The saddest day in my life is when I couldn't even salvage the remnants of our friendship. The dying embers - crackling in the aftermath of my self-inflicted act of arson - they are an indictment of the foolishness and flightiness of one's mind.
You are giving me the cold shoulder. Even though I've apologised. Is our friendship irretrievable? Have I taken the road of no return with my flagrant actions/behaviour?
Tell me, T.
Spare me the cold shoulder, for I hope to be friends with you still.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
That moment
He could have died many times over during that split second when their eyes made contact. Until today, he still could not put a finger on how it was possible for two strangers to lay eyes on each other for what seemed like an eternal moment in a train carriage packed full of sweaty, harried and frustrated commuters.
If love---or for that matter, hate--- could be found at first sight, that moment in the carriage was it. He saw her or was it she who saw him first? It didn't matter then, and it didn't matter now.
He could feel her eyes boring into him like a powerful pneumatic drill breaking apart concrete. He could feel her eyes searching into his soul, creeping into hidden corners of his psyche and trying to grasp the kind of person he was.
Similarly, his eyes were all over her - giving her whole facial appearance a once-over. The tired eyes with lines edging them; a high forehead that spelled intelligence; a strong jawline that hinted at a woman in control of the situation; and a hairdo that was probably confected in some high-class salon. He wanted to check out her body, but the mass of passengers blocking his sight could only offer occasional glimpses of a lissome figure.
Somehow the visual explorations undertaken by each one of them converged in that moment when their eyes locked on each other's, and stayed locked until the announcement of Station X jerked both of them out of that moment.
He disembarked first along with suited humanity, happy to be freed from the claustrophobic carriage. Something told him to wait outside the carriage.
She appeared, the penultimate passenger, alighting at the stop. He gave her a nod which she acknowledged.
That moment was eons ago. But it signalled the start of his Jekyll-and-Hyde existence. Caring family man in the light of public scrutiny; and toyboy - when the shades were drawn.
He snaps out of his reverie, looks at the knife in his hand crimsoned fresh with her blood. His eyes lock on her eyes - a revisit of their very first encounter. Except she is fast expiring on her deathbed, her jawline sagging weakly and the eyes losing their light swiftly.
So this is what they say when love (or lust) turns to hate.
He turns around and leaves the room.
If love---or for that matter, hate--- could be found at first sight, that moment in the carriage was it. He saw her or was it she who saw him first? It didn't matter then, and it didn't matter now.
He could feel her eyes boring into him like a powerful pneumatic drill breaking apart concrete. He could feel her eyes searching into his soul, creeping into hidden corners of his psyche and trying to grasp the kind of person he was.
Similarly, his eyes were all over her - giving her whole facial appearance a once-over. The tired eyes with lines edging them; a high forehead that spelled intelligence; a strong jawline that hinted at a woman in control of the situation; and a hairdo that was probably confected in some high-class salon. He wanted to check out her body, but the mass of passengers blocking his sight could only offer occasional glimpses of a lissome figure.
Somehow the visual explorations undertaken by each one of them converged in that moment when their eyes locked on each other's, and stayed locked until the announcement of Station X jerked both of them out of that moment.
He disembarked first along with suited humanity, happy to be freed from the claustrophobic carriage. Something told him to wait outside the carriage.
She appeared, the penultimate passenger, alighting at the stop. He gave her a nod which she acknowledged.
That moment was eons ago. But it signalled the start of his Jekyll-and-Hyde existence. Caring family man in the light of public scrutiny; and toyboy - when the shades were drawn.
He snaps out of his reverie, looks at the knife in his hand crimsoned fresh with her blood. His eyes lock on her eyes - a revisit of their very first encounter. Except she is fast expiring on her deathbed, her jawline sagging weakly and the eyes losing their light swiftly.
So this is what they say when love (or lust) turns to hate.
He turns around and leaves the room.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The time is ripe
Could you feel something electric in the air? As humanity (the Singapore version) palpitates and oscillates on its daily pendulum of mind-numbing activity designed to grease the wheels of the economy, coffeeshop talk is astir with rumours, predictions and speculation on the date of the next General Election.
The sense of anticipation is particularly acute when election time rolls around, and pray may I query the source or origin of this anticipation. What is there to anticipate when you know the ruling party is going to romp home like the juggernaut it is, crushing all and sundry? Except, maybe, there might be something different this time....
All hope springs eternal; and the incorporeal and abstract that is called 'hope' quantifies our deep-seated convictions that the ruling party may suffer a crushing blow come this election. It has been a less than sterling 5 years since they romped home with the mandate, with snafus aplenty.
As life gets that slightly tougher for you and me in the trenches, the time is ripe for some change.
Let there be light, for the time is ripe.
The sense of anticipation is particularly acute when election time rolls around, and pray may I query the source or origin of this anticipation. What is there to anticipate when you know the ruling party is going to romp home like the juggernaut it is, crushing all and sundry? Except, maybe, there might be something different this time....
All hope springs eternal; and the incorporeal and abstract that is called 'hope' quantifies our deep-seated convictions that the ruling party may suffer a crushing blow come this election. It has been a less than sterling 5 years since they romped home with the mandate, with snafus aplenty.
