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.

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.

beach house

Crazed is a sense of being.

“You have to endure. If you endure, everything will be fine. No worry, no suffering. It all disappears. Forget about the shadow. This is the End of the World. This is where the world ends. Nowhere further to go.”

The End of the World. Not a simple concept. How to tell when life ends and another begins? Or when life begins and then ends? Especially when one is still alive. In a dredge of monotony then, when repetition takes over and life assumes itself. I could be hovering about the End then.

Dreams, dreams, dreams. Not since the existence of C have I come across such vivid dreams that fill my mind. Experiences past, gone, dreams woven out of vividness. Hard to tell when reality ends and dreams begin.

Some memories are coated with a layer of dust. Some things I’d rather not look back on, coated with dust, swept under the carpet.

You were there. Infused into the air. Vestiges of another time and place, imprinted across me as I ate in the spaghetti house. I looked across, looking, not watching. And saw you there.

*****

Shuffle slowly, flip-flops on wooden floor. Grainy scratches of sand scattered randomly between floorboards. Trying to pick up some grains of rice and then watching the grains get wedged between wooden floorboards. Fingernails to try to pry them out and then, giving up.

The skirt I once wore to dinner. Bohemian, sequined on the base, rumpled, crumpled. You can’t wear a rumpled skirt with an equally rumpled top. Laughs, pauses. We laugh at those we scorn, whom we do not understand.

A pull, a sharp muscle pull. Pain shoots up her back and she winces. Tries to get up. Looks up, and for the first time, notices dust captured against the sunlight. Forgetting the pain for the moment. Captivated by the dust floating as in captured in space and time. Noticing for a moment how the sunlight enters the windows in streaks. Clutching the side of the table. Getting a splinter in her fingers. The pain gets better. It eased off. She sat down for a while and looked around in wonder – how was it that she failed to really see what was in front of her? A year had passed, she spent her mornings in the kitchen, everyday. How was it that she failed to notice the tree outside the window, already spanning the height of the window? When she first came, it had been nothing more than a sapling.

Nothing in particular had driven her here. Work was going fine and her superiors were warm and supportive. Nothing more that she could have asked for in a company. The work was sometimes mundane. You met with the occasional horrible clients. Not much of a push factor. Yet in all that, it wasn’t all what she was cut out to do. She knew it in the joylessness of the day. The way the day could drag on at times. Scouring the house on Sunday evenings, trying to find scraps of things that perhaps could trigger something in her. Going for long runs from one neighbourhood to another. The yellow pills she had to take before she could fall asleep. The doctor was accustomed to her lies and she was sure if he had not been her family doctor for such a long time, there would be no way in which he would offer her a packet of them each time she feigned illness. Unconvincingly.

The nightmares were gone now. Not nightly. No more waking up drenched in sweat. No more the same feeling of helpless that engulfed her whenever she was alone in the passenger seat of a car. Sometimes if she convinced herself hard enough, it just seemed like a bad dream. Like some memories that were invented. She looked back on other more tangible memories and tried to simplify them as dreams too. But it obviously wasn’t doing any good. Sometimes, she convinced herself that it was all a dream, her parents, her apartment, her job, her car. Just one big dream that she could wake up from. And then that sense of helplessness again. Engulfing her. Pills to sleep then.

They were all push factors. And nothing really, to make her stay. A trip to an island of one of the neighbouring countries. Airfares were cheap since there had been two air crashes in the year ago alone. Budget terminals and tired, lost looking souls. A wry smile that crossed her face as she remembered Clark airport in Angeles. The flight had been delayed after she had rushed there from Manila. How there had been no taxis in Angeles and she had momentarily panicked, then took a jeepney for an exorbitant price. Cheap coffee dispensed from vending machines. The thin and acrid taste of instant coffee. Nothing to look back on, just a novel and her clothes thrown together in an instant. Tops and shorts. Jeans. Sundresses. A swimsuit. Sunblock lotion. A cap. Pills. How strange it was that she had forgotten to take her mobile phone along. Or perhaps it was an intentional move.

She stayed at the second floor of a tiny hotel located along the popular beach. There was no air-conditioning but she hardly cared. Two books. One typical romance novel by Luanne Rice. The other by Kazuo Ishiguro. Dogged eared. She had stopped taking care of her books a long time ago. Since the end of her first real relationship. Everything was transient, therefore, there was no need to prepare much for the future. This probably contributed largely to her view on life. And the mini crisis she was facing now.

