House.

It is not midnight, the sun has just settled a couple hours ago. Dark outside, a sea of absorbing blackness. I am alone, in my two-storey flat, lying down on cold ceramics, undecided. I didn't shut my eyes, and let my ears open. Nothing clinks, as if everything is put to silence for that brief moment. This is not a horror story. I myself am not a big fan of creepy shows, but I love to watch them together, with a lot of people. That's because I can laugh at their reactions, the slightly ill logic behind it all. Being scared together doesn't really make sense to me. What's left for those ghosts/monsters/aliens if we can gather our power altogether?

However, you can forget those when I'm alone. Down right powerless will I be. Like now. Getting up, I remember I haven't taken a shower since morning. I go upstairs, at a pretentiously relaxed pace. I find no reason for dashing. Won't it look silly anyway? Nothing chases me, no one is in pursuit of me. Still, no one is looking at me there, so what's the point of preventing myself from looking silly?

Except, perhaps, my reflection in the mirror. I start to let my guard down. My imagination begins to take a little walk around. What if it's not my reflection after all? What if there's another creature, mimicking every single movement of mine behind that tenuously stained mirror? Who can prove me that it's only reflection? I avoid the mirror in my parents' bathroom and go straight to the bathroom. "Shit", I think, "I forgot my shampoo!"

My greasy hair can't bargain no more. I'm back downstairs, spare no extra second for anything but my shampoo. Off upstairs I go, white bottle gripped tight in my right hand. I quickly undress myself and check the tap water. The heater is on, good. I can't imagine taking cold shower in the night. The thought of it already chills me to the bone. I'm particularly not good with low temperature, let alone experiencing it naked.

I put my clothes on the toilet bowl beside my bath tub, a pair of sea blue oversized shorts and a printed, supposed-to-be-fitting tee. I can't do much laundry since we moved out just recently, so I'm going to wear the same clothes to bed. Except my pink ruffled panties, of course.

I let the water run down my hair, my face, my back, my legs, my toes. They crinkle, taking in the warmth. The smell of miniscule minerals floating in the flowing water. The rustling sound, until the water sinks down in.

Mmmm, peace. Until it strikes me, I've forgotten my towel! Gee, I must have been so nervous. I quickly finish my shower and turn off the water tap. Water dripping from my hair, I refrain from swashing here and there. Mum has just cleaned the floor and I don't want to waste her effort. I tiptoe to the washstand, foggy mirror before me. I wash the mirror. It's my reflection. The rabbit eyes, the pores, the blunt nose. It can't be anyone else, can it? If it was someone else, I must say she had done a very good job.

I give it a good, long stare. I know, it's only reflection. But I can't shoo away that alternative possibility easily. I touch my hair. My reflection follows it instantly, not a second late. I bite my lip. I stare into my reflections' eyes. The darkest shade of brown. They are sucking me in, I draw myself closer to the mirror. I give the mirror a little touch. The reflection is touching my hand, too. We are only separated by one layer of glass mirror. What if we swop? I, become the obedient reflection, she becomes the physical me, the possessor of free will.

As I solemnly drench myself in my awkward notion, something clinks. I exclaim silently, out of spontaneity. Fuck, that's terrifying! Not loud, but I suppose in this grand silence, any sound, no matter how small it is, will not fail to shock me. I walk out naked, my hair still wet. I reach for my thick towel which has been hanging on the window grill. I find walking naked in my own house personally amusing. As if I'm being transparent, with nothing to hide.

I wrap my hair with towel first, trying to let it soak up the water drips. I walk back to the bathroom to dress myself. Water everywhere. Never mind, it will have dried up by the time my family is coming home.

I thought before, all the terrifying feelings when I stay alone at home will gradually subside as I grow older. It's kind of surprising that it hasn't faltered a bit ever since. I'm not suspecting any monster to live under my bed anymore, but I'm still scared of nothingness, of perfect silence that is deafening, echoing inside the empty house. I like all the places I've been staying in, along with the mysteries whose whole existence I've made up myself. I love houses.

COLOURS, NOTHING LESS.

Let's try to put things into a simpler state. Imagine your world painted in black and white. No, no colour, no versatile emerald green, no glorious ruby red, no creamy lilac. Just black and white. Does it make a better picture, or would you prefer some spectrums of colours? It's not a matter between simple and complicated. It's not whether you are a fan of old or contemporary films. It's just about colours.