As life gets that slightly tougher for you and me in the trenches, the time is ripe for some change.
Let there be light, for the time is ripe.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Never retire
So the Minister Mentor has spoken.
With those words 'Never retire', he has consigned whatever hope I have of enjoying my retirement in bliss to the rubbish bin. And mind you, my retirement is about 36 years away if you base it on the impending retirement age being raised to 67 by legislation in 2012.
MM has plumbed the depths of his (dark) conscience and articulated what he genuinely believes and feels - that Singaporeans are just digits. Singaporeans are just the donkeys pulling the cart towards the final destination that is bright, shiny GDP numbers. So as digits, donkeys and what-have-you, we proles will have to slog, slave and shed (sweat, blood and tears) just to continue building the monolith that is Singapore Inc and supporting the pantheon of the intellectual class ruling over us.
In fact MM doesn't even need to utilise the platform of the sycophantic national broadsheet to give us his hi-falutin two cents' worth. If he deigns to look around, he would have seen his elderly fellow Singaporeans picking cardboard, scavenging used drink cans, and cleaning up after him in the foodcourt. He could have seen old uncle or aunty if he could deign to see him/her when he steps into the toilet at your neighbourhood market on one of his many shake-the-hands-with-the-hoi-polloi sessions.
But for some people sequestered in the comfort of their ivory tower, getting down from the moral (or socio-economic) high horse can be tough, even for an 86-year-old in yellowing dotage drawing a fat pay cheque of S$3 million per annum. With his rheumy and weakening eyesight, I doubt MM can register the sight of his fellow hoary counterparts working their asses off for a pittance as (pick one) cardboard collector/scavenger/cleaner/insert some other lowly, underpaid job fit for a senior citizen. Hang on, I don't even think MM has eaten in a foodcourt or stepped into a neighbourhood market's toilet once in his life.
No wonder MM didn't know about the plight of the poor elderly Singaporeans scrounging a living in metronomic Singapore Inc. The old, lowly-educated, the proles, the true-blue Singaporeans, the hoi polloi - we work our asses off to grease the machinery of Singapore Inc so it runs like clockwork as we tick into the sunset of bright shiny GDP figures.
So, as you come to the twilight of your working life, and start to contemplate retirement, remember MM's words - never retire.
Retirement is not an option for proles like you.
With those words 'Never retire', he has consigned whatever hope I have of enjoying my retirement in bliss to the rubbish bin. And mind you, my retirement is about 36 years away if you base it on the impending retirement age being raised to 67 by legislation in 2012.
MM has plumbed the depths of his (dark) conscience and articulated what he genuinely believes and feels - that Singaporeans are just digits. Singaporeans are just the donkeys pulling the cart towards the final destination that is bright, shiny GDP numbers. So as digits, donkeys and what-have-you, we proles will have to slog, slave and shed (sweat, blood and tears) just to continue building the monolith that is Singapore Inc and supporting the pantheon of the intellectual class ruling over us.
In fact MM doesn't even need to utilise the platform of the sycophantic national broadsheet to give us his hi-falutin two cents' worth. If he deigns to look around, he would have seen his elderly fellow Singaporeans picking cardboard, scavenging used drink cans, and cleaning up after him in the foodcourt. He could have seen old uncle or aunty if he could deign to see him/her when he steps into the toilet at your neighbourhood market on one of his many shake-the-hands-with-the-hoi-polloi sessions.
But for some people sequestered in the comfort of their ivory tower, getting down from the moral (or socio-economic) high horse can be tough, even for an 86-year-old in yellowing dotage drawing a fat pay cheque of S$3 million per annum. With his rheumy and weakening eyesight, I doubt MM can register the sight of his fellow hoary counterparts working their asses off for a pittance as (pick one) cardboard collector/scavenger/cleaner/insert some other lowly, underpaid job fit for a senior citizen. Hang on, I don't even think MM has eaten in a foodcourt or stepped into a neighbourhood market's toilet once in his life.
No wonder MM didn't know about the plight of the poor elderly Singaporeans scrounging a living in metronomic Singapore Inc. The old, lowly-educated, the proles, the true-blue Singaporeans, the hoi polloi - we work our asses off to grease the machinery of Singapore Inc so it runs like clockwork as we tick into the sunset of bright shiny GDP figures.
So, as you come to the twilight of your working life, and start to contemplate retirement, remember MM's words - never retire.
Retirement is not an option for proles like you.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The unbearable idleness of being
Ok, Milan Kundera, I am sorry to vandalise/besmirch/desecrate your opus of a similar-sounding name by ripping it off (almost) and using it as a heading for this blog entry. Blame my lack of creativity, or a surfeit of campiness that gets worse with advancing age.
So it's August. A few more days to come, and Singapore turns a grand old 45, and I will mark two years in this GLC I am working at. How time flies. I could still remember that frisson of excitement when I stepped into this almost swanky building for my first day of work. I thought of new vistas opening up on the career landscape, imbibing new knowledge and finally achieving something.
