REPORT A PROBLEM
April has got to be the cruelest month. Four months into the new year, and weíre riddled with a new wave of emotions we can hardly grapple with. Those that you knew you shouldíve taken by the collar, shaken them roughly and kept them under tabs, but theyíve cajoled your soft spot into letting them roam free. Unbridled, they have now run amok and their rampages have left you bruised and reeling from their last blow. They caught me defenseless, ripped my heart out, served it up on a silver platter; cocktail sticks; the works.
Iím not ready for goodbye.
Promises. Weíre always making them and not keeping them. We detest the faults we see in our parents and then grow more horrified when after years and years of trying to run away from those very faults they have, we discover that we secretly harbor, even nurture, those faults ourselves. The most appalling thing is, the realization doesnít kick start any revolution or metamorphosis Ė we merely lament about the faultsí permanence in our lives. We donít get better. Oh, fluffy New Age junk about 'accepting yourself'. Some things you accept, others you don't. It's about growth! Growth, I tell you!
ďThatís a lot of snow,Ē commented Rob as his eyes flickered to a scruffy-looking mongrel crossing the road in front of them, oblivious to the night bus hurting towards it. it only narrowly mussed being hit, but continued coolly on its journey to the bin outside the off-license, which it sniffed studiously, then cocked a leg against.
ďSo, whatís your point?Ē asked Rob.
ďWell, itís like this,Ē replied Jo. ďIf Eskimos can come up with fifity words for snow because itís a matter of life and death, why is it that weíve only got one word for love?Ē
Ė Mike Gayle
Thatís the number of times Iíve met you on the train since then. Youíre still wearing those cuffs and collars, with your wire-rimmed glasses. For a fleeting moment, I thought I detected a flicker of surprise behind them. But then again, my eyes mightíve been playing tricks on me. Your hairís flecked with grey, and you look a shade older than the last time I saw you. Startled, I only dare to take furtive peeks at your reflection in the train door window pane from time to time. Imagine my surprise when I see you staring right back.
They say, a year older, a year wiser. Itís a year promising of more booze and hangovers, and a year of wistful goodbyes and tearful farewells, and pacts made to stay in touch. A year of academia finalities and a year before weíre stamped with the sign of approval and ushered out into the real world as proper adults. Itís a year of failures and successes; a year of knowing better. Itís a year of last chances, and a year of donít-let-yourself-regret. Itís my last year, with Raffles.
Eighteen. Itís kind of a hard age to be, isnít it?
Ten years from now, Iíll be 28. Iíll be working, probably wearing power suits and killer stilettos, complete with scarlet nail polish. (No desk job please.) Ten years from now, Iíll still be a go-getter, and as busy as hell. (Possibly a workaholic!) I want to be a jetsetter and go globetrotting around the world; experience life for the rich splendor it is. I want to spend my youth on what matters in life, not waste away in its laborious mundaneness. Ten years from now, Iíll still want to make a difference, and Iíll be fighting to make it happen.
I wonít use words again
They donít mean what I meant
They donít say what I said
Theyíre just the crust of the meaning with realms underneath
Never even moved.
Though if language were a liquid, it would be rushing in.
- Suzanne Vega
Because it was lost in translation, and words just arenít enough to transcend the hyperreality we live in. Perhaps, dear Boy, it has something to do with the fact that Men come from Mars and Women come from Venus. (Obviously we donít speak the same language, right Martian?) So stop trying.
You know, brownie points donít really count anymore when you keep track of every single one on a scoreboard and brandish them in front of everyoneís faces? Itís as if you were saying, ďHey! Look at me! Iíve got brownie points! Címon, so how many have you got?Ē Practice makes perfect. If practiced baking as diligently as you, they could probably whip up fabulous confectionaries too. Besides, you arenít the only one who can, so whatíre you so cocky about? Thereís no need to add self-raising flour to your baking Ė havenít you heard? Your egoís big enough to inflate anything.
I love it when you walk into a shop playing old-school tunes on the stereo. Thereís nothing quite like the warm tingly feeling that starts at your spine and travels all the way to your fingertips when you hear those all-too-familiar tunes. Something in your heart makes you want to sing; try hitting all the high notes though you jolly well know your voice box canít. You donít show it, but youíre mouthing the words to the song with a formidable accuracy. It screams only one thing Ė youíve heard them a million times over, but youíre gonna keep on listening.
And you said yourself
That Iím falling towards the sun
Like I disguise myself
To make you forget Iím the one
Like this was just a trap I built
And you are just a game I won
And I donít want to run
I havenít had a new favourite song for a long time now, and this is just about as good as it gets. Iím not your typical music junkie, and up till recently Iíve never heard of artists like Jack Johnson (read: very rare). So, forgive me if you find me overly zealous in promoting it to you.