Who first came up with the black-and-white-world idea? Imagine again. It's black and white. But who told you that white suggests a saint and black, a devil? Because white indicates full presence of light, and black denotes an absence of light? Is too much light a good thing? I'd like to say that there are as many not-so-innocent whites as there are not-that-evil blacks. The two often exchange positions. Thus, the first drawback of picturing the world in black-and-white. Intuition or merely easy assumption?

I know the world is not black and white. Even if I'd like it to go monochromatic, there are a lot of areas covered in grey. Second drawback. 80% black, 50% black, 20% black. There are greys everywhere, each offers different depth and message. Does it make grey a colour? I don't know, I'm not good at classifying. All I know is, some of us are terrified with greys. It's stable uncertainty (yes, oxymoron), it's an in-between, it's sadness and an unnamed state of simply swaying around. Does grey make you sad? Does black and white make you lonely? Are we better off with colours?

I like black and white as much as I like colours. I'd like to think black and white as colours, nothing less. I don't think I will love the world any little less, even if it gets pretty monotonous sometimes.

42.

It's almost over, the curtain will soon be closed.
And now, what?
I don't feel like eating strawberry shortcake or watching cheesy flicks anymore.
I don't care if you're not gonna give me a hug when we part, if you're not gonna say goodnight or good morning.
All the longing feelings, are gradually fleeting away, the list of my demands on you is getting shorter and shorter each second.

Until there's only one thing left; to be with you.

Corbeau

"I guess I've been waiting so long I'm looking for perfection. That makes it tough."

"Waiting for the perfect love?"

"No, even I know better than that. I'm looking for selfishness. Perfect selfishness. Like, say I tell you I want to eat strawberry shortbread. And you stop everything you're doing and run out and buy it for me. And you come back out of breath and get down on your knees and hold this strawberry shortbread out to me. And I say I don't want it any more and throw it out of the window. That's what I'm looking for."

"I'm not sure that has anything to do with love."

"It does. You just don't know it. There are times in a girl's life when things like that are incredibly important."

"Things like throwing strawberry shortbread out of the window?"

"Exactly. And when I do it, I want the man to apologize to me. 'Now I see, Midori. What a fool I've been! I should have known that you would lose your desire for strawberry shortbread. I have all the intelligence and sensitivity of a piece of donkey shit. To make it up to you, I'll go out and buy you something else. What would you like? Chocolate mousse? Cheesecake?"'

"So then what?"

"So then I'd give him all the love he deserves for what he's done."

"Sounds crazy to me."

"Well, to me, that's what love is. Not that anyone can understand me, though. For a certain kind of person, love begins from something tiny or silly. From something like that or it doesn't begin at all."


Even from the first time I realised that you've been in love with me, I always question. How much? How much do you love me? And I'd start thinking: what if I really ask you, hand a questionnaire which I have prepared in advance, with various questions that will tell me how far your love will go for me? Like, will you not smoke in front of me, will you be willing to accept my ulterior unstability, will you watch cheesy flicks with me, will you care and go buy strawberry shortbread or cheesecakes or chocolate mousse everyday for me...

That, of course, never happened. Instead we were going out, there was no confession and confusion like what most other couples go through. And therefore, I stopped having the urge to ask you such questions. Not only because they sound stupid and lame, but I am also no longer interested to know the answer.

Because I don't need those questions to find out: I already know that—you don't, you have never loved me that much.

“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.”

It is often that I feel the urge to text/tweet/blog a simple "I love you", but whenever I'm at the verge of sending it to you I always discard it all. I'm afraid when you see it you'll think it's very corny and realise how cheesy I actually am, thinking how much shame it'll cause by sticking with me. And you'll start considering to leave me for good.

WTF AM I TALKING ABOUT. GOD. This post should just be adorned with glittery .gif and ornaments like those in Oriental photobox, no? NO? But hell I'm dead serious when it comes to liking you. Please.

minor

Isn't it a little bit sad to have something fading away from your life. Once was there, is gone forever. Whatever being promised, is all forgotten. Wait, you never promised me anything in the first place. You never mentioned me in your online diary. Dude, I don't mind, actually. But doesn't it make you wonder, if you are not being mentioned at all? Whether you matter to that person, or only a little bit, or not at all. Perhaps it's just your way, but I'm afraid, I'm so afraid of giving you the love you don't deserve.

