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INFORMATION

Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'

Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.

CONTACT

FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves

CREDITS

Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
Fifth-grade sleuthing ftw.
Written on: Friday, January 15, 2010
Time: 9:54 PM


This, and two other books: The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Valley of Fear. I am approximately into a third of A Study in Scarlet, the book remains in a paper bag when unused and carefully handled when otherwise but already there are noticable creases in the spine, an inevitable occurrence from the leisurely activity known most commonly as reading. I would be delighted if someone presented me with an iRiver ebook-reader, but it would be so unnatural, for I'd rather have the familiar sound of rustling pages, the smell of inks and paper that come coupled with this activity, and not the light emanating from the screen and scrolling of pages my head is unaccustomed with. I limit these to unpublished works (a la fanfiction or online prose) for I think the most noteworthy, memorable moments come from flipping and reading from a tangible page.

Today was made for old, remembered and cherish novels, books with familiar names but their content is beyond my memory. Perhaps I have not read them at all. This is true for the Sherlock Holmes series; though with a regretful note I remember The Three Investigators: The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot whereby it had been part of a clue yet, being only a child of six at that time, couldn't see the merits of getting to know a new series. Today marked a new chapter of book-reading history, wherein I found what has drawn me to the detective novel again after all these years of chasing after serial killer stories and finding little to entertain myself with. The essence of a detective story I believe lies in its astute observations and cutting wit, which A Study in Scarlet has exemplified beautifully. I cannot go on without noting the writing style, which is obviously old as compared to our modern crime thrillers (written in 'casual' English, if I may use it as such, for as it describes and carries the plot twists and creases through little poetic beauty can be found in itself). Scarlet, however, retains that contemplative pause, that flourish at the side to allow language to display itself as an art form rather than simply a means of communication and conveyance, while keeping its course and going further still into the heart of the mystery. Sherlock Holmes is, of course, enigmatic, quick-witted, astoundingly observant and interesting, to which the only regret being that this isn't a biography but rather a novel. The human race would be honoured to have such a talented man.

I have visited the exhibition for The Last Meal, or so I believe it is called. (I have a tendency to ignore signboards.) Frankly I don't know what to make of it, except to label it as rather interesting art. You see, I never had an eye for art, although it would be nice to have one.







How does it feel to die empty?

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The incredible time machine with no return.
Time: 10:30 AM

I have unfinished business, and though I'm reluctant to head to the streets again I know I must.

- Present for a friend
- Use up Harris vouchers
- Borders 30% voucher

Orchard can be rather conjested in the afternoons, and the searing heat just worsens the mood, but with determination I will brave the crowds and the sunlight for meagre paperbacks to call my own. It's a pity Harris and Borders have such limited collections, and already I doubt they have in stock the books I'm desperately searching for, but for armchair travels and a feeble glimmer of hope I will try.

Mother worries that I will not have any friends when I head off to JC. What she fails to comprehend is my very own theory that I might be too occupied with work to socialise, and that makes me happy, and standing around in the crowd without an idea whether to speak first or not is awkward and I'd rather be in the company of papers and pens, which do not reply, nor do they initiate a conversation with a lame pick-up line and expect you to carry on. But if (and the proverbial IF) time permits me to, or the curriculum allows for, or university entry requirements speak of it, then I would take the plunge into the sea of faces and probably pick out someone who will suit my personality, or rather someone whom I do not cause friction with, if I do not drown first.

Terribly excited, yet frightened of what is to come next. I have chosen, and now comes the wait, and then the inevitable release of posting results. It's this or nothing.

I hope it's either Raffles, ACJC or National. Dear Lord, please.

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Yet another brief bout of euphoria.
Written on: Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Time: 10:05 PM

There is nothing quite as invigorating, yet as inwardly-damaging as praise. It reaffirms one's achievements and approval as it bathes one in another fleeting moment of glory, but like a double-edged sword with a less noticable, more lethal side it cuts away all motivations of progress as one remains in limbo, forever dwelling on the glittering past and his refusal of improvement never comes to him though he commits it again and again. One fills his mind with jewels and past trophies as he empties out the brain matter to make space for more bygone glories. It is a stagnation, and then a deterioration marks the end of his self-besotted heart.

It is a pity.

Somehow the thought occurs to me that it is strange how we go from one stress to another: from waiting to results release and then the burden of choosing from such abundant choices. I cannot help but ask: is TWELVE choices necessary? I would be satisfied with half the number, and if it indeed had been, I would have happily put down my pen a day ago, instead I find myself leaning over a particularly grubby piece of notepaper (with a coffee stain), moaning over subject combinations, schools with available said combinations, and worrying about ideal ones that do not. It is depressing, with my mother's silence pressing onto my heart from one side and my (despised) indecisiveness on the other. For a moment I don't know what I should do. I have no intention of desiring she should know before I've come to a sound conclusion, as she usually publishes my thoughts without permission and these thoughts are practically dead and hence I cannot speak for myself. I might need help but I do not want help. Maybe I should burn everything and settle down for a Saw marathon instead.

There isn't an Entry Requirements For Medicine in University that I can lay my hands on.

Maybe I'm insane for even harbouring the thought of taking 3 sciences again in Junior College, but the main problem remains: Biology is essential, Chemistry even more so, and Physics is an object of interest which I find hard to let go of. Physics is like an old flame or a song in my head I cannot forget/leave alone, a torn page of a book so intriguing I cannot help but crave it as a whole.

National JC's Open House had an interesting art exhibition going on, featuring a series of macabre drawings aptly titled 'Monsters', which reminded me of supersheep's fine artwork. I thought they were beautifully detailed and enchanting.

People from church read my blog. I cannot get over how surprised and secretly pleased I am. But, thanks.

Written on: Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Time: 12:22 AM

It is like a wound that never closes.

Deviant.
Written on: Monday, January 11, 2010
Time: 6:56 PM

I did not cry today. These were the only words going through my head as I held the results slip where I sat in the hall, wondering how strange it must seem to the overly-emotional. Although I had an admirable 8 marks to my name, and I made the honorary mentions list on the presentation slide, I never smiled or shed a tear. I tried to, but the grins always came out incongruous, and even my hurried 'thank you' to the Principal as I stood on stage to claim my results slip from here seemed out of place; everything unorchestrated is wrong. I thought I should enjoy myself, so I stopped trying. It was as if my emotions have been bottled up, like they would have been savoured better when I would uncork the bottle known better as my heart alone in my room tonight.

But do not get me wrong as the others do; I am ecstatic, beyond happiness, for no words alone can describe anything I've felt within in the past four hours. I have plans, possibilities, and it's hard to focus on anything when I'm still feeling thunderstruck and numbed. This is supposed to be a new year with new beginnings, but my room is still messy with last year's books and papers and disjointed sentences.

THIS HAS NOT BEEN A TRAGEDY. THE LORD BE PRAISED.

I prayed last night.

It makes me feel alive; after the monotony of holiday fun it's only dutiful to be back to serious business. I will visit JC open houses, watch a few movies and exit the theatres feeling happier than I have ever been. Sherlock Holmes tomorrow; my father knows not how to spell it. A pity, really.

I'm trying to write more, this is notedly one of my new year resolutions and I plan to keep it till December. There is an interesting book on generating philosophical thought at the bookstore: originally meant for the General Paper but I think short essays would make a wholesome read on half an hour journeys.

Went to the library too: it feels almost like a home one returns to after wandering in some dense wilderness. The Central Library divides its Fiction section into Thrillers, Romances and General Books and I forgot that completely before looking for my book in the wrong section. Fortunately I spotted the notice just in time or else I would've walked out disappointed for coming such a long way for it. Sometimes I arrive at a shelf just as another is browsing there and most of the time I'm patient enough to wait. However I found it so annoying when I'm wait conspicuously beside a young woman and she hovers there uncertainly, biding her time and hogging the space in front of the shelf. She finally leaves emptyhanded while I worry about getting home by 5pm.

On some days I find it increasingly hard to separate fiction and reality, when both seem to blend into each other, especially when I concentrate too hard.

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Say they won't disappoint me.
Time: 9:48 AM

It's the day. Today. I'm expecting a sunny afternoon, and I'm taking it light in case I disappoint myself. I do not want to do this, but who does one listen to when a voice says 'it would be fine' and another whispers 'do you think so'? Overjoyed or crushed I'll still be making my way to the Central Library for Grimm's Last Fairytale, which would be either a comfort or a reward.

I have been spinning yarn since 8am, and a pitiful 900+ words were the only thing I could coax out of my mind. It does not take into account the two hours I have spent lying in bed thinking about shaping it into form and its overall feel. The words do not come as naturally as before and this is only part of the difficulty. Some words I have forgotten, but there have been space for new ones.

Some like it deviant.

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Results.
Written on: Saturday, January 9, 2010
Time: 12:11 AM

Monday might be a tragedy, the culmination of my stewed hopes and dreams may simply fall flat on its first flight. The nervous, flighty chick might plummet to the ground in mid-air to its bloody end. I say 'its' as a dead foreign animal is no longer an animal as it's a dead one. It's no longer a loved, warm snuggly creature; it is but a thing.

I'm overcome with anxiety like the rest. Don't you dare lie as you are too, despite that comforting ray of overconfident sunshine you exude. That is not you. It was never you. No matter how intelligent one might be, nervousness permeates all into the core of your being. It's all part of the genetic code explaining why you're human, bundled together like a special package with the tendency to tell the world aloud how you feel, what you did, who you loved, who you didn't anymore. Like they really care if you had slightly-burnt toast for breakfast.

Anxiety makes me peevish, and I realise that easily enough. Maybe on Tuesday when I'm done mourning for the lost hopes I'll feel better.

