I wonder what is it like to fly like a bird,
to see the world from up high,
to swim with the clouds?
I wonder how would it feel if I turned into a girl,
to be chased at by guys at the mall,
to give birth to a child.
I wonder when will we achieve our dreams,
to protect the weak
and to save a country’s Soul.
I wonder, I wonder…
---
It is while standing at the edge of the most exciting rollercoaster ride in my life that I remember the strangest stuff.
In an instant, I was transported years back, to when I was Primary 5.
I was standing at a bus stand, shoes scruffy (just how I liked them, comfy), uniform orderly disorder. I wasn’t waiting for a bus though, but a girl.
She would take the 11.45pm 198 bus that brought you to the outskirts of Fairfield Methodist Primary School 30 minutes early. I would then board the same bus and sit next to her.
She wore the all blue tie that signified a prefect stature. Her attire was orderly, her coiffure neat and her features, flawless.
I didn’t notice that then of course. Girls then were at best friends, at worst enemies. To be handled warily and not to be trusted.
Not this girl though. We talked naturally, without the awkwardness of puberty or gender.
---
5 years on, we grew up. Both went to the same secondary school, classmates for the last two years. We hardly noticed each other.
She lost her prefect tie, attire in a orderly disorder and gained an aggressive attitude. I did my best to present a good outlook of myself in school, mild and meek.
We did talk, but it was shallow and drivel. Gone was the touch of friendship.
I last saw her a year after I graduated from secondary school. I went through a second round of puberty (!!!) and grew taller and slimmer. While walking with a friend in Dover, I ran into her. Her hair was all done up, face painted and a accessory guy beside her.
A glance. A flicker of recognition. No change of pace. No halt in conversation
We pass each other by and the flashback faded to black, to reality.
A shame, oh a shame, to have grown too old and critical for friendship to flourish.
---
Continuous effort - not strength or intelligence - is the key to unlocking our potential.
Winston Churchill
---
What attracts a women; what attracts a man?
The size of her breasts; the colour of his eyes?
That cute smile; that lovely grin
The way she holds you; the way he holds you?
Slim legs; Chest hair?
The way she speaks; the way he says things?
Are we that simple to fall for such a trick, an illusion, a mirage? To fall from grace like Adam and Eve for that forbidden fruit. So sweet yet so dangerous.
How Ridiculous!
-
However, as it is human to err and sin,
it is also human to love. To want to care and protect a stranger who you’ve just met for eternity.
A flick of her hair, fiddling with his keys,
an awkward glance, a shy smile,
A reluctant good bye. And a million words were left unspoken, but yet never understood so well.
-
We are fools for thrusting ourselves into this charade over and over. But once tasted, it never goes away.
So love, loved and love again.
How Ridiculous! only if you’ve never experienced it before.
---
When you bog down with problems, hassles and worries,
always remember to keep things simple, silly!
---
Blasts of indian music, hollers of chinese sellers all beckon the passerby towards the thieves market
where everything and anything is for sale.
Piles of goods haphazardly piled up or strewed on the floor not unlike a corpse of an animal
while we, the vultures disembowel the still warm corpse.
Whispers, shouts, yells, conversations all happen simultaneously
a hundred at a time, in a dozen different languages.
A item catch my eye, gleaming lustre showing through the grime.
I pick it up, twilling it through my fingers before enquiring about the price.
Yes? No? Maybe? I ponder as the seller squats, already forgetting about me.
I stand up, a hand reaching for my wallet as I make a purchase.
The seller looks up, a smile spreading on his sun beaten, aged face.
Another purchase, another day at the thieves market.
Soft music sung by long dead singers fill the air;
as the fan attempts valiantly to move the hot heavy air around.
The laptop’s humming, stale coffee accompany a dying cigarette as the author works on.
Outside the world’s asleep, reward for a long day of labour;
but the author struggles on for love, glory and monetary benefits.
The deadline’s ticking, the clock that never stops;
tick tick tock tock goes the seconds, followed by minutes and hours.
A early rise is in order tomorrow;
Jeez, is it already 3am?
3 hours for a period of rest, Nirvana before the rush starts again;
already it feels too short.
The bed beckons, singing it’s siren call;
calling out to this ship to wreck itself on it’s shores.
Eyes drooping, closes and forced open again;
10 minutes, an hour, 30 seconds more…..
Late nights.
-Dedicated to all fellow owls of the night.
---