Love is ironic. It's one of the most extraordinary feelings you can get, yet it happens to almost everyone. So doesn't it make love ordinary? If so, hell, what's with my love? It was not difficult to give it to you, it wasn't difficult at all. It felt so natural, almost akin to breathing. But my love is not an easy giveaway, you know. It has gone through a lot of wear-and-tear processes that it's almost synonymous with pain, thus I always have to make sure whom I'll be giving it to. But you know what? It's usually the wrong person. But again, can you bargain? Love is a random picker. I couldn't tell love whose hands it should land on.

Darling I'm not trying to whine behind your back. I mean, posting this is absolutely useless, on a platform you'll never get to read (I'm sure my writing is of no interest to you) and the message will never be conveyed. I should just say it in your face directly. I know. But everytime I tried to explain, I was at loss of words. And what's so wrong about love being publicised if you can kiss me easily in front of your friends?

So please. Can't my love be appreciated a little bit? At least by showing yours too, let me and the world peek a little. I know I'm not so good at love either. But I want to give it another chance, to prove that love should be a wonderful thing, and I've trusted you for that. Can we re-arrange our flaws in such a way that one will fill another? I'm not asking to be all of your life, I just want to be your favourite part.

Past, Present, Future Perfect.

His name was Hurricane and we had gone on one date, 29 years ago, when we were in junior college. Two weeks ago, he re-entered my life.

Actually, his name isn't Hurricane. It is S. Hurricane was my nickname for him because I thought he looked like a character in a movie titled Hurricane. For some reason I found the movie incredibly touching and watched it twice at the now-defunct Premier cineplex in Orchard Road.

S. was a year ahead of me in school and I had a big crush on him. He played tennis and chess and his shirt was always sticking outside his pants when he walked into the Anglo-Chinese Junior College canteen. He was tall, lean, very tanned, had short, wiry hair and piercing round eyes. I thought he looked like the actor in Hurricane.

He was also extremely shy and so was I. Somehow, though, we must have plucked up the courage to talk to each other and arrange a date. I can't remember the details other than that we met at the then Capitol cinema (this was 1980) and he was wearing a small, tatty T-shirt (as if he didn't care about the date). We must have watched a movie and I have a vague memory of us having a milkshake somewhere. We were both very self-conscious and had nothing to talk about. It didn't help that he mumbled. We both then went our separate ways - he cycled home and I took a bus back. As dates go it was pretty disastrous and I must have given up on the relationship, not that it ever was one in the first place. In any case, I went on to have other JC crushes although Hurricane remained the only one I ever went out with.

And so the years went by. And decades. Whenever I looked back at my JC days, Hurricane would come to mind. I Googled him once just for the fun of it and gathered that he had married a girl from Britain. Well, good for him, I thought. I didn't have feelings for him anymore. I wished him well.

Two weeks ago, I got a message from a colleague - S. called and just wanted to say hello to you. He came from Britain and is visiting Singapore. He would be calling again. My first reaction was to laugh out loud. Wow, what a blast from the past. I did a count - it had been 29 years since we saw each other. Did I want to talk to him and even catch up? If you'd asked me 10 years ago, maybe not. But when you hit a certain age, you tend to get nostalgic and sentimental about the past, especially when it was a period of your life when you were happy, and I had been very happy in JC. Hurricane had contributed to that happiness (dismal date notwithstanding). I didn't mind meeting him.

You also appreciate the value of friendship more as you age, and if there was someone out there who you used to like and who liked you, and who was now offering the hand of friendship, what do you lose by accepting it?

Then the doubts started to creep in. Twenty-nine years is a really long time. I wondered if I'd get a nasty shock at how he was now (bald, fat and obnoxious?). More importantly, what if his reaction upon seeing me was one of disappointment and even distaste because I had aged so much? Yes, it is superficial to be hung up about looks, but it is also natural to be concerned. I certainly have long lost the bloom of a 16-year-old. Would he be disappointed? Could my ego take it?

