How would it be like to be a leaf in the wind, fluttering aimlessly with the direction that is cast upon it?
How would it feel to be punctured in the heart and set out to float aimlessly after the turmoils of the scathing winds?
They say love is a choice, but love is as flippant as the emotions we call our own, ever manipulable and ethereal like the first rays of sunlight – tranquil yet rife with evanescence and impermanence.
Where one feels the need to explore and grow, another feels the need to hide and stow away the good, bad, ugly and beautiful.
The past is the source of learning for the present and eventually the future. Yet, how can we access the past when time is a river flowing onwards in only one direction? Each second and minute that ticks by brings us farther and farther away from the past and its precious stow of memorable memories.
Where is the mind when the mind once held ideas and flourishing flora, yet is now barren with dried millennia-aged grass and cracked earth from the desert?
How do we continue when we are put on crutches and made to crawl instead to walk?
Mandela once said, if you cannot fly, then walk. If you cannot walk, then crawl. How do we move forwards when the progress forwards is as trickling as the droplets from a leaking tap?
The loudhailers that used to spew ideas and never-ending fantasies are now quiet with radio silence. What do we do from here?
Where do we go from here?
Will it all be for nought or worth?
And how will we know whether it turns out well in the end?
Fresh milk in the mug, baked cakes on the counter.
Green leaves shivering in the wind, fractal branches in the summer
Gravel roads leading to shops made of maroon red bricks,
A child swinging on the swing, crying out loud in joy as
ravens hop in staccato by the railings
What does it mean to be human?
It’s everything but
nothing at the same time.
I’m writing this because honestly I hope that ten years from now I will feel different. I’ve never questioned the state that I’m in before but this mental state has gone on long enough for me to realise something is wrong. No spontaneous thought emerge in my mind except for the questions as to how or why I’ve become like that, merely existing without various nuanced emotions apart from neutrality and amusement. The tea in the mug is simply tea, not TEA, as is the milk in the cup. Nothing stands out in caps anymore, the feeling of wanting to hug a poodle on the road is nonexistent when it used to fill me till the edges of my body. After so many months of merely existing, I have begun to hold on to things such as friends, words (writing), books, and work. Without these things in my life there would be no meaning, for there appears to be the lack thereof within me. What once held a bubbling infusion of passion, emotions, inspiration and ideas now holds a void, and I’m not sure where to go taking this new state of being with me. I’ve told many about what I’m going through, but none truly understand for this concerns the very definition of what it means to be human, which so many seem to be blessed with to still grasp (bless you, kind soul). Passion, love, curiosity, awe, wonder, and excitement. All are aliens to me now. When I once held onto something for the very being of that something I now hold onto something for the sake of chasing the definition of that something. Nothing feels meaningful but at the same time everything is important because I am chasing meaning. This is a block of text. An internal monologue that I’ll put into a mental time capsule of sorts in hopes that things will unravel and make sense in time to come. Frustration emerges when this block of text does not form a perfect rectangle or square, perhaps that is also a sign of being human?
What is life without some blocks of text?
If you read this and resonate in some way, I look forward to hearing from you perhaps.
I’ve never thought so much now as compared to months before what happened to me as an individual,
for sometimes we grow into the way that we are in the present moment, which is ever fleeting and evanescent like the trickle of water from the bamboo tube or the puff of smoke evaporating into thin air from the smoker’s pipe.
It’s strange that sometimes humanity feels elusive when we are humans ourselves.
This is a short promotional post of sorts. I have a new novel in the works, and it’s inspired by bookish bookworms, fantasy, old school romance and mythology. If you would like to check it out, the link is here!
The leaves rustle in the breeze as the first few rays of light leak through the sea of grey clouds. Thunder ceases, and rain halts. Somewhere far away a quiet lair awaits the return of a magnificent being perched on the mountaintop.
Like snakes slithering through a trail it creeps up the rocks, approaching the summit with its talons and tail trailing behind to catch the first rays of sun.
Little by little it inches towards the uppermost rocks, as silently as a crane balancing on legs made of stilts. Not a sound it utters as it slithers up the mountain.
As stealthily as the minute hand, it reaches the summit just in time to bask in the first few rays of sun, scales shimmering gold and white as they cast reflections all around as mirrors do in the twilight. Like waves they stir in the breeze, coalescing into streams of rippling light.
“I am the dragon, the mightiest of all beings. No sword or spear could pierce me, and all shall bow before me”, it announces in its deep, bellowing voice, sending its message far and wide along the reigns of the howling wind. Alas, its form is clouded by mists save for its two scorching eyes often mistaken for dazzling stars, while its voice travels majestically as notes do with the strum of harp strings when they are taut and tight.