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Night Thoughts
Time: 12:11 AM

What are you thinking of
When our eyes are closed and we drown in sleep
From the twelve midnight exhaustion or after-beer fatigue
Of fuzzy one-night stands in bars with neon-powered lights
When she finds out her heart didn’t put up a fight
Though how distraught and crushed she looks on the sidewalk
Entertaining ideas of sleeping pills or death without a second thought
She has heart trouble and being far away doesn’t make it subside very well
When drawn to you like a living magnet she’s a little surprised finding you repel
Yet another of earth’s theories we’ve entertained minutes before sleep
When two lie here and the girl doesn’t remember to laugh or weep
(At the appropriate parts, but she sounds quite the mystery
When she disregards social norms to a startling poetic degree)
Maybe you think she isn’t trying hard enough
Picking up details from the small stuff
How would you know she isn’t putting them into her pocket
With the rest of the feelings she doesn’t share (at least not yet)
When she’s ready probably she’ll open her heart to you
Her paper butterflies and blood-stained eyes’ll come pouring through
You talk till the midnight’s past and no one tries on purpose to outlast
Now all she simply, really needs to know
Isn’t what you thought of Marilyn Monroe
But rather if you’d sweep away the false from what’s true, so
Her eyes actually ask if you’d offer a quid pro quo

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To William.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 11:43 PM

I have often wondered about you.

The first time I caught a glimpse of you a rainstorm had cracked the sky open. Your piece of equipment was not within my view, instead it had been a seeming revelation of a rare occurrence. Your flawless attire sleek with rain, and faded London without her rouge laid bare, captured in your dark, discerning eyes. You appeared to smooth the creases in society, to bring normality to horror. I could not imagine what could have brought you to the crumbling stones lining the walkways, the hard stars for lack of a better view. You were here not for the scenery, for you hardly gazed into the sky, nor paused to hear rain shards plummetting on windows, the buildings, the ground. The gravestones. You were here, only to disappear again after a measly few pages, as unnoticably as you had arrived.

You had left me rapt with wonder, as if I had waited for such a thing all my life.

The moonlight was the spotlight, your slim silhouette outlined, and your shadow. Well, what could I say? It was nothing plainer than a blockade of light. You were never fated to dance as gracefully as the nymphs that haunt the people's dreams. Formal suits were never made for frivolous exchanges between two bodies. I wondered if you would dance, but I doubt you harboured much interest in dancing, or any social event for that matter. You were light and shadow, criss-crossed in ethereal silkwork.

You were calm and collected, and from the deliberate movements I knew you were here only for what you do. Never casting your eyes this way and that. Your countenance set in grim perfection, not a thing of beauty, but a thing of purpose. I wonder how did you feel, at your glimpse of the mortal world. Unsurprised, I think. Yet were you ever astonished at anything? Your features hint at a thousand things I think you already knew. Even speech: your words were evenly articulated, as if every word had streams of thought going before it, assessing it's durability, impact, simplicity. You did not seem like one favouring flowery speech; maybe plain, curt sentences would satisfy you the more. It is necessary, I know. Your glasses only emphasise your intellect; it's not as if it lies unnoticed.

I wonder what your motivation is. It pains me, or amazes me, that you do not seem to have one. Even serial killers are urged on by their dreadful childhood memories. Yet, I wonder what yours is, for an assiduous person, even you seem like a fanatic; a relatively noiseless one, that is. It would be unthinkable if you stated a lacking of one; for then, nothing could distinguish one straight as a ramrod as you from an economical tireless labour; such as a computer.

You don't seem to possess any...bodily desires. Abstemious, possibly, but I wouldn't want to draw any conclusions. I have never seen you smile with satisfaction at anything at all. What do you consider 'fun' or even 'worthwhile'? You won't get hitched this way. Do you care?

You are stoic, and that is quite obvious. I am filled with awe and fascination. It is almost a delusion that I try to grapple with, but like a mist it threatens to vanish away, hence I cannot strengthen my grip. I wish I had an identical self-control, or even half of your sense of duty. Sombre, yet not too much to incur depression.

Your countenance reflects not the rainstorm, but the disquieting thunder is all your own.

I don't know you, nor would I try to discern your truest personality that lies buried beneath that stern, silent facade. I wonder if you are happy. I do not know even what your death scythe does: what a curious instrument it seems. Just plainly knowing and doing enables you to be content, or is it not as what the events seem?

Your perfection scares me, yet fascinates. I am drawn like a cautious moth to a flame. I have never met a man like you.

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My friend, the poet.
Time: 11:39 PM

The glass stained windows in scorching sun.
Would they melt petrified bark out there. It stands still
To Yesterday. Far out a bit of dead wood stabs the sand
fastened to the cracked earth. She lingers, I linger.

She threw her head and laughed.
Of bitterest humour, floating strings of cheap black wig
When I frowned, making sense of her inane gestures
Why in my house, this clashes with the furniture.

Making notes sounds, scratching the paper
A long-nailed finger, dried and bones
Witch, out of the gloom. Glided stirring hair
Her face is translucent against the black rock

A new work scrawls lines. Before long the sun has disappeared
Flashing streaks surrounds the darkest day. World whirling
Witch fearing thunder, lashing rain. Her face transmutes into a thing
Repulsion resembles a mask of gory death

I sought to understand. As she splinters into sawdust back to ground.
The language of her heart wreathed. Heaven cracks.
The claws, his voice, a keyhole of death. Picking the lock a blind woman
I have no part in this game.

She snatches the paper from my hands, hers are peeling cardboard.
Her flesh clings weakly to the bone than remain, seek deeper than
What I could know. A little than ghouls in a grave.
Her eyes has the flame that scorched her curtains.

Her heart is dysfunctional, broken gears and falling teeth. Loose chains.
She cannot find. She thinks she has the key, that feeble frame
For certain has vanished, biding her time till tomorrow
The door has been shut. She went to the beasts.

Tell me how you manage to write the beautiful and tragic.

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Like, we stole the sunlight.
Time: 11:38 PM

Dated: 13 Apr 2009
Choir practice at Victoria Concert Hall cut my school time short. It was...an experience to actually be there, and since I haven't set foot in that place for two years now, it felt like a homecoming. The hall wasn't as intimidating as it felt like during 2007's SYF judging. Silence sets in immediately and I felt I was being swallowed up by the faded white walls as we entered the premises. The building looked like it had been stopped in time: that was how it looked like, stubbornly adhereing to the Victorian architecture, holding its only tower high although the surrounding skyscrapers had already won. It would look seriously anachronistic, if not for the fact that the Court of Justice and many other preserved buildings were in a similar state, furnishings and all. It was gorgeous.

I was very exhausted by the time the school bus drove the choir back. Listened to MCR again and tried to go to sleep but obviously it didn't work. I had glutinous rice for lunch but it wasn't very filling. Had to keep from falling asleep during the extra lessons and dragged myself painfully up to Chemistry Lab 1 for a practical an hour later. It was more than the usual torture but it was clear practicing under the strong lighting in heeled dress shoes had taken its toll somehow. Something very embarrassing happened during the practice, which I would have wicked delight of disclosing but I don't feel like being mean today. Sigh, I don't even like her, so I would have done her a great favour by hiding this from the world. This, however, doesn't prevent my fellow friends from divulging it in their blogs.

Sometimes I earnestly wish everyone else would leave me alone. On other times, abandonment becomes my worst fear. I think I should ask for a psychoanalysis for clearance. I wonder if this is just a by-product of maturation, fearing everything and nothing. Sigmund Freud ought to have done something useful on this while he still lived.

Psychologists.

I wish I was better at ranting. Some people provide the most marvellous rants: they ramble, curse and swear and everything still comes out comprehensible, entertaining and simply wonderful. I wish I described anger better, or even attempt something that doesn't flop. I feel like a twelve year old trying out 'fuck' on my tongue. This takes some getting used to.

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Trip her up and break her heart.
Time: 11:35 PM

Dated: 12 Apr 2009

Last night at 1am was very bizarre indeed. I couldn't get to sleep, then I eventually did, and when I woke up at my table this morning, I realised I had written this on a scrap of paper:

It has been nice, this journey to nowhere, but the scene's over and it's time to leave the screen. It'll be raining soon and my parade would be too drenched to continue the show. I don't wish to catch a cold and the bus would be here any minute to pick me up. No you cannot go with me as you live on the other side. There's the borderline between this place and that one. If this was a joke I would have told you it was. I've got mud on my shoes and a sprained ankle; too exhausted to play, too lethargic to follow you any longer. Leave me, or if you would, watch while I'm whisked away by the roaring wheels and spinning lights. Au revoir.

The troubling thing is, I couldn't remember anything about writing that.

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Musing Sweeney Todd.
Time: 11:33 PM

Dated: 23 Feb 2009
'Tis hard to wonder at the true destination of one's embarkation (if indeed, it may be called as such) if one fails to pay attention from the start.

I have been reading Sweeney Todd (otherwise known as String of Pearls: A Romance); since the time I gave up three pages into the novel (?), which was months before, I chanced upon it again two weeks ago at the same spot in the Library. It is a remarkable story; though I doubt I would like the character if the original version was used in the musical (starring Johnny Depp, remember?). The real Sweeney is one mecenary like no other, but above all I still hold fast that greed is a flimsy excuse for gruesome murder.

How does one plot schemes for mere shillings, I wonder? If passion never grips him, if the thought of an epilogue of a single life ending in bloody floors doesn't make him heady (even if he's it's most accomplished director) it's a pity to have him around.

I have an urge to lead the rest of my life with a melancholy air, immersed in the admirable works of Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath or Penny Dreadfuls and basically leading a rudimentary existence steeped in mystery, horror and ghastly sights, but I fear surely I shall go mad myself.