In any case, we kept missing each other on the phone. But I finally managed to get him on the number he'd left behind. It's strange how people's voices don't really change, not even after three decades.

We laughed a lot - a bit awkwardly - during that first conversation. He told me he is divorced and has a four-year-old daughter. He had become a British citizen in 1995 and was going home in a few days' time. He was also in a relationship, he said.

Let's meet for lunch, I said, and do bring your daughter. Okay, he replied. We were both thinking she'd act as a foil should we run out of things to say again. And so, 29 years after we last saw each other, Hurricane and I met.

Like me, he's aged. He's bald (he looks like Andre Agassi) but trim and tanned. His eyes are still piercing. He still mumbles - charmingly so actually - and in ways like how he walks, he's the same 18-year-old. And he's not obnoxious but gentle and sweet and is also a wonderful father. He told me I'd 'aged well' and 'don't look your age'. He could still see flashes of the old me. When I asked him how different I looked from the time I was 16 when we dated, he said 'your eyes are less pronounced - we used to call you 'goldfish'.'

Gee thanks, I said, throwing him a mock-dirty look.

But I was pleased. Not because I look less like a goldfish (okay, that too), but because it's nice that there's someone in this world with whom you've shared such a long history that he can give you such an honest and stupid answer and you're not offended.

What do people talk about after 30 years? Well, for starters, a good sign was that this time we could talk, even argue. We ran through the gamut of work, relationships and the meaning of life. He said he was still looking for it and I told him I've concluded there's no meaning. He told me his greatest joy is his daughter. 'You don't know what love is until you have a child,' he said. I told him I'm happy for him but that I'll never have a child; it's too late.

A lot of things can happen to a person's life in 30 years. His has been eventful as has mine. We've both made choices, not all good, but we certainly can't complain about the lot that life has thrown us. As an adult looking back, life at 16 and 17 seemed a lot simpler, more innocent and hopeful. I wonder if a reason he'd called me and a reason I'd agreed to meet was because a part of us had been so bruised by the years that we wanted to see if we could replicate the sort of innocent happiness we must have felt when we were young.

I'm not sure we did recapture it, though, which was why although it was very nice meeting up, it was also bittersweet. You replay the years, you drench yourself in memories, you live in a suspended moment, and then you go back to present adult reality.

He's now home in Britain, leading the life he had before his holiday, and I'm here, leading my life. We live in different worlds and will continue to do so, happily I'm sure. But if 29 years ago as teenagers we didn't quite manage to cement a friendship, we've now done so, and I can't ask for more. I'm happy.


By Sumiko Tan, adapted

Sounds overrated? Unfortunately, more or less, that's the truth.

I wonder why love has so many aliases nowadays. It's been synonymous with sex, money, complete selfishness, forced devotion, fate, etc. Perhaps it's because the word love is too broad, too commonly used that looking into it has become one negligible and quite fruitless task.

Love is, like air, everywhere. Love is, like religion, profoundly personal. Love has too many explanations. Love is something intangible, but not unreachable. Love is one thing that its existence heavily depends on your faith in it.

Is love better left as a one-way conversation? Because sometimes keeping it to yourself is amongst the greatest feelings in the world, like burying a treasure box or time capsule in your backyard. Letting it leak, letting others peek, will only leave scars and aches. Sometimes discovery by others is inevitable, though. Like a good evil deal goes, there's always an expensive price to pay. Nevertheless, bruises left by love are like no other bruises. They're tender, they are beautiful and painful at the same time. Love may fade but its bruises remain. They won't heal, even with time--but that's where the beauty lies.

Dictionary seems of zilch usefulness when it comes to defining love, and so does Thesaurus. Cherish, adore, like, desire--no, they've never been the equivalents of love. Love is one of those words that are untranslatable into a simpler or a more complicated language. Love is a word, merely consists of four letters, that exceptionally requires you to feel before you can confidently say that you have fully comprehended it. Love is indeed, a very strong word.