“No voice is clearer than mine, no sea as vast as my reach!” It cries out once more, before sending its wings afar as it raises its talons with a fiery leap into the sky. Like giant parachutes its feathered wings spread wide, enveloping air and gaining momentum from the winds as they flap powerfully through the clouds.
Like a floating diamond, it soars, shining as beacons do in the light of dawn, leaving a trail of shimmery white behind.
“Look! It is the dragon! It is flying again!” The village children cry out ecstatically as they see the rare being in the sky, a resemblance to a shooting star.
“Take us with you!!” They cry aloud, hoping their voices would be heard by the mystical creature soaring far and high on Icarus’s plains.
Slowly, it becomes smaller and smaller, until it is one with the sun, far, far away.
To this day, tales of its visits continue to enthrall villagers both young and old, as the dragon continues to live on for eternity in the hearts of many.
Scrolls depict its heavenly being, with dashes of gold, silver and bronze for its sharp scales.
Look no further, for it is inside you,
This year of the
Dragon.
~to be continued~
Wrote this with inspiration from the drawings of dragons by my students.
She sits afar with a book in her hand. One might mistake her for a student with her youthful bobbed hair. Strange as it seems, her dress flows even without the trace of wind. Why is she there, no one knows; perhaps she is waiting for someone.
All in a breath, in tick of the minute-hand, in a snippet of time – she turns to look afar beyond the train of cars, beyond her train of thought. Her eyes meets his as he looks across the bus stop. They hold each other’s gaze for awhile, as though some divine thread ties them together for a moment beyond a lifetime.
Taking a leap of faith, he takes the first few steps to cross the road. It is a busy lane with many cars, but momentary gaps emerge between the boxed vehicles moving monotonously along the concrete lanes.
Finally, he reaches the bus stop where she sits. Panting and gasping for breath out of sheer exhilaration at his move and the heat from the weather, he walks towards her, suddenly conscious of his sweat-drenched shirt and clammy hands.
The lady continues to study him as he moves towards her, calm eyes observing his pace and gestures as he sits down beside her.
A good moment of silence ensues between them, until, finally, the man decides to start.
“I don’t know why I did that…it’s strange…but I thought I recognised you from somewhere…have we met before?”
The lady listens intently, her eyes enlarging as he progresses. A warm red flushes her cheeks as she listens till the end. She closes her book and takes out a piece of paper and a pen from her purse, proceeding to write something down quickly.
He feels confused. Why isn’t she saying anything?
She takes his hand in hers and places the paper into his palm. He looks at it and reads, eyes squinting in the afternoon sun:
“I remember you. We met many years ago.
I still remember what happened back then. We were still children.
Thank you for being my first friend in primary school. I slipped and fell but you stopped to ask if I was okay. That was the first time we met, but I still remember after all these years.
I can’t speak, I can only read and use sign language, so there are not many whom I can befriend.
I was very lonely in primary school, but because of your kindness back then, I persevered, and am now in graduate school studying for my PhD.
Thank you for coming all the way to meet me again.
I hope we can still be friends.
91835667″
…
He is speechless. Taking the paper in his hands, the very words he wanted to say are now lost; they’ve dissipated into thin air. His mind draws a blank…
Then it dawns upon him.
Yes! She was the young girl he met in their old school back then. The girl with bobbed hair…
Suddenly, she gets up.
“I have to go now, goodbye” her fingers gesture in signs. Turning, she gives him a slight smile with dazzling blue eyes, and leaves for the bus 179 that just arrived. In a flurry of steps she boards it, dress fluttering in the dappling sunlight as satins do in a light, gentle breeze. The engines rev and roar, and the bus drives off.
With that, she is gone, the only evidence of her presence a trail of fading smoke and dust.
He looks at the dust, and turns to find the bus with his searching eyes. It shrinks into nothingness behind a bend in the road far off ahead.
Again, he looks back down at the piece of paper, mind adrift and listless.
A warmth spreads up his neck, filling the back of his eyes and the shape of his cheeks.
What a coincidence!
But what a disappointment too –
He buries his head in his hands.
He thought she was his ex!
~fin~
I don’t know why I wrote this – just wanted to experiment for a bit.
“Duck! Duck for cover! They are coming!” He heard the distant screams and shouts from his fellow men as a roaring, droning sound echoed in the sky. A huge shadow loomed over the patch of field where they were stationed, and the air grew silent for a while.