This is not an essay.
Time: 11:30 PM

I suppose much could be said of me right now, but I’ll simply write it down as distressing, when at roughly 9.40pm I realised it was finding things to complain about. Sloane Crosley’s I Was Told There’d Be Cake was open to The Pony Problem (page 3), inviting in a few unwitting words of wisdom and I was deep in thought after scrutinising the first two pages, seated in the cramped space with books haphazardly thrown into the rapidly dwindling available shelf space, frowning and attempting to match emotion and situations to paper by stringing words together. Or in some sense, leaving them out further created ‘final blows’ in my writing.

At the foot of stairs I saw that she was sprawled I saw her there, dead.

I thought hard if I would see those words in print on a Stephen King or a John Saul fiction. Well, they would look perfectly fine there, I thought. And I wouldn’t be disgusted if they appeared verbatim. Would they be just as suitable as mere occupants on wordy postings of a girl whose ‘O’ Level certificate was not even nestled safely in her hand? For a moment in time they resembled cheap hookers beneath a block of flats; one would be clutching a faux LV bag, the other in copious makeup would be blowing cigarette smoke in her face.

This is not even an essay, come to think of it.

Fifteen minutes into an essay and one meager sentence on paper. I was constantly clicking my pencil till the lead broke and I had to refill, time passed me by and as she sashayed, even-footed and deliberately, she cast me a pitiful, condescending—almost spiteful—glance (she made me feel I was wasting her youth) for being a failing aspiring writer. No, EXPIRING. My mother was going on in the kitchen at no one in particular (“Now where is that lunchbox?”), Utada Hikaru was crooning passionately in indecipherable words of Japanese in my ears and from the corner of my eye I came upon the library books I had newly borrowed this afternoon, stacked horizontally, their titles forming neat sentences one atop another.

My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time
Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
Romeo and Juliet
Naked
I Was Told There’d Be Cake

The whole arrangement struck me as a form of entertainment; almost like a poem stanza and made me laugh very hard as I read it up and down.

And then all of a sudden, the mild diversion dispelled, I was seized with an urge to shout, to scream a throat-scouring scream at the music I now found unloving—it was filled with everything foreign and fright-inducing—my mother who was demanding for the lunchbox as if her life depended on their existence and if they vanished she would, too, and myself glaring accusingly at the book titles that stared dispassionately back, telling them all to shut the fuck up, for the world to freeze over and come to a resolute standstill because the noises were affecting my concentration and disrupting the flow of words.

Which is why I ended up with one pathetic sentence, you ridiculous, annoying—

Like a broken dam I was picking out the misfits, settling on one of them, then haranguing about how talented David Sedaris and the other what’s-her-name were and how they artfully managed to turn the mundane, solitary activities into stellar essays of truth and reminiscence, acknowledging the strings tied to our hands and the entire world, while here I was barely twenty, the words refusing to come to my head while I sat in this bloody hot thirty degree Celsius weather in shorts and t-shirt and not feeling any cooler. But even if I were to pen this passing observation down I doubt it would amount to much; while these authors could go on forever (pages and pages) about a single event/thing from different perspectives so they never seemed like the same thing again, though we people know they are in essence (and we are still enjoying this transmogrification tremendously and marveling at their wit).


Finding fault with inanimate objects, or what is lacking. It’s like trying to talk like a diplomat with a malfunctioning washing machine. Blaming everything on that hollow in one’s heart without ever realizing how packed the other chambers are. Messy, dusty attics are classified regularly under negative examples of organization but today I thought that it would seem to be a charming thing to have bits and pieces of other people’s lives up there, even if it was your own or your mother’s, and to stare fascinated at the mess and cobwebs and things left forgotten. Then at least I wouldn’t dwell on how empty my wardrobe looks and plan to fill it up with Topshop or Gap, or that another book would fit just fine into my shelf, failing which I would need to take off in search of another shelf.

But even the act of finding—look, this is what happens when I find myself in the company of people who are very alike. People who whine about how stupid dusting the curtains is and how worried they are about maths tests. People that some would be more than pleased to slap them in the face and holler “Shut up; we know these things already!” Have a go at them, if you please: no one is stopping you. But they make the world seem more real to me, more than Customer Service counters. “Ah, I’ve been there. See, I’m not alone/abnormal/going to the loon bin!” It reassures me that the internet is linked to the world of my five senses so basic etiquette is a constant and we introverts have nothing to fear.

And damn, complaining is no big deal.

This is still not an essay; it never was to me, and so it never will be, if I could help it.

And I should have learnt to write better.

-FIN-

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Insanity is there for me.
Time: 11:29 PM

Dated: 2 Feb 2009
English class: I completed yet another composition in less than two hours, which was worth celebrating; usually it takes about three hours to pen out something really well. There's a feeling of satisfaction, like as if one has just emerged from a refreshing shower, except the fatigue still remains and slowly melts into incurable ecstasy. I couldn't stop wondering if anyone else's was done.
'Heroes': what a simple yet deceiving title about maybe saving a drowning citizen or a puppy from potential abuse. Frankly I'd steer clear of happy endings to avoid the plot spinning out of my control and turning into hyper blooming parks filled with blissful children. I would turn every story I write into a tragedy in retrospective if I could, because tragedies are what keeps the plot moving with energy fuelled by pain and suffering. I would like it a lot if my teacher would sing my praises.

I ended with an eulogy: not about how a war hero was put on a pedestal in honour of his country, but rather of a humble mother educating her daughter after the demise of her husband, then perishing from a fire which she saved her daughter from. It is not a tear-jerker, but (hopefully) some piece of writing that leaves people with strange unexplainable feelings lodged deep inside their hearts like shards of diamond.

I wonder how I would fare attempting to write a long-drawn out affair of a murder; the outline (or skeleton; in fact, that was the name's true origin) seemed encouraging; usually what I write in a dreamy stupor at night turns out horribly pathetic in the morning, but this time it was alright.

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Stresses and books.
Time: 11:27 PM

Dated: 10 July 2009
No, I am not stressed. Rather, I am...

I have been looking for words to replace that lately. Somehow I feel that 'stressed' isn't the right word to use in the case of myself. That word conjures up a protagonist at her wits' end, and nothing could help her out of her messes. Her heart is knotted into itself like a ball of yarn gone awry that someone had tried unsuccessfully to put it back together. the only possible actions she could take would simply worsen her dismal plight, hence she has decided on the least harmful: sitting at her desk, moping with her face in her hands.

Which is, as she knows, ineffective anyway.

But, as I had reasoned to myself countless times, I am not a picture of dull despair. Not always, for I have my own moments when I wished I was behind closed doors and alone, but not to the extend where I would shriek, call my friends up, shriek some more on the phone and shatter their brief moment of peace. Even so, surprisingly, this description even seems understated when compared to some others. I wouldn't even scream.

My stress (all of a sudden the keenness to spill it out on the pavement is overwhelming) reflected in my view, with the uncomprehended thoughts chained to it cut away, is plainly fear. Trepidation of a major examination inching ever nearer and myself, jammed into a tight corner and watching its advance helplessly. It's like being in a ship with a threatening kraken under the waters, or a lamb hiding in the bush in the path of a ravenous lion, hoping with every beat of its tiny heart that it wouldn't be spotted and its heart'll lie in shreds. How many masks can this often underestimated emotion wear? At times she seems so harmless, but when she hears your shields drop she'll come at you, all spindly fingers and bloodlust.

Especially today. I tried assuring myself that the Additional Math mock exam is nothing but just a serious bit of practice, but as much as I looked as the epitome of calmness, I. Just. Wasn't. I could be fooling myself for all I--No, I think I was. Sometimes I think it boils down to not how I feel, but how convinced I am.

I still dislike people who scream for the slightest things. I know I'm susceptible to that, but as much as I can help it, the battle rages on the inside of the closet doors. What is wrong with keeping your anxiety away from crowds? Let it through the back door; to a carnival, a rifle ranch, or out on the streets where it gleefully feeds on imaginary, unsuspecting souls. Rather than making my windows rattle.

Being nice is nice, but after a while, my facial muscles ache. Still, I will try, if you say it suits me.

On a brighter note, I am looking forward to reading The Chemistry of Death this evening as it elevates stress. My first proper reading session! since I snatched reading time from between precious subject periods yesterday just to complete Let The Right One In as it was already overdue. Thoughts? Besides the fact the that author's name still escapes me, and the translator's name isn't prominently featured on the cover, I like the dreamy-yet-factual tones of the whole book. Even when the characters are angered, the pure rage doesn't seep through the pages, instead I felt it was akin to watching the whole scene from behind glass. Its potrayal is beautifully intense, yet it doesn't run away from the snow-heavy, poetic, slightly-somber atmosphere of Stockholm. Scenes of Eli and Oskar together throughout the book are beautifully echoed by the strains of Hannah Fury's The Vampire Waltz I played in the background. All in all, it's an unforgettable comparable classic romance that I actually like.

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I want extra Math worksheets now.
Time: 11:25 PM

There's always a sense of pride when I start on the extra worksheets my Maths teacher distributes when he knows fully well the chances of anyone doing them is bordering on zero. It starts when I actually decide to do something today, something that makes me happy and this happiness would travel on a steady line throughout the process. It would dwindle as the weeks pass, then the graph would spike up suddenly when he requests them to be handed it. (Almost) everyone would spontaneously and simultaneously panic, questions will be passed around whether anyone had already done it, the people who are halfway-through it or even "does anyone have any extras? I've lost mine."

"Oh, so you can't come over today because of this worksheet? Um, okay. Huh what about me? I'm already done with that worksheet. Good luck." It's easy, hiding that grin of satisfaction, saving it till I'm back in my room.

I should be paying the library a visit any time today, to settle fines and borrow more books. I find myself running out of things to read and how bland my life becomes when I wait impatiently in line!

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Literally.
Time: 11:23 PM

Dated: 11 July 2009
Hannah Fury, Emilie Autumn and a hefty dosage of Neil Gaiman's work is the perfect concoction for another short story, but as it uplifts and gives hope it also tells me my talent would never match up to those authors/poets. Like I mentioned to a friend, 'Neil's a genius'.