Love is intangible, nor is it concrete and thus there's almost no way to detect it. Sometimes you're unsure, sometimes the vigorous poundings of your heart, the echoing sounds in your head, the gentle warmth wrapping your body bear a genuine resemblance of love. But you are uncertain, and it's okay. Love is not a disease which you are able to detect its earlier symptoms. All you can do is go for it, if you fall you just have to get up--there's no shortcut. When it's time for love to surface, you'll know. You just do.

beck - everybody's gotta learn sometimes

I changed quite a lot and I realised that. I won't say for good, I don't like to judge myself. (after reading sputnik) I just sometimes pity those who talk about other people, so eagerly as if finding flaws and affairs of other people matters so much to them. I used to be like that too, one of those giggling junior highschool girls who love to gossip yet are oblivious to the fact that they are being gossipped at the same time. (the famous irony, yeah: those who gossip with you are going to gossip about you.) It was fun, I must admit. And there are many other positive aspects of typical gossippers too, HEY! They don't gossip all the time. They know best how to make stupid but relevant jokes.

I avoid gossiping much nowadays, after realising how sin-bound that activity actually is. (And it's quite difficult at times, this habit can seep subtly into your day) My boyfriend said those people seek pleasure in gossiping, they feel grand when they are talking about themselves or other people, as if the world orbitted around them. (I objected, actually, sometimes it was not because we wanted to be centre of attention. I must admit I was guilty, but it wasn't for attention, really. We felt good when we threw up everything buried deep in our minds. On the other hand, when talking about other people, usually we took lessons or simply was grateful that we did not have to undergo the same situation. Gamblangnya, tertawa di atas penderitaan orang lain.)

He also said, quoting the line from an analytical, economy related book that we all want to be unique. I said it was one empty generalisation. He insisted. Ok, I think it is one of our basic needs after all, that we yearn to be identified. But how far you go for that, leaves a big question mark. Some try hard and succeed, some just fail. Some don't even bother to think about it, but success precedes naturally, without them realising it. We all want to be treated special--unconsciously--treated differently in a better sense, not for worse or discriminated. We long for affection, no matter what form it has to come as. I want to be treated differently too, I want someone to stroke my hair and whisper quietly, and breathes warm air to my ear. Whether it is something sweet or cheesy, whether it is under romantic context or not, it doesn't matter.

Whatever I've written on the last two posts must seem like a pitiful waste of time to you, if you happen to read these. You may have experienced this before. You may disdain this writing. I like diverse reactions, though it could be painful sometimes. We are all the same in the sense that we all are different, anyway. When we talk about ourselves we only tell what we want to hear, or what we don't but craftily make excuse for it immediately, so it will still sound morally tolerable. We'll think we know best about ourselves, and conclude that whatever others say is the result of judging us superficially. "They don't know me enough," we claim. And we close doors to their opinions.

Well, it's good to be thick-skinned, because if you care too much about what others say it will ruin yourself eventually. But I guess we should also consider their sayings, because we can never see ourselves as a whole from one subjective point of view.

Sputnik.

So perhaps this post will, as usual, not have a proper start. My train of thoughts is always light years ahead of me--the thoughts are swarming, floating and swimming, then store themselves in the drawers scattered inside my head. There should be nothing spectacular to be told. Or maybe there are too many--each of them is now trying to get my attention, keeps twinkling and changing its colour like chameleon so as to catch my eyes, but there are simply too many.

It's like, when you look at the night sky--it is blue and vast, with its unreachable depth that adds to its eerie intensity. It is empty. If you are to describe it virtually, you will have nothing to talk about except its mere shade or palette. Then a star suddenly appears. You gasp at it, trying to examine it in and out, describe the way it shimmers and all....suddenly appears another one. Similar, but not identical. So you find the difference and elaborate the details again from the first scratch. And before your eyes--tens, hundreds, thousands of stars already overwhelm your previously empty, clear sky. How can you survive describing them one by one?

That's it. Your handwriting or typing can't catch up with your thoughts. It's like a rabbit that chases a carrot attached to a mobile cart endlessly. You think you are getting near, but you will never grasp it because it keeps moving.

I am now sharing the same dining table with cheap mineral water bottles, colourful supplements, a quarter full jug of tasteless brown tea, and orange spongecake while writing. I am skipping school today and I have the actual final exams in two weeks time. Everyone has been ranting about that, for sure. I have been practicing to write letters to principal, essays, mathematical solutions on tens of grams of papers and that exhausts me. Funny thing is people are doing things and still complaining at the same time. What an ability we humans have: multitasking.