And then it happened. Dark pellets rained from the large monstrosity, falling down like hail from the heavens. Divine intervention. His legs gave way and he fell, head breaking into a cold sweat. The pellets hit the ground all around him, sending clouds of smoke billowing in the air at the harsh impact. There was no way out. “Run!” A voice screamed into his ear. “Run, Daniel!!” A hand grabbed his collar and shoved him northwards. It was Kay. The last of his words echoed in his ears as he clambered up the slope, away from the mess of bullets. Turning around to see if Kay had followed, the last of his face looked on before vanishing behind a cloud of smoke and raining bullets. The last of his deep blue eyes and clear, strong voice. A hand reached out to him, ushering him to run, before it too vanished behind the veil of smoke.
“I have to run”, he thought, as his legs moved on autopilot, pushing him through tufts of bush and sharp rocks as bullets rained torrentially behind him. There was no way left but northwards, on and on and on.
The pounding of the bullets would not stop, now in one with his frenzied heart as blood rushed through his veins with the shot of adrenaline. Grey billows of dust emerged everywhere around him, as men twice his size fell one by one. His heart clenched and sweat dripped from his brow as their faces emerged in his mind in a flurry of images. Some of them were his brothers, but he could not save them. He retched.
There was no time to feel, no time to think, no time to guess. Only to listen to his body as it pushed through crevices and cracks in the fallen oak and rocks, pulling him through the jaws of death at every second of luck.
He felt his eyeballs dart to and fro frantically in their sockets, searching for a space to seek refuge in as his legs grew weary from the flight of endless steps.
In an instant, a hole in the ground caught his attention – it was perfect for shelter!
The roaring of the plane continued on, and a fresh batch of bullets rained from the hell-red sky. He dove towards the hole in the ground, squeezing his entire body into it as one would into a python’s belly. In sheer desperation, he removed his boots and gear, pushing himself through the space amidst tears in his skin from the jagged twigs and branches. The hole continued to stretch on as if extending into a tunnel, and far above the sounds of drones and pelting bullets slowly ceased, growing muffled and distant till all that was left was the pumping of his blood sounding loud and clear in his ears, each beat pushing his legs and arms forwards.
He crawled on. On and on and on through the shrinking space like there was no tomorrow….
In the distance, a light emerged, a point where the darkness around him converged…he grasped at it like a moth fighting to be near the flame, and pushed on with what little hope he had as his heart pounded relentlessly in the cold darkness….
Every now and then the oven sounds its alarm – a call for her busy hands to retrieve steaming hot loaves of bread from its belly, and reload another tray of sourdough into its mouth. Rusted but steady, its stocky build occupies at least a third of her tiny bakery, with the remaining space reserved for her packing work station where countless supplies are kept – from ribbons to decorative flowers of the like.
Two shelves guard the entrance into her humble workshop, where wonders abound, from ice-gem biscuits to lively gingerbread men that keep children alit with surprise and excitement, promising raving reviews as each visit leads to energetic squeals of delight as they run to their parents for help with the meticulous paper packaging. As they always say, the way to customers’ hearts is through their bellies, and for Ann, she has achieved precisely that through the tiny bellies of her clientale; little toddlers looking for moments of awe in the mundane and everyday.
With just the twist of her fingers and the snip of her scissors, soft dough morphs into beautifully painted butterfly pretzels, and ribbons into magnolia flowers. “More, Baker Ann, more!” The children often cried aloud. And more she gives, for it is her passion and joy; the bane of her’s and her little shop’s existence.
With some sourdough in one hand and tiny ice-gems in another, Ann mixes them together and moulds the dough into a long snaking vine. Twisting it around further, the vine transforms into a pretzel with two wings and a steady sternum; a heart lined with tiny Kohaku sugar the colours of the rainbow. Seeing the infectious delight on the children’s faces, she could not help but smile, and places the fluttering heart onto the baking paper before taking another handful of dough and ice-gems. Moulding it into shape, she pulls it slightly in front of their eyes, and twists it into another form – within magical moments, a turtle is born. The children laugh with joy and clap their hands, asking for another one of her creations, as angels do to the goddess Nuwa.
A slight wind breezes through the shop, sending the chimes dancing in the afternoon sunlight as their soft songs echo through the warm air of the bakery. Such is the life of a baker, one moment at a time, with skills more akin to a magician than a blue-collar worker.
As the moments collect and the minutes pass towards late afternoon, the children begin to grow tired and weary – it is time for their dinners before sound restful sleep with memories of magic in the daytime to the tune of a lullaby. One by one they hug Ann goodbye and totter out the humble shop, one tiny footstep after another.
“Till next time,” Ann says, and wishes them all goodbye. Closing the doors to her parlour, she switches the sign.
Watching this movie gave me goosebumps, literal and metaphorical.