Sometimes, life plays tricks on you. Things which are too good to be true can happen sometimes too. Just when you think that youíre at a dead end, the unexpected happens and throws a whole new light on the situation, turning it around. Other times, it is out of the sheer magnanimity of a fellow friend that is our saving grace. Iím utterly embarrassed, with the kindness showered upon me today Ė especially since I donít deserve help in exiting a hole I was just too stubborn to crawl out of. Thank you, Kaixiong, youíve just made my
I hate it when Iíve got to wait for people. The more I pace around, the more antsy I get. Foot tapping doesnít help either. Punctuality is underrated.
The only person, whom I constantly wait for, is you. Each time, Iíll have to sit in solitary silence on the concrete slab, hoping my ipod battery lasts till your car finally peeks around the blind spot. Each time, I sing along with the lyrics, in a last ditch attempt to stop myself from worrying if Iím waiting here because youíve really gotten into the car accidents I keep wishing youíd meet.
INUOVI Hydrashine Lip Colour; couleur des levres labbra colorate lip colour.
On the top, it says HONEY 08803. Nestling inside the box, is a perfectly cylindrical tube which Iíve found myself staring back at for a long time Ė my skewed reflection. After toying with it a little while longer, I return it to its nondescript box and wrap it up again. Retying the ribbon, I canít help but notice the cheery cartoon baubles with smiley faces grinning at me. Itís a month away from second Sunday, but a filial daughter is never in a flurry about such things, is she?
In the process, you lose some people in your life. There will be other people. Correction. There will be other, better people worth spending your time with. So, could you please just stop whining and get a life. This time, remember to get yourself a better one. Get off your lazy butt and do something about the things you find unsatisfactory. No one owes you anything, much less me. So, donít come knocking on my door hollering. If you want something, go get it yourself! If your life sucks, it just means you suck. Period.
You are invited to anonymously contribute your secrets to PostSecret. Each secret can be a hope, regret, funny experience, unseen kindness, fantasy, belief, fear, betrayal, erotic desire, confession, or childhood humiliation. Reveal anything - as long as it is true and you have never shared it with anyone before.
Mail your secrets, or other correspondence, to:
13345 Copper Ridge Road
Iím not mailing. Not yet. Not when youíve just hurt me. Not when the wounds still sting. Not when youíre still watching me cringe in pain, unflinching. Iím not ready to heal. Not just yet.
I saw the note you stuck on the toilet bowl. ďDonít Use.Ē No frills. Brief, impersonal. You never write anything more, only direct orders. No frills. Brief, impersonal. You donít do frills. Youíre brief and impersonal, and I have forgotten what it was like to hear anything else from you besides hostile barks and the third degree. I have also remembered that I never really knew what you sounded like, because you only speak in that tone now. Maybe thatís why Iíve reduced myself to silence at home. Maybe, thatís why absence is the only way I can grow fonder.
Twice Ė thatís how many times weíve met. Your face says that youíre from the hazy corners of my faded childhood, and your eyes divulge that Iím from yours too. I tried jogging my memory, but was refused entry when I approached the deep recesses of my mind. Shooting wayward glances, itís obvious weíre both faking the veneer of nonchalance, whilst burying our noses in novels we arenít reading. Despite your repose, I caught you peering out of the corner of your eye when I alighted. Curious, really.
Iím going to be on bus 93 tomorrow; we might meet again.
With tempers flaring and voices raised, the crossfire was long-lived. I hit the roof more than once, but the top prize for losing it isnít mine to claim. It begun as innocent spurts of indignation, but as we progressed, it just snowballed into a fireball of fury. The hacks and pummels we rained down did no good Ė it just fed the monster our rage had already become. Red and raw, whittled to the core, and left with nowhere else to dispense its intense disappointment.
Winningís not everything. Itís the
So, you have no right to say itís okay.
I canít keep count of the number of deep breaths I took today. It felt like reality was fraying at the corners, and if I didnít keep a hold on my sanity itíd fly away with the birds in the sky. There was a huge weight pressing on my lungs, and somehow no matter what I did it remained resolutely insurmountable. Somehow, it continued its cancerous growth and infected the air, everywhere. It was too much to hold in two hands, my head or my heart. I was drowning, and gasping for air and asphyxiated in fear of going under.
Since I was five, or probably teenier, Iíve suffered from acrophobia. Itís probably got to do with my sisterís penchant for flinging my dolls out of the window in her rage. Sweet revenge in childhood days, before the games between us moved from the sandbox to the printed pages of the report book. Today attests to their firm roots deeply entrenched in my life today. When the bus maneuvered a bend on the highway, my heart skipped a beat as a peered down at the roads snaking beneath mine. For a moment, I was afraid Iíd topple over the edge.