Now my legs feel wobbly. Thump! Thump! They make sound in my head as I involuntarily tap the back of my feet on the floor. They signal me to go fast, to catch up with the last train of thoughts. Hey, let's not wander and finish this off quickly.

I have just finished my first ever Murakami--not the best start it was, according to book reviews. (I enjoyed it, tho.) They say I should have started with his richer writing--perhaps the peculiar and enigmatic Hard-Boiled wonderland, or the popular Kafka. I accidentally discovered this book on my way out of toilet's library. I was going to study, no other intention. (Perhaps meeting boyfriend initially, but it was unlikely.) I took a casual look at the bookshelf that happened to be directly outside the toilet. Murakami turned out to be the only name I could easily recognise. There were only four books of him there, three of which shared the same title, Sputnik Sweetheart. (They had different covers though, I suspect one must be UK publication and the other is US.) Two of which had covers that featured a delicate black and white portrait of naked woman lying on bed, her chest was tightly in contact with white bedsheets, her face facing us, giving innocent and light look. Mum would go ballistic if I were to bring this home, but it seemed to be an interesting book. The third was of the same title, with a subtler cover of a yearning face of a girl duplicated and made double in watercolour effect. The side cover was quite beautiful, the shade of the duplicated face (now in four, rotated against each other) somehow looked like a random, ancient oriental alphabet. I decided to take this one home.

The book offers a few tingles of surrealism, as if the dimension is split into two. It is spiced up with sexuality issues, lesbianism, loneliness, fragile friendship/relationship and a light, unresolved detective game. It is quite peculiar, for sure, it gets surreal when you enter the other dimension of the story. What is even more peculiar is that it is lighter than what I expected before. I like it not because everyone think Murakami's cool, hip, controversial or whatever. Ok, his grand recognition was what drew me at first, but the book itself is very compelling on its own. (Argh, maybe I'm just trying not to conform with the so-called non-conformists.)

The ending, as I expected, is abrupt and vague. That quite bugged me, really. I wished it was completely resolved, or not at all. But this is something in between, which surely gives sour aftertaste, that lingers long under your tongue. I threw the book right after reaching the last page, as I hastily read the last line. I picked it up again, hoping to find some small notes or epilogue. But the last few pages were empty, stained yellow as passage of time has tarnished them.

The synopsis mentioned about the book's philosophical aspects, but I could only find a few, which are actually well described and are never intimidating. I was really struck by how relevant it was I typed it on my tumblr. As I did this, I asked my mum.

"Mum, do you like to read novels?"
"A few times in my youth."
"What novels?"
"I can't recall the titles. It was a long time ago."
"I mean, what kind of novels--romance, suspense, philosophy?"
"Nah, I never got to read philosophy. Was too occupied with my job at that time. All I could think about was how to bring bread and butter back home. And some money to save, of course, if suddenly I happened to get married."
"Hmm. I like to read about philosophy."
"Tell me about philosophy. What exactly is it?"

I haven't read much, but philosophy is just beautiful as it is. It is a way of looking at life from general perspective, utilising general knowledge, forgetting boundaries so that it could be more well-perceived, no matter what race or religion you are from. My mum is quite strict about religion.

As she frowned, I swiftly added, "It is important to have a balanced view, right? Our religion even encourages us to pursue knowledge. I just want to know more about life from various perspectives."

She beamed. "It is okay, as long as you don't trip over."

What is tripping over, mum. I wanted to ask. But sure as hell I know she wants me not to shun our religion because of earthly things. One time I asked, "Why do you think our religion is the only one that's right, we only happened to be born with it. Sure, it is a beautiful thing, but why? Why not other religions? How could you know that what you've been told is the only truth, without assessing the others who claim to be the only truth as well?"

And what a terrible decision it was. My mum wept. I think it's because she never expected to get such questions from her daughter. She might ponder why don't I just shut up, study hard and lead a honourable, simple life? Many people manage to do that without having to argue about logic and all. She said our logic has limitations, you can't talk about God using logic. Humans can never have that capability. True that, but sometimes things, other than God's presence, just won't work out with only faith and instinct, without logic at all.

So I stopped throwing question marks at her. What is right to her, let it remain so. I don't want to give an impression to her that I'm one of the kids she previously warned me about. But the more I run from it, the more I turn into one. I like my mum though, a lot.