I wish my way with words would be just as admiring, but I think not. They give me the impression they've been writing since the day they found out that moving a pencil in a structured direction produces a letter, and many repeated similar actions produce words. Well, if only life was better. Then again, without cruelty nothing could be accomplished. Hannah Fury is the perfect lovelorn, jaded poet who seems to know everything and deeper and sings about it in her whispery vocals. Emilie Autumn is the Victorian revolutionist, pretty and frightening in a thrilling way, with lace, blood and surprises in store. Her outbursts of emotion are far more outspoken: while she screams, Hannah's voice trembles quietly in the background. Blood will spill at her feet, but in Hannah's case it seeps through the carpet, soaking like wine.

I came up with another plot an hour before this, but woe, I won't be able to finish it till come December. It's depressing, but priorities are after all, priorities. I've taken an enormous amount of effort to push its beckoning tendrils away to a corner. It'll stew a little further till it's perfectly preserved and ready. Meanwhile the only thing I allow myself to do is to sketch out its structure, minute character details and some useless setting information, preserving it's nature, so it'll be the way it is when revisited. I wonder how Peishwen does it. If she was in my place, she would have finished the whole shebang there and then, no questions asked, no lingering doubts.

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Putting up puzzle pieces for sale.
Time: 11:20 PM

"Why does my computer keep crashing?"

"Well, you live in a stucco house, so the pair of scissors needs to be in another drawer."

This wasn't meant to incite outbursts of laughter and stomachaches, but I couldn't help myself. Psychiatry has always been more of a subject of fascination than one of amusement, but once in a while I'm surprised. I'm thinking it would be to the effect of cutting out ramdomly-chosen stanzas from twenty-three poetry books and pasting them on the sheet of paper to form another poem with seemingly heavy Picasso-style influences. A poetry collage. I'm left wondering if it's novel.

Thank you, Peishwen.

The psychology wave has collided into us and left its mark. Last night was spent on the line between oblivious slumber and wakefulness, in near total darkness, with the faint outlines of the desk, chairs and sleeping figures illuminated by weak yellow lamplight, and an image of myself, huddled like an animal under the covers despite the oppressive heat. My mobile phone hidden underneath the pillow woke me up every time it rang: Yiruma's The River Flows In You. Hushed and subtle yet in close proximity enough to make me complain in my head. The first SMS arrived at 12.14am (I kept records), I crawled dismally out of bed to retrieve the mobile phone with all intention of silencing it and found:

Emotional detachment: instinctive in-bred defenses or abnormal occurrence? Paul.

Two hours later found me in the above described position, unasleep and still engaged in lively discussion. I was plagued with aching limbs and a sore back (from sleeping on my back too often, which was my natural position), but nothing could egg my academic aspirations on more than an intellectual discussion. It was a tank of kerosene on a matchstick flame, and conversations on my head are admittedly a little dry.

Last night I was most active. I was half a step away from getting all my books onto the bed, or creeping to my desk and having the light on so I could think better with some references. I asserted it as a deliberate, visceral response necessary for beneficial detachment. I quoted a mother's need to leave her children when they mature, for the 'best of them'. He retuted that, and I do not remember how. We discussed, quarelled jovially, exchanged insults, and ardously defended our viewpoints, even to the point of petty retorts. (That died out quickly enough due to its irrevalence.) It was imperative that no one won (discussion, not duel) and having agreed on that, I was only too happy to digress to the point of no return. A car crash at midnight, and I couldn't be more satisifed.

A digression could spell a sleepless night as an unnerving horror movie. There was no 'throwing caution to the wind', for what caution did I possess, save the nearing daylight, sleeplessness and getting into trouble with my phone bill? The thought that the other party could be yearning to sleep never crossed my mind as I replied and waited for replies, crossing and uncrossing my arms, squinting at the darkness. I had the thought that enduring and comprehending a long-lasting discourse marked the standard of an education system, the dreams I had of academia and a stuffy study and dusty books that'd make me sneeze, and I couldn't care less what Paul thought.

We were snarkish over the 'glass delusion' (no more rugby for you, the doctor said), consenting over the grip of over-intrusive thoughts. He seemed to agree that every psychological disorder was a consequence of external stimulus and I couldn't find a way to argue about that. "Well, I guess you're right." I texted. "But what about the blind?" He replied, and it started up again. "Did Helen Keller suffer from any trauma?" For a fleeting moment I wish I had an anecdote to that, that would make him laugh a little. I wondered bleakly if I would ever stop contributing, and I was seized almost immediately with an overwhelming desire to read.

He mentioned, a little off-handedly at dythysmia andI hit a blank wall at the term. What could be further said? I was no expert. It was evident, I assumed, he had a book open and all this while I had struggled to construct everything from memory. I was in such a good mood I didn't text it over to complain, and Paul didn't make a comment on it. Or maybe he didn't have a book with him. I secretly thought he had always been a version of an extraordinary genius (that wouldn't be declared, never), something which I'd have become envious of. (Particia Marx's Eugene?) This...collected coolness, intellect delivered in precise, measured amounts. It was a good thing he knew nothing of this journal, chock-full of childish praise with the exact intensity for Einstein's and Descartes' work, this time transferred into one I've personally-known.

Halfway through an invigorating topic I mentioned that 'thing about Freud II' but I can hardly recall his response. Disappointing, really. I found myself wishing for more friends who spoke this way, but the adverse side of knowing something was ackowledging the limits of it.

At 4.26am I said goodbye and good night.

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Not so gothy.
Time: 11:18 PM

I'm not sure what I should be doing now. A decent portion of me wants to continue Goth for a little while, but 'little whiles' as most writers/artists ought to have realised, are a misnomer. I'm through chapter one, though I might be heading back for some minor adjustments, correcting the strange, disjointed parts and smoothening out parts of the story that didn't seem to flow well. It has been long since I've tried something from a first-person's perspective, and it amazes me how lack of practice for a year does to things. Mikaela (a temporary exotic name belonging to the lead) has obtained a jaded, curious personality and the sound of a monotonous recitation even though it's just the beginning. Perhaps this could be part of the story, or at least part of why it's badly needing a second attempt, despite my claims that it works just fine, it doesn't.

Chapter two has been slippery and I've been feeling I'm gradually losing the plot. One day it would be the best thing I've ever written and the next I would be staring at it and wondering for the nth time what has happened to me. It's also a first: incorporating too many characters with overly-colourful background histories and getting that to slip out bit by bit till all is complete in the end.

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The sunrise without a beginning.
Time: 11:16 PM

Goodness me, where have I gone to?

I started on a short story plainly because I had some time to spare at night, but recently it has turned into an obsession. Of sorts. It demands to be remembered and improved. Now its characters are demanding modification and occasionally I find myself jotting down some sudden ideas on the notebook margins.

It's very disturbing.

I have 2000 words worth of it saved on Microsoft Word and currently it's my newest and hence most prized collection of imagery and scene clips I have in my possession. It's a tad confusing, since I have fallen for the middle portion and the ending has been written right down to The End, but I haven't been able to get it to start smoothly and convincingly, and my ideas are empty when it comes to tying all these bits and pieces together. Today I have tied phrases akin to flimsy string for a weak transition.

I yearn for it to continue, since it's my first attempt at a multi-faceted look at romance without dumb fantasies and mushy bits meshed into the lead's ignorance.

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Asylum Tryouts: Glass Wall
Time: 11:13 PM

I thought I'd try this: one question and a barrage of answers, musings, 'what-we-call-it's whenever I'm not feeling exactly the most productive of persons. In fact, I'd like some cookies.

Fingers and knives. Your life is like yelling through the asylum bars, telling the nurses you're actually sane so you weren't supposed to be here. You plead, beg, scream till you're hoarse. Half the time you're trying to convince yourself. That you are, in fact, the voice of reason, the ONLY voice of reason that nobody listens to and makes a conscious effort to ignore. Isn't it strange: that it didn't occur to you why everyone strolling past these bars (the cruel, unyielding, cold barriers between what you have and what can never be yours) pick up the pace until they've left it all behind the glass walls?

It's a disheartening, uncomprehending thought. The difference between imagining it and knowing it's real is seeing it in the flesh. The word flesh was meant to be a word of pronounced relish; the noise of saliva bubbling 'neath your tongue almost equates to a blade slipping past tissue fluid. And for them, knowing for certain it's true hurts: someone they used to love has gone mad, and the final thing that tears at their hearts is that she believes it's not true. It's hard to connect with frayed wires. It's a double-hazard for you and everyone else. (At least, that's what the nurses say.) So deep within their hearts they solemnly make up their mind that unless your reality levels with theirs, they're not speaking to you again.

Of course, they do the coffin-nailing once they're out in the sunshine, where nothing bears even a mere resemblance to the piercing florescent lights that flatten out the white-washed walls like makeshift hell--only more successful. When they've left you behind. Though they've never been confined--not like you--they feel like they are inside. No wonder you detest it, kicking and shrieking for all it's worth, they muse, but this thought leaks out behind the backdoor of denial.

Hearts left to steep in jars. And they're oh-so-terrified and they cannot inch any nearer and they whine how the lace from your dress will wrap around their throats.

It's a maelstrom in here. You'll never read them, stuck and isolated against your own choosing. Pleading to live and die. The glass walls are evil--you've known this all along. Three, five ounces of reality are what metal bars give. The glass gives away everything--except freedom. It's like watching a game but you can't join in. Watching and watching, until you place a yearning hand on the cold, transparent surface and nothing feels real anymore. You can't speak; they're all on how sedating people make their jobs easier and unfortunately you don't speak Syringe the way they do. You find yourself saying this ten, twenty times to convince yourself moving pictures on glass walls are moving pictures and that you know none of the people in this film.