Alas, the verdure of youthful (deluded?) passion and (misplaced?) optimism is destined to weather into a wasteland of dead hopes and dashed dreams. So two years of disappointments have accrued with each passing day that's somewhere between Dante's different levels of Hell.
I suppose when you are scrapping rock bottom, the only way is to go up. And hopefully, I will get my wings when I get that piece of paper called a degree and worth a handy $14K come the next August.
Until then, leave me alone as I stagnate/sink/simmer in this unbearable idleness of being a nondescript, underachieving and brain-dead office worker.
So it's August. A few more days to come, and Singapore turns a grand old 45, and I will mark two years in this GLC I am working at. How time flies. I could still remember that frisson of excitement when I stepped into this almost swanky building for my first day of work. I thought of new vistas opening up on the career landscape, imbibing new knowledge and finally achieving something.
Alas, the verdure of youthful (deluded?) passion and (misplaced?) optimism is destined to weather into a wasteland of dead hopes and dashed dreams. So two years of disappointments have accrued with each passing day that's somewhere between Dante's different levels of Hell.
I suppose when you are scrapping rock bottom, the only way is to go up. And hopefully, I will get my wings when I get that piece of paper called a degree and worth a handy $14K come the next August.
Until then, leave me alone as I stagnate/sink/simmer in this unbearable idleness of being a nondescript, underachieving and brain-dead office worker.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Will there be change?
It is unfair to label me as one of the easily disgruntled, rebellious and ungrateful younger-generation Singaporeans. True, I did not live through the turbulent days that followed our painful separation from Malaysia. True, I did not experience the traumatising period that was the Japanese invasion and subsequent occupation of Singapore.
I grew up in a cossetted and comfortable environment. I grew up in a time of peace and stability. But today, at the age of 31, there is seriously something wrong with my country and it is not the air.
The flags adorned on HDB blocks, fluttering in the gentle breeze - they scream patriotism in loud capital letters. Corrinne May goes on TV exhorting me to sing a song for Singapore together with her. The preparations are afoot for another NDP extravaganza.
Scrape away at the facade of this treacly display of patriotism and nationalism, and you find nothing. Just a hollowness that is carved and burnt into my psyche.
To paraphrase Marcellus in Shakespeare's Hamlet, something's rotten in the state of Singapore, and no, that putrefaction does not stem from the murky ochre flood waters submerging Orchard Road now.
The rot lies deeper. The rot is the festering sore of apathy that is our (uniquely) Singaporean psyche of taking things for granted and living in the comfort zone.
Change, we must, as a people - before it's too late.
I grew up in a cossetted and comfortable environment. I grew up in a time of peace and stability. But today, at the age of 31, there is seriously something wrong with my country and it is not the air.
The flags adorned on HDB blocks, fluttering in the gentle breeze - they scream patriotism in loud capital letters. Corrinne May goes on TV exhorting me to sing a song for Singapore together with her. The preparations are afoot for another NDP extravaganza.
Scrape away at the facade of this treacly display of patriotism and nationalism, and you find nothing. Just a hollowness that is carved and burnt into my psyche.
To paraphrase Marcellus in Shakespeare's Hamlet, something's rotten in the state of Singapore, and no, that putrefaction does not stem from the murky ochre flood waters submerging Orchard Road now.
The rot lies deeper. The rot is the festering sore of apathy that is our (uniquely) Singaporean psyche of taking things for granted and living in the comfort zone.
Change, we must, as a people - before it's too late.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Of cephalopods, birds and a leather ball
The gates have swung close in the prepossessing Soccer City Stadium.
The last dregs of humanity have seeped away and melded into the oblivion of everyday life.
The admixture of sweat, blood, and tears on the lush green carpet must have long evaporated into the cool night air of Johannesburg, the epicentre of a month-long antipodean revelry.
The mindless and tuneless drone of the vuvuzelas has disintegrated in the ether of the environment, our memories.
A lone Jabulani football rests desolate near the corner flag where Xavi's boot had graced moments ago. Moments that are so far away, and moments that have long yellowed away in my memory, our memories and the world's memory.
World Cup 2010 is no more. Booted aside by the short attention span of our memories, the exigencies and responsibilities of everyday life; by the overarching fame of the octopus, Paul and his animal kameraden, Mani, the parakeet.
So long Xavi, Busquets, Sneijder, Suarez, Mueller, Forlan.
The last dregs of humanity have seeped away and melded into the oblivion of everyday life.
The admixture of sweat, blood, and tears on the lush green carpet must have long evaporated into the cool night air of Johannesburg, the epicentre of a month-long antipodean revelry.
The mindless and tuneless drone of the vuvuzelas has disintegrated in the ether of the environment, our memories.
A lone Jabulani football rests desolate near the corner flag where Xavi's boot had graced moments ago. Moments that are so far away, and moments that have long yellowed away in my memory, our memories and the world's memory.
World Cup 2010 is no more. Booted aside by the short attention span of our memories, the exigencies and responsibilities of everyday life; by the overarching fame of the octopus, Paul and his animal kameraden, Mani, the parakeet.
So long Xavi, Busquets, Sneijder, Suarez, Mueller, Forlan.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)