tongue.
the cold doesn't make me think of gloomy days, contrary to what everyone thinks.
i loved nothing better than waking up in the morning in that tiny hotel room of mine with the desire to do nothing but to wait for the day to unravel.

and with the advent of time, what have i learned?
I've learned that money can buy momentary happiness and little else, and that sometime momentary happiness suffices, sometimes it does not.
I've learned that a life of drudgery does nothing but drain the soul and kill the spirit.
I've learned that happiness is mine to have, and my right alone.
I've learned that happiness is within grasp and just a matter of reaching for it.
I've learned that no mountain is too high or insurmountable, it's just a matter of whether you want to conquer it or not.
I've learned that words like "But what else can you do?" can be fed to the dogs. There is nothing I can't do if I set my mind and heart to it.
I've learned that it's only when you open yourself to the realm of endless possibilities that happiness has a chance to have a dance with you.
I've learned that in life, sometimes it's better to leap before you look and sometimes, to look before you leap.
I've learned that sometimes, when things go wrong, you just have to say, "Na Bey Ch** Bai!" and then move the f*** on.
I learned that everyone fucks up. If you fuck yourself over and over again over a single mistake, no one really gives a damn.
I will love myself for who I am.
I, the girl without the gift of the gab.
I, the girl who fucks up.
I, the girl with jiggly thighs!
I, the girl with acne scars.
I, the girl with a high-pitched voice.
I, the girl with too-small boobs.
I, the girl with a bad temper.
I, the girl who talks too loudly sometimes.
I, the girl who cries over nothing.

I am me, and I shall myself love.

reminiscence, indeed

and while travelling to london has kept me from going back to school, this unexpected extension of the holidays for me hasn't really seen me rejoicing. sure, i've escaped calling 32 sets of parents and all the mayhem that must have erupted in the staff room today, but life meanders on, as usual.

london was a beautiful experience. what will i always take to be london to me as the walk in the freezing cold to meiji shrine is japan to me?
as i've always thought, the cold romanticizes everything.
i stayed a few streets away from the marble arch tube station and what i will always remember of the mornings are - slinking out of my hotel, out of the warmth and into the cold - shoes clapping onto concrete, hands seeking warmth in the pockets of my jeans. hunched shoulders and the walking on. and everyone else does the same. women togged in scarves, knee-length boots - fair skin which barely looks a hint of being sunkissed. and men in coats, hats, striding, striding.
the tube - ever so typical a form of transport across the city.

but i digress.
beautiful london aside, today is a day i'd like to remember. for it marks the end of 8 long years that i've meandered on. i'd like to think that life could continue moving on and me being happy in this cocoon of a life, but i think not. life changes, people change and things do change.
and while in the past i'd thought myself to be lucky to find a job which paid me simply for a fulfiling way to while away my time each day, i think the contrary now.

isn't it lovely to think of life in all its possibilities?

i haven't dreamed of flying for a while

by taichi yamada.

i miss japanese literature - the quaint sentences, descriptive nuances, all painting a city of lost souls, of quiet efficacy on the surface and wanton loves on the inside.

and sunday night before we embark on yet another week. i'm not feeling the dread that used to envelope me on sundays last year. neither am i feeling the flighty joy of embarking on yet another week of challenges. life is and will be as it will be. sundays a year ago - bright skies and hot afternoons. how the thought of work would pass a damper on my soul and how my tired self sought sleep in the afternoons. and of how the street lights would already be bright by the time i woke up. and along with that, a sense of losing grip on time, on life itself, and perhaps, on myself.

but i digress, as always i do.

i don't want tomorrow to come because it will mean that the magical weekend has come to a close. that magical weekend where i felt alive. am i?

of you.

for want of words, we stare at the menu. nuances, i see how light bounces off the plastic surface. what used to be a pristine white, now lightly smudged with matted oil prints. - per 100grams, per serving - my mind searches for what can be said, words to fill up the empty spaces between, but i come up with nothing. i summon enough courage to look at you, you whose eyes are search your menu as well. i stare at the tinted glass windows and wonder if the skies are really grey. i look around me and spy - executives clinking their wine glasses, red wine on a Monday afternoon, giggly girls in a corner, a waitress with bad skin balancing empty bowls on a tray. the words - this moment is your life - come to mind. oh that the posterity of each moment could be captured, blended into immaculate perfection in mind's eye. i look at the clean plates in front of me, chopsticks and spoon placed equidistant from the plates and wonder what good it would be trying to grasp fleeting moments of being tongue-tied?