As usual, it doesn't work. Probably because you drank hot apple juice at 3pm.

Why, even I try to make sense of the loved ones.

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A Stranger In A Strange Train
Time: 11:11 PM

It is suffocatingly crowded in here. People jostle and push against each other like water molecules but somehow everyone is quiet at the same time.

He is Caucasian, the only one against a backdrop of Asians but then again he doesn't look too different. He stands alone, gazing absentmindedly around like the average commuter who only wishes for the long ride to end. His skin is sallow and pale, thinly stretched onto his lanky frame, yet not too much that it adds years to his appearance, and there is just enough pinkish tinge under the flesh to declare him healthy. I decided he has a soft appearance, like a completed, Photoshopped picture: airbrushed complexion, deep, feeling eyes looking into a place far away from here, and the marvel of how the background seems to blur off with distance from him. It's like they're not worth looking at. Or maybe it's just me.

I try not to be caught staring, but he turns around and our eyes meet. Once, twice. One second, two. And I look away calmly. As if I was merely casting a bored glance around the train cabin for something to sustain me through the ride. And he looks away as if nothing has happened. (How many times does one wonder if you're amusing someone else?) He is right.

My eyes roam and I feel like a downhearted poet seeing through the eyes of Mnemosyne. Or even Neil Gaiman, who is reputed to complete whole stories on airplanes. Or so my friend tells me. He slouches slightly, his hands gripping the ivory-cream handlebars firmly but with a touch of finely-poised grace that somehow looks completely unintentional, a casual way as he puts his weight on it and yet seems weightless. It looks so easy. He has a nostalgic look (or am I just dreaming?), like a 20th century Romeo with a different personality but unfortunately-Romeo genes. He exudes a calm gentleness that makes my heart lift with a sigh.

He wears grey denim skinny jeans that cuddle his legs and settle into layers of folded fabric at his ankles where they meet his shoes. His feet are covered by grey Everlast cotton sneakers of a darker hue, black laces, the sort I can't wear as I'd put holes in them faster than moths. His shirt is black with coloured splashes of red, pink and electric blue, with a caption I can't make out exactly, but though I will him to just turn around a little more for a glimpse, he doesn't. I am left in quiet suspense.

The lights in the gloomy tunnel flash on and off while the train rumbles to its own bass melody.

Our eyes meet once more as I wonder and I almost --almost-- miss the controlled intensity of his baby blues, shining from their constraints like white dwarfs, or radioactive material at the bottom of a well, radiating mersmerising and unexpected charm despite slightly obscured by straw-coloured locks falling all over his face, and not a bit sheepish. He's like the reticent book nerd in my class whom I never knew plays electric guitar. I think he's like Mikey Way without the glasses.

His eyes say you've yet to know me in a secretive way I'm certain I imagined it. He doesn't grin and I'm relieved: I could list off some people whose faces have been spoiled by their smile. In my opinion, anyway. He simply gazes out into the world with a forgotten, dreamy, detached air. I spent two-point-five minutes admiring his slender fingers, entertaining myself with possibilities of his name (I allocate a name to interesting people) but the train jolts to a stop at Outram Park and he disappears out the open doors without a second look. A gust, a whisper of wind.

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A poem for friendship.
Time: 11:06 PM

I used to have a dream
Of us walking down a rocky road
And though how tough it may seem
That dream connects us both
And then with fondness I remember
How you held my hand
How dreary it was no matter
Warm hearts singing through the span
The fields might be wilting
Brambles thick and unforgiving
Though my countenance was worth and sinking
‘One more step,’ you said, still smiling
When I in wistfulness looked back
For foolishness we missed the chance
But still thankful, still glad
I still took the time to dance
With you I established my dreams
And with you I’ll sincerely hope
That in the next light, another sunbeam
Walking alone now, we might cope

Still, let’s be friends.

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To Talk, To Speak, To Type
Time: 8:32 PM

His name comes up on MSN, and we talk. It has been a long time.

He's a thousand miles away from the boiling furnace I'm in, and probably further away than I think. He says hi, and 'how are you doing?' and 'sorry I couldn't get to ya earlier: my laptop crashed'. I tell him it's okay, and it's nice to hear from him again.

Through the mirror says:
Hello. How's the weather?

He types that too and it appears onscreen. We both send 'fine' simultaneously. I laugh softly. There isn’t anything remotely funny in coincidence, but if I giggle in my room no one hears me. I think I can see him grinning. In my mind he hasn't done that for three weeks now. I tell him about exams. I type slowly, one delicate word after another, an amateur ballerina showing off to her instructor, excited but nervous.

Through the mirror says:
The exams are here again. But thank goodness it's nearly over. You?

My hands are watchful of the Enter key: press it once and I could be getting it wrong. I see the reply in my head like a floating cloud. I think it too austere and emotionless. Come on, aren't we friends?

I think of two people connected by a thin piece of copper wire: the Internet. I pray my computer doesn't crash. I press 'backspace' till the textbox blanks. He tells me I have to keep trying. ‘Don’t give up, Remember what you said about Cambridge?’ Pep talk. I did say something about Cambridge University, how I wished so badly I would study there under the prestigious namesake: all for wearing a varsity sweater. I told him that only because he told me he lived in England before he came here. So, yes, I still remember that. I tell him instead of the books I've read, come across on the shelves of Borders, and any title that pops into my head as I go along. I've never read half of them.

Through the mirror says:
Want a list?

Him: Hell yeah. Spill it.

So I do. Death of A Writer, Poppy Shakespeare, The Chemistry of Death...the list goes on. I consult the library receipts clipped on the calendar for titles. I want this conversation to go on. He doesn't comment on how many of them concern the escalating process that extinguishes life. That's exactly what I like about this conversation: nothing that has been said has ever been said again. I think back; I remember telling him how normal this obsession of mine is. As normal as yours. He's treating it like an ordinary hobby, or so I think.

He asks what Death of a Writer is about. Sounds just the thing for a Saturday morning coffee accompaniment, he says. I don't know if he's making a joke, or being serious. I can't see if he's smiling or otherwise. My mind has started to churn because at this moment I figure: oh crap, I haven't read it yet. On the contrary, I still yearn to say something about it. It has become a habit so hard to shake off: gushing about books, films, and music, and the revoked memories of late-night SMS-critiques just spill out of the jar.

Through the mirror says:
I'm not sure yet. Haven't read it through. You interested?

Him: Might be. Depends on you. (I'm reading that he's saying if I like it, he might, too.)

Him: Anyway, how are you?

I pause my fingers on the keys. I look up at the ceiling: it's still the same peeling, green paint that hasn't been painted over for years. Keeping the memories has never been so crazy. Early Sunsets Over Monroeville is playing again and I turn up the volume until the point where I get comfortable with the music and the neighbours don't hear enough to complain. Heck, they aren't even home.

I think I could be fine. Looking around , I decide that my normal society standards, I actually possess a relatively blessed life. My room doesn't flood every monsoon. That's fortunate. I know we both expect something more than 'fine'. Instead I tell him I'm a contented nonentity. It is a while later that he replies. I want to ask him something about himself, to take the camera away from me so I don't seem to awkward in this chair, my brain running a million miles and calculating the odds of this conversation being the most boring since three weeks ago. (I haven't even had the time to wave goodbye at the airport.) Something about being a flavorless friend hits me hard. I’d rather not think about it. I reply fast and steer us both away.

Through the mirror says:
Well let's just say I've been as usual, library fan.
Enough about me. How's your life.


I forget the question mark.

He has spindly fingers, like mine. But I told him that already, so it wouldn’t be true if I had repeated myself. Still, that’s where the resemblance ends. His were made to fold paper cranes (creaseless), insert a thread into the eye of a needle, and cradle a book such that it was an art of concentration and liberation in a carefree pose of the educated. Mine were meant for dropping things. Well I wouldn’t see them today.

Mindless Self Indulgence’s Molly is playing. He says he is settling in just fine. A little culture shock, after being away for two years, but it’s coming along all right.

‘She was a good girl and it felt great to be a liar.’

Through the mirror says:
Culture shock? You? Yeah, right
You even know what the indigenous people of the Amazon eat.

Him: Strange stuff, huh? Never expected it from myself. Things just are different, sometimes. Guess life made us that way.


It is strange, how everyone changes bit by bit. Like paint flaking off my ceiling surface. If this happens, everyone would be unrecognizable.

Through the mirror says:
Me neither. Crap, you’ve morphed into someone I don’t recognize. Where’s that exuding confidence??


Him: Haha. Will be back, eventually. My books have been shipped back here. The room’s cramped and a mess.


Through the mirror says:
You’ll be used to it in no time. It’s been three weeks and you haven’t unpacked?


Now we end up about his room. He complains slightly about the lack of leg-room at the desk, how he’s putting off all the cleaning till ‘tomorrow’. I ask if he kept the posters. Obviously he has but I have nothing else that would come out of me. We’re like two strangers who’ve just met, and probably had talked on the bus for a few hours, before we get off at the station. Distance is making this friendship wonky, or maybe it’s just me with the technical errors. I’m guessing it’s the latter. I announce rather proudly I’ve kept mine too.

We both have. Like the band t-shirt phenomenon we had caught on. The walls are plastered with different posters and printed photographs from various gigs, most of which I never had the chance to attend. It sounds silly, but I’ve learnt they tend to forgive you when you’re not yet twenty.

Through the mirror says:
Band shirt?


Him: Iron Maiden. Yours?


I wonder if he still does drums. Really, it wouldn’t be strange to ask, but at this moment there are things people fail to explain: how people curse train schedules yet the timetables have a pious following, jostling for space at the platform; how horrid I find being in bed nude with your other half (the next morning it’s the same person who embraces you from behind and you have to ask him if he wants honey on the waffles). They shouldn’t go together. It’s something everyone knows yet they don’t speak it. Like Voldemort, to draw an example.