Flying up in the air, she had hardly though about anything at all. She wasn’t in shock like most victims were. It was merely a resignation – an awareness that whatever could happen, would probably happen. And she didn’t really care what it was. He had been concentrating on reading and the car had sped round the corner, past parked cars, which had probably obscured the driver’s view of them. She had contemplated whether to push his shoulders or waist for maximum effect and then had just thrown her palms against his waist with all her might. She felt a thin film of sweat, saw sweat staining the red fabric a darker shade, and then felt the car hit her. The last thing she saw of him was him turning around in surprise and then she spun upwards in the air. She didn’t even realise that she had fallen until her head hit the front bonnet of the car with a sickening crunch. Then rolling over the bonnet, hitting the ground arm first.

Surprisingly, her arm wasn’t broken, just sprained. She was told she had been very lucky. What was all the luck for? If Death had come, it would have been silently accepted. That proverbial man in the black coat, waiting to capture souls.

She was told she had been in a coma for a week. A bandaged head, an oxygen mask. Looking back, she envisioned herself in the hospital like what was shown almost everyday on television. The thought was almost comical.

looking down

the bus passed by the church for the third time today, around one in the morning, and i spied, beyond the structures of the floral walls already set up in preparation of the grand celebrations next month, the shadow of a man kneeling on the ground outside the chained gates of the church. the image touched me. the darkness as though seeping through my soul, imprinted that image upon my mind, and i'm left wondering who it was.

i imagine a frayed polo shirt. brown, worn loafers. a plea for release, or a plea for benovelence. or perhaps, a plea for self. just like the plea i'm thinking of.

the other day, a student of mine asked why i'm always clad in black. and then i realised that as a teacher, it's probably not the questions on the academic stuff that frequently stump you. it's the minor, causual, veiled-in-simplicity questions that probe things about yourself that you never realised was so obvious to those around you. and questions that i cannot answer, are just left there as they are.

it's going to be the 100th day since grandma passed on into eternal life this september. my parents have started wearing pink and purple, but not red. i've not started wearing pink or purple, only tops or bottoms of dull colours with the occassional tiny print of red, pink or orange. but i don't proclaim to be a saint. it's no longer part of mourning that i remain clad in dull coloured clothes. i can't say that her death taught me alot either. the death of a loved one, as with all passings, reminds us all that everything is but transitory - that we all turn into ashes at the end of it all.

i resented my job when i was so drained after a day of teaching that all i wanted was to just get home and sleep, despite knowing that her days were numbered, and that perhaps i could provide some form of comfort just being there, holding her hand and watching her sleep. i resent myself for wishing that i didn't have to watch her wither away, and for thinking that watching her wither was all-too-draining for me. it is never easy seeing someone slip away before your very eyes - the sadness that i never experienced before - it was almost too much for me to bear. the weighty feel of grief - it tired me out, and i, who was already drained from work and worry, failed to grasp the remaining time i had with her. i don't know if i've forgiven myself. on the outside, i can smile. i can smile remembering her, because she was such a gentle soul that i knew no blame would ever be attributed to me.

i mourn myself - the non-existence of an identity.



***



the sharp pain - what i will never forget. i was dizzy from the pain.
weekends and the city doesn't sleep. the bridge of dreams. music. the want of dance.

***

the man with no face speaks to her. looking at the smooth grooves of his face, she feels no fear. it is just like being in a doctor's office, without the fear or anticipation of things to come. but there are no medical instruments, no cabinets filled with medicine, no faded posters of babies on the matted walls. there is a hard brown sofa, she can't remember the tiles on the floor, because staring at the white that was his face was so intoxicating enough.
in his face, she found that she could remember things more clearly. she recalled and looking deeper past the absymal white, she saw images of the past. images that had escaped her until then. remembering, they all didn't seem quite that far away. details that she'd long let go of came rushing back. she remembers wondering whether it was a good thing that her mind was just like a tap which could be turned on at whim. and who had turned it off so tightly that she had to open her eyes to the whiteness in order to see?

then she sees the white no more. immersed in images of the past, she flails , twisting and turning as they all rush together, combating the years past, worming their way into each and every crevice. tormenting the passages of time and flailing past the tunnels of darkness.

she immerses her pretty feet into water and inhales the smell of lavendar essential oil from an oil burner. a woman whose face she cannot remember gently massages her feet and she leans back and closes her eyes.

she is running on a dirt track and it is almost night. there is mud splattered on her white track shoes and her laces are matted with dirt. the ground is soft and squishy. she feels caked dirt hitting her shins as she tries to run faster and the back of her shoes throws up dirt, only to allow them to land on her calves. the distance she runs is no longer proportionate to the effort she puts in while running. the reduction in speed is not without a reason. she hears the roar of a car and turns to see a black utility vehicle approaching from a distance. eyes narrowing into slits, she tries to see who is in the vehicle.

