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.

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.