Through the mirror says:
It’s more fun when you guess.


Him: A Rite of Passage is running through my head. Lemme think.


Him: Good Lord, this band can really play. Hmm, BFMV?


Through the mirror says:
Heck, tell me about it. And no, try again.


I want to ask him if he still does drums. Even better, I would blurt out to him that finally I’ve taken his advice to learn how to play an electric guitar properly. I stand up and head for the kitchen for a glass of water to clear my thoughts, still thinking. It’s puzzling how it’s difficult conversing with someone so close. I wish we stood side by side once more. Funnily enough that didn’t seem so hard. When his words didn’t make my world spin and the bottom of it fall out.

I wonder if he were to appear at my doorstep, would I still greet him with the same off-handed geniality. Or would I be the tongue-tied one he never had a glimpse of? The awkward girl: who never said anything she meant but wished she had meant everything she said.

Chick-lit is silly, I murmur to myself, underlining my conviction. I miss the cup and spill water. I curse under my breath. It isn’t as if anyone will hear me. I curse aloud.

I settle back in my seat.


Him: Damn, I have to go. TTYL. 5pm?


Through the mirror says:
Sure. Might still be on.


Him: Ciao.


I stare hard at the ‘Offline’ notice, running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair.


Ciao, and I love you, I think.

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Repentance
Time: 8:31 PM

She hides and cannot help but smile
Her room doors closed since December
The iron bolted doors as
Resolute as her pretty heart was
Or was, for it used to be
A mere vestige of some
Unwritten calamity
A caged bird imprisoned
Fury immortalised in a painting
Unsuccessfully she has tried
Strung your bones together so at least
You resembled someone living
(and as if you’ve not died)
Look, even your heart in a jar
Laid back to where it was before it is
She has kept every remnant of you
That hasn’t rotted thus far
Her refrigerator fills to the brim
She says she doesn’t need food anymore
She thinks to herself she is happy
But ire rages its beats against her heart chambers
Barely tearing, though it seemed so easy
To do so
She is silent with your shadow on her wall
She should’ve learnt
Dried glue cannot withhold that persists
What has been mauled, soiled and gone
Death sneers from the embalmer’s office
The strings she delicately threaded are giving way
Eyes in your oblong box they see
She has begun to sorrow on her realization
She has disposed of the knife she’d used on you…yesterday?
You alive, never could be hers
She hugs herself, her back to the wall
While you haven’t a choice but watch

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Coffee, Strudels and Angels
Time: 8:26 PM

It was daylight, but there was a figure in the corner.

It was daylight, but not quite, for the sun had barely lifted from the edge of the horizon.

The figure in the corner sat immobile in his chair, with his left leg crossed over his right. Occasionally he sniffed the air and smelled the well-known, buoyant sweet scent of candied fruits, which had drawn him and many others here.

He was small in build, but lean, thought Mrs Mackay the owner, and immediately wondered how she knew, with his body covered beneath all that suffocating fabric. She shuffled around in an endearing manner of a pleasant old lady, too old to run and jump, but too unyielding to give up and simply waiting for Death to take her. This man—youth, she corrected, he looked barely thirty—had been a silent stranger metres outside the café for an hour, leaning against the maple tree, head bowed, occasionally looking around. She had gone out of her shop and asked if he needed help, or whether he was waiting for something..

“Only for your café to open, ma’am.” Then she had let him in, and he had been there ever since. He had such a wonderful smile, it reminded her of fresh marigolds. She thought she might have seen him before.

In a navy-blue overcoat, pants and shoes of similar, if not darker, hue, the man looked just like any other person that would have walked into the café , except that at seven in the morning, there were no other customers around. He had sapphire blue eyes and hair the colour of spun gold.

Only sometimes, when the sunlight fought its way in through the dusty windows, that his broad wings were outlined in faint yellow. Then as the sunlight moved on, so did they vanish like dull tracing paper.

A soft, resonant jingle from the door meant that the first, loyal customers of Mackay’s Café were beginning to stream in. There was nothing like a fresh pot of coffee to start the day. The angel watched them impassively as each took their favourite spots; cheery greetings rang out across the café.

After ten minutes, he signalled to a waitress and ordered a latte.

The smells of breakfast for many customers permeated the air from the kitchen at the back as Mrs Mackay and two waitresses distributed the plates stacked high with varied meals. He sipped the latte delicately, closed his eyes and wished he could lose himself in the atmosphere at least for the moment.

“Gabriel.” He is momentarily startled by the voice, but he knew better than to be. Staring at brown-white froth that was his coffee, he sighed.

“Michael.” He stood before Gabriel, and their eyes met: they were of the same hue. They would have been carbon copies, except for that the new arrival’s hair was rather tousled.

“You looked like you just woke up, Michael.” Gabriel smiled and stretched his legs, which had been crossed for prolonged durations. “Had an early morning?”

“I wouldn’t be able to follow you otherwise.” Michael grinned and carelessly brushed his hair back. He settled down on one chair around Gabriel’s table, shifting his body until he was comfortable before taking a look around, seemingly for the first time. “Ah, nice place,” he remarked, “A little homey and austere for my tastes, but then, it’s just you.” Then, in a smaller, whiny voice. “You’re not very fond of sharing, aren’t you?”

Gabriel frowned. “How did you find out about this?”

“I did.” A dark-haired man, immaculately and formally dressed in what looked like attire for the working classes joined them at the table.

“Greetings, Raphael.” Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “Technically, I didn’t tell anyone—”

“—except those in your sleep.” Raphael finished. “I could hear your inane mumblings from where I live, and we aren’t bunkmates.” “Though I had no idea he would be here,” he added quietly, eyeing Michael.

“Apparently someone isn’t very good at keeping the secrets he’s uncovered,” Michael smirked, yawning slightly. “And we do get bored on guard duty. Lucky you; you get to go everywhere, messenger.”

Gabriel opened his mouth to say something but fell silent as a waitress approached with two more cups of identical coffee and three chocolate muffins. Conversation lulled as the three of them busied themselves. Gabriel beamed at Charlene (it said so on her tag); she flushed and hurried back to the kitchen with the nervous smile of a fan who’d just shook hands with her idol.

“Do you come here everyday?” Raphael asked. “It’s so peaceful here, unlike the riotous city. I understand why you visit so often.”

“As long as time permits. I agree; time seems to flow at her own leisurely pace. And the people…” He gazed toward the general assembly; most of which were busy attending to their meals and chatting amicably to their neighbours. “They go about their lives, living day to day. More than one person revisit the café since their first stop in the morning. ” Gabriel sipped his coffee.

“Most of the time, we are content to watch,” Raphael murmured, following his gaze. Gabriel nodded in the affirmative.

“I might have underestimated the place. These are just splendid,” Michael wolfed down the remnants of his muffin. “Don’t mind me.” He proceeded to eat Raphael’s without his consent.

“You’re enjoying yourself, for once,” the offended angel said dubiously.

“Well I had the apple strudel once,” Gabriel’s voice went all dreamy. “Most delicious thing I ever had, though it was a little too sweet.”

Michael muttered something inaudible.

The group was quiet as a jingle sounded. A girl, barely the age of eighteen, walked in with nervous eyes and a small hurried steps, unspotted by any of the patrons as she found an empty table and scuttled to the chair, except by the three angels.

“Yet another consequence of an open-minded society,” Michael remarked, gesturing at her protruding stomach, a sure sign of pregnancy. The girl’s eyes resembled those of a trapped kitten in a drain, afraid of her surroundings, yet twice of what lay outside. Her eyes shot nervously from one end of the café to another, as if expecting anything to happen very soon.

“She’s afraid that anyone who knows her would come through the door any moment.” Gabriel’s voice was not that of an authoritative overseer, but that of a sympathetic onlooker as he fixed his gaze on her. “It’s rude to point.” He glared at Michael.

“Well my apologies, dear sir,” Michael said caustically, then “What is wrong with you? You’re acting like you’re dying to go over and hug her. Well, squeeze the life out of her and the child, anyway. Don’t tell me you’ve gone all soft on mortals.”

Gabriel hissed with anger and for a moment Michael thought he would be spending a day with Raphael-the-medic, but not before Raphael-the-peacemaker intervened.

“There’s no need to go to blows over this matter,” Raphael said gently but firmly. “Someone ought to think before he speaks again, and I’m sure he didn’t mean it the way you did.” He patted Gabriel’s shoulder.

“He’d better,” Gabriel said under his breath, the embers of his rage dying, and took a long drink out of the coffee cup.

“But really, I wouldn’t have minded even if you did. Hug her, I mean,” Michael clarified hurriedly. “It looks like she really needs it. I wonder if she has any relatives, or at least, people who care.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Probably, or not.”

“It’s sad,” Raphael said, almost to himself.

The girl was now sitting alone, with a bowl of liquid the colour of bleached lemons. She dipped her spoon into it slowly, then ladling up a small amount, brought it to her lips. She closed her eyes briefly as the soup trickled down her throat. The faintest of smiles fluttered across her features, and then it was gone. She lowered the spoon in slow-motion, and when it was centimetres away from the tabletop, she stared at it for a long, long while, as if she has realised something profound and important that no one else would understand.

She shook her head, breaking the spell, and set it on the table. Instead of finishing the rest of her order, the forlorn girl in jeans and T-shirt stared out the window in front of her.

“What lovely hazel-brown eyes,” Michael observed aloud, more of something to break the tension and silence than anything else. He received no response. “Earth to Gabriel.” He waved a hand in front of the messenger.

“Huh? What—I’m sorry, just spacing out a little.” Gabriel shook his head to clear out the thoughts.

“Hm.” Michael was unconvinced. “Well there must be the other half of the equation, speaking of which, I wonder who her husband is.”