i sit on the cold, hard seats. on a night like this, the night sky could only be pitch-black. no clouds would deign to traipse across the sky for this very night. your form trudges out of the gate, just as i have envisioned, and you sit beside me without a word. my head tilts to the right where it rests on the soft of your neck. your neck is softer than i imagined, your shoulders slightly sloping. no words need transpire.

the empty feeling on the train - i took a seat in the middle, flanked by empty seats. ahead i watch the lifeless view of the black of the tunnels flash across the windows, my form staring back at me without emotion. of course i could stare at myself forever and wonder if it were really me. and i was to cross my bridge of dreams again, but inertia let loose of me and drew me to the bright lights of the city.

how do i condense tonight into words? it is impossible. swinging my arms, delirium.

i felt completely nothing when i saw you, and this aroused apathy for myself. for what joy would there to be had in life if nothing could possibly stir me?
i felt nothing.

but wait. wasn't it the most natural thing in the world? to whiz into a bookstore on a lonely night and to see you there, flipping through a book that i would expect you to? and didn't it seem - it wasn't serendipty, it wasn't chance, nor luck. it was just something that would have had happened. something that didn't warrant rejoicing because i knew when i left that i would see you again.

i told you that i was so tired of being tired. and rested my head on your shoulders again.

i try and try to remember the exact moment that i set eyes on you.

can you have a sandwich? i'll have my puff and we'll look at each other with glimmers in our eyes and we'll go up to the stone benches and eat in silence. people-watch.

that i forgot to put on my two rings on the first day. habit tugged me towards running back and getting the rings, while the heady prospect of a new year beckoning reeled me towards heedlessly moving forward and getting used to not running my thumb absentmindedly over the grooves of the ring.

dependency saw me searching for my pill-box for ages, not believing that it wasn't in my black slouch bag. indecision seeing me sprawled in a fetal position, wondering if i was going to get palpitations and hallucinations all night long.

empty, empty again, amidst the camera flashes.
that a picture speaks a thousand words is a sham.
it can tell of a thousand lies.

stop eating lollipops. they're bad for you.
i want to see a blade cut through air and drops of blood appear as though air were my flesh.

and i do not know why i keep losing my pill box.

i placed you in the corner today, like a shirt which i love but no longer wish to wear, something only taken out in remembrance of breezy, hazy, lazy days. days which spell a lingering scent of perfume that never disintegrates.
my life as a placid calm pacific blue, my mind - elsewhere, wandering, wondering, wanderlust.
when can i be mine?
goodbye, the melancholic one, you were never mine. the other me belongs to merry-making, a seemingly downward spiral of life, a life of lust for life itself. a craze to drink from the fevour of life, amidst all the merry-making.
goodbye, life of mine.

the thin layer of oil floating above the red liquid always disgusted me, but i drank it anyway. some mornings i woke to see strong sunlight inching its way past the thin slit of glass between the pane and the dusty green curtains and watched speckles of dust do a jig in the empty space above me. i would watch the dust settle slowly and then twist my fingers around the ends of the green curtains and watch as more dust congregated for yet another dance. and while the sunlight seared burning bright images upon my eyes, i opened them till they hurt and i could do so no more. only then would i allow myself to inch towards the wine glass - toppling it down on many an occassion, due to the fact that it was little more than a bright grey triangle after all that sun-gazing - lapping up whatever was left in the glass. at times, i would just manage to slip a drop onto my tongue and i would slide my tongue along the roof of my mouth, savouring that little drop of bitterness before getting up to face a little of the day.
i clean my teeth but i do not bother to wash my face, the days hardly see me going anywhere. i run my fingers through my hair and give up before running them through the ends completely.
i often look into the fridge and see cartons of apple juice, bottles of ketchup and flour. eggs are a rarity. the other day i boiled eggs on a pan before deciding to add some flour into the paltry mess. i end up with a mess of runny eggs and flour pan-fried till it forms an almost brown crisp. what was intended roughly to be pancakes was just that. i dump ketchup and my eggs-flour mix into a bowl and use a fork to swirl the mix with the ketchup. taking a bite, it doesn't taste half bad. like a dried-up mixture of hash browns and rotten tomatoes.

***

that the night of would never end.
that the night could be dredged out at will, with every memory as clear and distinct as it had been the day after.
that drudgery would not erase what we had.