flashing tailgates and the nervous laugh of anticipation.
he gets out of the driver's seat and slams the door hard. she waits for him to open the door on her side. the silence is overpowering. there is such a deep silence that she needs to put her hands to her ears and scream for a split second. to validate her existence. to allow herself to be aware that she is still alive, in the darkness. without knowledge of things around her, she falls and forgets that she exists. she is reminded of the time she was caught in a small, dark tunnel. unable to move back or forth, she felt goosebumps creep up all over her and the acrid taste of fear in her mouth. cold sweat trickling down her back, as it did now. mercifully or unmercifully, the door on her side opens, and she is dragged out. she hears him slamming the door shut, but she no longer hears anything from then on. she feels herself being pressed against the shut door and the force of that causing the door's exterior to be bent inwards. she places her arms behind her and her fingers reach to the top of her thighs. she digs her nails into the back of her thighs, but the pain is not sharp enough and she pinches herself instead.
the next day while showering, she feels a dull pain, either coming from her wounds or from herself. it seems difficult to differentiate.

it was just like the other day when she had drunk too much the night before and she woke up for a cup of coffee. opening the newspapers, she saw the letters floating around in the air, as though engaging in a word play and she had run to the toilet and thrown up.

a recent memory - the night before, she had dressed in a white tank top, a denim miniskirt and knee high black boots. looking for the toilet, a white man who looked half drunk whistled at her and mouthed the words, sex bomb at her. she found it getting easier to ignore people as the days passed. after all, they were always having their own preconceived notions of others and nothing could really change that. she regretted however, the time outside a greek restaurant when she was frantically delving through her bag and a man from inside the restaurant had actually come out of the restaurant to ask if she was alright, if she found what she was looking for. the shock from the man approaching her had put her on her guard and she scurried away. and looking back, she should have told that man that she didn't quite find it, and even as an afterthought, say that - yes, i've lost it. i know.
back to the night before, a cutesy blonde in an attire quite similar to her get-up walked out of the washroom, went up to the white man and hopped on one foot in front of him, while whinning about how long the others were taking in the toilet. seeing her going towards the toilet though, the blonde rushed back in to regain her place in the queue and grumbles to her instead, how they had all taken such a long time. the blonde pointed at one of the cubicles and whispers conspirally at her, "that one's taking really long, probably having a bad day." for want of something to say, she has nothing to say but replies, "bad day?" and the cutesy blonde nods.

a tongue reaches into her ear. a tongue so full of filth and grime that she has to bite her knuckles, first, to prevent herself from screaming in disgust and secondly, to stop herself from shuddering, over and over again.

it was just like a normal day, the sun beating down on the concrete. the smell of grease from the nearby food centres filling the air. crossing the road, she suddenly catches sight of the same utility vehicle, and she pauses in horror. she feels her legs turn numb and then feeling as though they could no longer hold her up. she stumbles to the green railings nearby and feels fear course through her. the driver's seat is empty. she turns back and in her haste, cannot make her way on her heels as swiftly enough as she wishes she could. turning back, fear written all over her face, she sees the face of someone she is more than happy to see, creased all over in puzzlement.

those shards, dribblets of memories are more than enough. she realises that she has been gripping the edge of the brown leather couch so tightly that her nails hurt, and that perhaps, was a reminder that enough was enough. the man with the white face was gone. without her even realising. there were walls around her. the rooms was the same. she looked around wildly.

there was no door.

cosybay

was at cosybay for the first time ever yesterday with the cousins. i felt the past few weeks melt away in dinner at king satay with F, at nectarine (sp?) with KS and at cosybay.
at last, at long last, i think i've repeated this in all my blogs, but at long last, the setting of the exam paper is 99% done, the 4 mass lectures which saw me waking at 5.30am with palpitations and nightmares that whatever could have gone wrong would go wrong. strangely enough, i survived with little harm. or perhaps i am just delusional.

i didn't manage to walk along the bridge of dreams this time round.

sometimes, it seems like he never left. she would wake up in the mornings, the promise of a bright and sunny day ahead streaming into her mind. the sheets, the smell of the morning as a beautiful breeze drifted in - they were all the same. the cold floor tiles still felt the same as she padded around her bedroom. his bottles of wine still remain on the shelves, unopened. his coffee cup hasn't been drunk from since the day he sipped casually from it. on ordinary days, she'd watch television, half a mind on the television and half a mind on what was to occupy her for that day. term papers? they were typed out on the laptop at cafes along business districts, dreams drifting in the air. inhaling, inhaling.