“Strictly speaking, she would be underage to marry. Her boyfriend,” Raphael paused, letting his tongue adjust to the word. He had only recently learned it from another passing angel, which he had spoken to during his duties, and had just recently deprived him of the earthly joy of a muffin. “He should be accompanying her. It’s unsafe for a woman to roam the streets in this condition.”

“He could have vanished, then. In fact, I think he really did,” Gabriel stated simply.

“Poor thing,” Michael said, this time without sarcasm. “Such was taboo in the days of the apostles. What has the world become?”

“The Devil’s.”

The girl’s face resembled an ageing willow tree; already it had slight imperfections, imperfections so unforgivable to other girls her age. Her eye bags were prominent against her pale skin and whenever she shifted in her seat there was exhaustion apparent in the way she moved: languidly, seemingly intent to reserve her failing strength. She was a string stretched and ready to break.

“Poor thing.” It was Raphael’s turn.

“Strings weren’t meant to be stretched,” murmured Gabriel, draining the last of his coffee.

“At last, there goes the caffeine, the people’s favourite wonderdrug.” Michael emptied his cup; Raphael had already did so, minutes ago.

“Would love to have this again,” Gabriel said, staring at the bottom of the cup, which had brown stains.

“Yeah, definitely. What a break. When we revisit, and that’ll be…tomorrow?” Michael smiled.

“Nice place, this,” said Raphael. “Thank you for inviting us, Gabriel.”

“Well I didn’t,” he retorted, but a grin tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Shall we leave, gentlemen? My wings are stiff from the lack of use.” Michael stood up and stretched. He sneezed. “Excuse me; must be the dust.”

The two angels stood and the group walked toward the entrance, dragging their feet. Gabriel stopped abruptly and Michael narrowly avoided colliding headlong into his back.

“What in the world—” He screeched.

Gabriel turned, drinking in the busy scene, infused with bustle, and happiness. It was an odd combination, but somehow two impossible ideas seemed to match up perfectly.

The girl looked up at the entrance to the commotion. She stared at the three men who, oblivious to her, had been discussing her past, and her plight.

For a second her eyes met Gabriel’s, and all she could think of was how brilliantly blue they were to her. Such pretty eyes.

The man with the beautiful eyes gave her an earnest smile. It reminded her of a summer here and gone. She wanted to return it, but when she came to her senses they had exited the café.

“Tell me what you did to the girl. Was it that telepathy thing? Just knew you had it in you.” Michael shuffled alongside the other angels.

“No, it was not.” Gabriel was irritated, but his mood was not ruined. “What telepathy? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Break it up, I’m not a mediator.” Raphael stated sullenly.

The angels paused, simultaneously. The light caught their wings and the pinions were once again visible. Their earthly attire dissolved in the gust of wind as they, now clothed in robes of blinding white, with powerful wing beats took flight, vanishing into the clouds, and higher still.

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Under The Lights.
Time: 8:21 PM

The sun had disappeared by the time her muddy boots met firm ground. The weather had undergone a metamorphosis: it was no longer sultry and sticky; the night’s cool breeze embraced her exposed areas of skin. It was refreshing, to be lured away from…but she had come here for a purpose. The dark, saturnine pallor of the sky reflected what seemed like archaic emotions: semi-love, semi-hate with a strong stain of regret. She suppressed the rising tide of trepidation trapped like a frantic bird in her chest and hurried on, dithering only occasionally, unsure of her next step. So much had changed.

It was partly her fault she felt hidden emotions awaken. Her life had been stable, but dreary. These years had been fulfilling, with a small town surrounded by the countryside. A cosy little nest where good things grow. However the past still refused to leave her. It amazed her how it could stalk her, a beast in the night intent on one victim. It frightened her to the point of paranoia, drained her of her energy, wasting away her sleepless nights. It showed: her students at the university had enquired if she had been in poor health lately. The past itself had vanished, but the traces the lingered in her unconsciousness and manifested itself even in everyday events were sufficient to arouse the sleeping memories that would bring it all back.

Really, Madeline, she chided herself, till now you’re still so frightened. She should not be, but as she pushed away another leaf frond, took another step, the picture of the past was coming into sharper focus. It was true; her fear still immutable, resisting erosion from time. It struck her as an old actress whose celebrity status had since flickered and died out, returning to her stage of old, now ruined, missing the razzmatazz, the atmosphere, the clamour of an encore, yet addled by change. It was like that, the only thing different being the intervention of reality. Hers was not a stage. The recapitulation was a stinging slap to her face.

She was on tenterhooks, of the house where she used to live in, the scene replaying forever in her mind, an endless cycle that would send her sprawling, down the path to insanity if she did not set her mind to put a stop to this. A night to remember, or one to grieve over. She wondered vaguely how it would look like, after her absence. It could be a contrivance, a trick, an illusion conjured out of the blue by a passing imp. Yes, she could believe that, too, only that someone had swapped the cards of her life with blithe satisfaction. A hedonist, yes. No wonder she was suffering.

She stepped, easily, over a stone in her path.

Oh Guela, if only you could see me now. Her thoughts dripped with rancour but this shielded her from the dismal thoughts that would cloud her mind, rendering her catatonic. Her husband was nowhere near her, unsurprisingly. She remembered his artifice when they were children, racing each other through the streets and alleyways, though they were reminded for the nth time: only paupers muck about. They became friends when their parents were running their own businesses. She was only nine, and her troubles cast in the wind so they bothered no one. He, too, was nine, with an adventurous spirit and a lanky frame that fitted him through most narrow spaces and doors left ajar. Technically children of higher social status had music education and were generally known to have tastes for aesthetic appreciation. However, in addition to that, there were ‘free’ periods where they each slipped out from their residences, meeting in the city square and had adventures of their own. Madeline refused to be a confined child. As far as she was concerned, she was a free maiden. He threw pebbles at her window whenever he passed.

They parted when Guela’s family moved away, but were reunited in a chance meeting in a grand party. The mischievous lad that had accompanied her had transformed into a remarkably handsome, mature adolescent, with sharp, well-moulded patrician features. There was no denying that she had changed; lost her playfulness, gaining graces and decorum. That mask of insouciance he wore the night they met obscured a sedulous, caring youth, charming her once again with sly satire and witticism, ever felicitous of words. She, too, was her own word-meister. His passion for music bestirred her to once again take up singing while he played compositions of his own on the piano.

Their typical, rather ostentatious dressing permitted nothing more than perambulations down the streets. Soon it became evident that their jovial times together had moved to—her mother’s words—‘greater things’. He began courting her tirelessly, plainly for ‘the romantic interlude between introduction and marriage’. Replete with poetic pleas and declarations that though a tad overdone (and that he bungled it on his first attempt by forgetting the words halfway through), it pleased her to no end; he was often rewarded with a shy smile and blushing cheeks. But she was just lucky to be treated like a precious member of the family rather than a possession, an object under the scrutinizing gazes of the city’s snobbish mercenaries.

As they knew they would, they were married on a sweltering summer afternoon in July. As the aristocratic families would have it, complete with a florid banquet comprising of guests by the hundreds, most of which they never knew. All thoughts of excess and barbaric lavishness were vanquished at the ceremony. Perspiring profusely in her wedding gown they exchanged vows and at the kiss she knew her life was changing forever.

A far-fetched romance, some would exclaim, ‘tis not true. She would only smile, like a magician who still keeps her tricks, and look away. She wished, earnestly, that none of it had come to pass.

She bit her lip as she rounded yet another tree, ruminating on the events.

They moved away from everyone else, settling on a mansion atop a hill, where the city lights were seen at night from the third floor windows. The mansion was neither impressive, nor intimidating, but it looked on the city as a kindly guardian. He helped with managing the business affairs back with his father, and life was led well. She made sure that every night, when he returned, drained and occasionally frustrated, she would be at the door to welcome him home, a listener to his woes, a sagacious and caring wife. She felt that this was the least she could do. She bore him three children. She felt this was the pinnacle of her life, abloom with promising things.

Sublime youth, she was only sixteen, back then.

But then, he tired of her.

The reason was unclear, and she was left in the dark, as his homecoming hours dragged on to the wee hours of the morning. She lacked the stamina to wait that long. Sometimes he would not even be home at all! Gradually his affected gestures became more noticeable. She did not deserve this: his laconic replies, when tender-heartedness turned officious. She brooded, even prayed about it, puzzled at his sudden change of character. Her kind and loving husband was not supposed to treat her this way. She tried to read between the lines, to uncover what had gone wrong, but it was onerous to do it daily.

At the end of the day, when he apologised to her, if at all, that seemed to wipe the records of hurt away. She reflected on it. I was such a fool.

Her fists clenched as the trudged up the path.

She swore under her breath she would never commit the same mistake, never again.

That night, she had returned after visiting some relatives to find Guela in the arms of another woman. The woman’s skin, she perceived had been originally porcelain white, but now it had a mottled texture. Her dressing showed more skin than what public company would have allowed. He, however, neither looked at her nor attempted to issue an explanation of the situation.

The explanation would be poorly-constructed, given such a scene. But still, she would have appreciated it.

Where had she gone wrong?

She had departed, now she came to revisit her past, its shadows haunting her for the past fifteen years. She had no wrongdoing that day, but still…

She paused, at last, in front of a clearing. The fountains and garden paths had remained intact, the gates swathed in wild plants from neglect. The ground was burned black where house once stood.

She had sat the curtains on fire when she fled.

She had watched as the tongues of flame licked into every room.

She had stood at this exact spot, casting her eyes on the orange glow from the windows, the frantically darting shadows within.

When she remembered her children, it was already too late.

She found a comfortable spot to sit down. A clump of yellow flowers grew a few feet away from her. It reminded her of one of their escapades. He had taken her, once, up to a hill where nature had conquered. At that vantage, one could see the city artfully lighted. Like a birthday cake. The golden glittering lights were beautiful, as the yellow marigold in her hand. So was the youth who had given them to her.