No one knows where sheís going
Sheís sitting in the corner of the room, with knees drawn close to herself and arms wrapped around them in defense, like a caterpillar in metamorphosis. Frail, she looks like she could be whisked away by the wind or coaxed away by the bluster of the morning gale. She canít remember anymore, eyes searching for an inkling of what went down. These few days have been nothing, short of shaky drags on her cigarettes and long, deep drags across her porcelain skin.
No one knows where sheís going. But I know sheís going mad.
Someone told me today that finding someone you like is just like striking lottery. Itís a one in a million chance, and you donít even get to meet a million people in your lifetime. Perhaps you will, but thatís not the point. Assuming youíve just struck lottery. If that certain someone likes you back, then itís just like striking lottery all over again.
If thatís the case, weíve just won the lottery. Twice. Shouldnít I be euphoric that Iíve struck it rich? Shouldnít I be astonished at my own good luck?
But I donít and Iím not. Thatís the problem.
We have shared our morning days
And gone through all rainy nights
Even in the darkest of nights
Stars still light up our way
Tomorrow is a beautiful dream
A dream that will be fulfilled
Cross the bridge of rainbow
In search of the gold
For here we stand
Our dearest friend
Sincerely from our hearts we wish
May streams of sunlight
Shine like rays of hope
Hand in hand we work and strive
For the best things in life
Written by us. Sung by us. To live. For life. For love. For me and for you.
Lest we forget.
It seems a little odd that we should be debating about Monet and Salvatore Dali in such drab classrooms, with chalky whitewashed walls and primary school style desks Ė the cold industrial interior coupled with the pastel trimmings isnít exactly artistic. The silence that hangs in the room belongs to the awkwardly inert, not the warm soul-soothing stillness that you get in a museum. Itís hard to imagine the rich splendor of their works when all you see is a pasty white face framed with gold-rimmed glasses, in her uniform of with pencil skirts and sleeveless shirts. Kills it, donít you think?
She took one last glance at her long flowing locks of gold, before she nodded at the hairdresser and squished her eyes shut. Ten minutes later, she walked out of the shop £50 richer with a pageboy crop, leaving her precious hair for someone elseís wig. She hurried across the street, stopping short at the watchmakerís display window. Thank God, she thought, itís still here. Walking in urgently, she placed the grubby £50 note on the counter, and bought the last set of leather watch straps available.
This, she thought to herself, would be his best Christmas present.
He stroked the watch-face for the last time, before handing it over to the watchmaker, grimacing at its new home in the display window. It was a fine antique watch, and he walked out £50 richer, having nothing to tell the time with, leaving it for someone elseís wrist. Breathing a sigh of relief, he entered another shop. Thank God, he thought, itís still here. Without any delay, he bought the last display set of ornate combs. Imagine, how pretty it would look in her long hair.
This, he thought to himself, would be her best Christmas present.
Iím tired. But itís a gratified fatigue, the kind that you get after running 5 clicks. My empty strength isnít the giant creature it once used to be, restless in its gridlock. Instead, itís a tamed beast, waiting to slip into deep slumber. I havenít done this in a long time, and it sure feels good to have self-validation rain down upon you after a long spell of drought. Itíll be dreamless sleep tonight, and Iíll get up tomorrow, feeling so contented that for a moment or two, I wonít want to be anywhere else in the world but here.
How have you been? Iíve always been curious as to what became of you after I (your best friend) exited from your life. Geraldyne How Xin Wei. That was your full name. You wore pink translucent hairbands, and lived in a house with maidenís hair fern and a tank full of guppies. Our favourite game was fivestones, and you ate wanton mee without wantons. You had only one brother, that last I spoke to you. That was 6 years ago. Iíve always been curious, but not curious enough to find out. So, how have you been?
Stars come out if you stare hard enough; I wonder if you threw them out like darts, the light from your eyes. When I crossed the gate back home I saw the sky, in deep velvet with a sparse sparkle. I thought about it collapsed, spread thick across the lawn. This could suffice as a carpeted walkway down to heaven. Crossing it carefully until the sky springs back as morning comes; I watch as the deep red dye that come with dawn seeps through it like a chromatograph, where this blanket of crumbled crystal combusts with the sunís warm hues.
Hello people! It's a mite early to be discussing this, but what the heck. Anyone game to have an Ocomm trip overseas after our As? I know some of us don't mind going to Hong Kong ^.^
2 weeks to invest!
This came in through my email today. My heart jumped a little, partly from surprise and partly from sheer disbelief that fantasy has translated to reality. Partly, also (I suspect), from elation that Iím not alone in missing our hearty camaraderie and the times weíve spent together. Delayed gratification ainít the best, but itís good enough for me.
The Tip Jar