And something else, which she now removed from her coat pocket. A blade of about five centimetres. He had given it to her that day, telling her not to be downtrodden, promising better things for the future. He also said if she used it to end her life, it would be as if her blood was shed by him.

He had given her a reassuring pat, as they sat beside each other to watch the city and the stars above.

The knife nestled in her right palm. His promises had gone to waste, like the wine they had drunk during the banquet. He was wrong. There were no better things.

She gripped the handle tightly, his memento to her, for their better days. Despite his faults, she still missed him.

With a swift linear movement she thrust it into her heart.

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A Drop of Sunshine.
Time: 8:19 PM

I sat patiently waiting for my order at a little table in an obscure corner of the café, partially shielded from view by a heavy scarlet curtain. I love this café. Everything here was a part of home, the home which I had left behind at my departure. The people, the sight of numerous backless stools, neatly arranged in fours around each table, the idle tittle-tattle and hushed discussions suited the atmosphere to a T. The sight and scent of freshly baked cookies and strong coffee invaded my nose, travelling all the way up to my brain and filling it with cozy home-coming thoughts, like sipping warm tea on a chilly day.

I had come in the hours before noon. The occupants of the chairs, mostly old folk, for the young had departed for school and the working class, work, were kindly souls, offering extra seating places at their table, beckoning towards me with a friendly air to come join them. It had seemed that my hope of having a quiet time for myself to soak up all the missed times and old memories from the comfort of a window were about to be shattered, if not for quick thinking on my part. With dread building inside me, as what preceded important decisions and uncomfortable situations, I shook my head, adding a touch of politeness with a slight smile. At once I felt the fog lift and pass me by, the blessing of easy breathing and like a switch being turned on, conversation between the patrons regained their volume. I sighed in relief and after much shuffling to the back, found a small table for one, with windows facing the street outside; I idly observed the people walking past with umbrellas on hand, for the clouds were an ominous grey.

The dusty windows added a touch of nostalgia and I vaguely remembered, with an aching heart, how I felt leaving my home. The place where I was born, grew up, played in. I could picture myself three years ago, when I announced my decision to leave and obtain a higher education. A rebellious, headstrong young woman who, although headstrong she was, had ideas of a perfectly planned out future bobbing within her mind in a detached way, as if she had been made for this purpose. Bit by bit as she matured they formed an intricate plan, a strategy for battle against the world for her survival, until one day, maid the ruckus of a picnic, hopes blended with much courage and smoothly it slid out from her lips. Voila! A date was set, discussions were carried out.

The day before my departure I felt a growing urge to see this town again, the town I lived in all my life yet, admittedly, knew little about. I knew only the convenience stores where I picked up sandwiches on the way to school, the playgrounds where children lose themselves in their own imagination of faraway islands and treasure-hunting pirates on sandy shores. The familiar brick-red building of the post office, standing tall and erect against this dullness of the town. The sluggish outlook of the surrounding houses seemed to drive me to sleep. (However the mundane and simple life apparently has affected that proud structure, for through the curtain of rain I glimpsed the faded building, sticking up like a twig in the mud, yet it has lost its once-shiny coat of red paint, and also, I felt, its determination to stand out like a beacon of hope had wavered.) Then, the row of shops which had never once left my mind, I remembered with fondness like the back of my hand, starting with the barber on the extreme left and ending with the bakery on the extreme right.

But I did not do much to remember these places, only treaded its paths for the last time. On that day, the last day, I took a different path.

I took a walk on the outskirts of the town, leaving in my mind an imprint of what I would be leaving behind, walked the mostly deserted streets, attempting to memorise every detail of it’s dusty streets and the plain sights of people trudging home that I always took for granted. I took a walk around town, because the weather felt right.

Seeing them surrounding me, I felt a strange happiness wash over me, washing away all the efforts it took to me revisit, washing away the wistfulness (but not all could it take away). Gradually I felt like I had in the years before, like I fit into the puzzle of the quaint town, like I did like that yesterday before I set foot on the plane.

The lonely town welcomed me like it did my birth, and though no one seemed to remember me, no one smiled up at me, huddled up in my place, and no one waved nor yelled a welcome yell, it was fine with me.

My order came at last, a suspicious concoction of green liquid, with a slice of lemon and a generous heap of ice― crushed ice. I wondered why I had ordered a cold drink on a cold day.

It has begun to rain. I listened to the raindrops falling on the windowpane.

Taking a sip and tasting only sweetness, for the cold numbed my taste buds, I folded my arms on the table and laid my head on them, closing my eyes and drinking in instead the sounds and smells, the feelings conveyed with every word uttered. Colours and sights can wait; a camera lay snugly within the confines of the pockets of my blue jeans. The lacquered wood table felt smooth against my skin, giving me the impression of an acquaintance with nature. A shrill cry struck out of nowhere, a second later dissolved by a wave of laughter which subsided into the omnipresent ripples of conversation. A well-endowed waitress smiled at me as she held a tray of dirty dishes. I had no time to return her kindly gesture before she turned on her heels and vanished into the kitchen.

I think I will never forget this town, no matter which city I live in, which place I go.

It is now noon and the rain has ceased, I having spent an hour immersed in my reverie. Realising this with mild alarm I swiftly drained my glass and swept out the door of the café, the clear tinkling of an attached chime reaching my ears before I noticed my lone figure on an empty street, the friendly camaraderie now only seen but not heard through the dusty windows.

The inside of my mouth tasted still of that green drink, and the smell of freshly baked cookies and coffee lingered within my nose and in my memory. I looked back at the café. If I squint, I could just, but barely, make out the faint image of the smiling waitress.

I took a walk around town, because the weather felt right.

-END-

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The rain at 5pm.
Time: 8:17 PM

-To the lonely people of this world.

Five p.m. found her slight form lounging comfortably in the center of a tattered armchair, drawing her knees close to her chest in a fetal position, her thin arms encircling her bony knees. Her eyes to the ceiling like a saint looking towards heaven. She felt warmth emanating from the cushion she was seated on, warmth her frail body gave to the lifeless cotton. Yet it returned that warmth to her chilling legs. So giving, so giving.

The smell of rain was delicious, a faint hint of grass lingered in the air, a nostalgic reminder of the days she used to pick flowers off their brittle stems. (Mama had chided her then. “Flowers have lives,” She used to say.) Rain spoke to her of freshness, of newness; spoke of recreation, of putting life back into order. It made cracked, dry soil whole. It placed droplets of beauty of leaves and flowers. When the clouds parted and the sun came out of hiding again, they would sparkle like jewels. She knew.

Watching from her station in the recess of the neglected chair, the rain continued to pour. The lightning that split the sky, thunder following closely behind. She winced as thunder boomed: its voice resonated greater than any lion’s roar. Rainy days were never silent. She often wondered why; the raindrops trickling off the trees—doesn’t that deserve the attention of the gods? Pretty they were. The whole world should calm down-no cars with their nasty fumes, no agony of loud, shrill voices-and listen to songs the storm had to sing. (It sang to her often.) But she was in no position to dictate: she was only a simple little girl. Her mother said so.

She needed quiet. All this noise made her head feel funny—what she wanted to say, what she could feel had all jumbled together and churned round and round, like the garments did when Mother tossed them into the laundry and turned it on: round and round, making her dizzy. She sat still, concentrated on nothing but the curtain of crystal droplets outside the window. Be still, be still. Focused on the tense muscles in the body. Feeling, searching, willing for them to stay put. Breathing deep, even breaths. In, out. In, out. Get rid of the tension. Concentrating so hard every limb stilled. The evening air made her want to shiver, but she wanted to be in stillness. Her mind and body battled for control. Body lost, as always. She shuddered inwardly. So cold it was.

She cracked a smile.

Unknowingly, the storm had begun clearing. The noise of loud and boisterous Thunder sounded further and further away. Yet it continued to emit noises, as if reluctant to leave. No lightning now, to startle her. It had disappeared with Thunder-

The steady drip-drip of rain reached her ears. Drip, drip, drip. The renewal of earth was nearing its completion.

With the ebbing storm, the magic was disappearing. She wanted it so badly, to come back. How many days have passed since she felt this way—the fulfillment of buried yearning of companionship? It would go away, like Mother who loved her, like Father who loathed her, like her sisters, who pushed her roughly away. No, it could stay here, with her in the house. The house had so much space, and one solitary occupant. It could remain with her, lull her to sleep with the song of rain and impending disaster.

She slid off her comfortable position, shuddering a little as the warm soles of her feet met cold marble floor. She had to do something. Make herself remembered.

Arms spread out like angels’ wings, fingers splayed to mimic feathers. Racing towards the window. Ebony hair fanning out, dirt-smudged gray frock billowing behind her like a big ball gown. Tiptoed. Run and run and run. Go to the window.

Her arms swung out in front of her, shielding her ribs from contact with the faded white wall. Frozen in motion, still on her toes, bearing resemblance to a withered faerie. Only for the moment, though.

She waited, waited.

Any time now.

There it comes!

Stuck her head out, pink tongue protruding within her mouth and caught the taste of rain.

A lovely crystal clear droplet. She couldn’t see it, but she knew. She swallowed it swiftly, before it blended with the other liquid in her mouth. (Saliva, she recalled.)

She looked down from her position at the window at the dull concrete pavement. Watched raindrops fall in parallel lines and shatter on the stony surface.

She looked up. The sky was white, like her cotton dress-before it got dirty. She could make out little patches of blue, scattered haphazardly across the sky. Was it playing a jigsaw puzzle game with her? She hoped the sky found all the pieces soon.

It did. The storm was getting ready to depart, to travel to another place, to let someone else on the other side of the world to admire and sigh and taste the rain, like she did. Then there was only blueness left.

With the last of its raindrops, the storm was saying goodbye.

This time, she waved.

FIN

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