Dark curtains drape the windowsills, covering cobwebs spelling a mystery ‘M’. Footsteps shuffle through the night as the voice of a young girl’s lullaby echoes along with the chimes of midnight. Whispers spread tales of a forbidden tea, mixed with dangerously poisonous honey. “Not wild flower”, so it seemed. The cockatiel looked on knowingly.
From the blends of symmetrical imagery in the meticulously thought-through arrangements of objects (pumpkins, newspapers and teacups, the like) in the film setup to the carefully measured distances between characters as they interact with the menagerie of shadows in the haunted mansion, the film crew did an amazing job conveying everyday humour, symmetrical harmony and balance in the cinematography.
Everything is placed in an order to convey a vintage sense of harmony among the elements of scenes from start to finish. An example that is striking is the appearance of Poirot’s balcony and the change in items occupying its space in the beginning and the end of the film: A mundane pumpkin with the daily newspaper at the start, to notes on the latest murder case with a teacup placed precariously near the edge of the table, a playful hint at the possibility of another supernatural encounter akin to the haunts in the mansion where his teacup broke on its own accord mysteriously.
Never would one imagine the lengths to which motherhood may stretch – to the edges of insanity and possession of pure narcissism. With the overlay of symbols hinting at the ultimate culprit, Branagh guides the viewer through clues deftly as one lures rabbits through a trail of zig-zagged traps, each welcoming the other as carefully placed pieces of a puzzle. At the beginning we are given the clue of ‘M’ – to which many possibilities abound from Maxime, the ex-fiance of Alicia, to Maria, her housekeeper, and the last person we would ever suspect – her very own mother. Meanwhile, rainwater spill through unseen cracks along pots on the wall to spell the letter ‘M’, hinting over and over again the identity of the murderer. We are guided back incessantly to the element of water, which ties together all the points of the plot – water, the environment in which Alicia’s body was found, and the source of the dangerous toxins that poisoned her in her teacup.
“Mother, I’m thirsty”, Joyce had said under the trance of Alicia’s ghost, hinting at the source of her ailments – the poisoned tea.
In the bathroom, a frequent scene where Poirot heads to clear his thoughts and save time for his own detective thinking, illusions of water being clogged in the pipes, kept from him yet overflowing the next after sudden glimpses of her ghost in the dusty mirror fill the scenes, bringing us back again to the element where it all started.
As the age-old adage says, blood is thicker than water, and can transcend all bonds. It is no wonder the cold hands that pull Rowena to the depths of her demise are none other than her daughter’s, the same hands that pleaded her for help when she cried, “Mother, I’m thirsty…I don’t want to die”.
Indeed, blood is thicker than water.
Some sins are darker than ink, stained by blood and the ties that come with it. As Poirot puts it, we cannot run from the demons in our hearts, but can only make peace with them, and live life the best way that we can. How do we do so it depends on each individual. For some the way has been shut.
There’s no doubt about it, this movie deserves a solid 10/10. If only there were an edition without the cut scenes out in cinemas today.
Clouds of fog frame the oval face in the surface, reflecting glistening light and shades of Naples yellow into the hollow room. Like mists wavering across mountains in Van Gogh’s paintings they occlude sclera as moons do to suns during eclipses in the noonday heat. Subdued, the pupils peer through the fading mists into the holes opposite them, sinking into a glare of contemplation; a web of fractals intertwined with stalactites spreading into the thin night.
“Do it. I dare you,” it said, looking back at her.
“Do it.”
Clinging to the sink she looked back at the reflection in the mirror, and chose to sing. It kept her at ease, keeping the dark ones at bay, since young in the crib near the window where angels dare not tread.
“Do it,” it challenged again.
Sweat rolled down her forehead as she gripped the cold ceramic hard. Beyond the mists two horns peeked. Sharp and enticing, a silent rip echoed in the air as they reverberated the dare through the stillness, beckoning a wave of quiet nostalgia.
But she would not succumb.
Forcing herself away from the mirror, she felt each finger rip away in rubbery streaks, as though a layer of plastic peeled away from the clinical material, bit by bit, edge by edge, drawing along the contour of the curved basin. Finally, all ten fingers were free, with the last leaving a shrill whine trailing behind as her eyes stared ahead.
Bit by bit it began to disappear, blurring into the cloud of thickening mists.
Soon, it will be dawn, she thought.
Her feet took flight, each step sinking into the damp earth that met their might.
Each step echoing loudly in the long corridor, lengthening towards the light.
Not tonight.
~
We all have dark nights and dark times. Each second we are growing, and the direction of our growth depends on the conscious choice that we make. Bit by bit it is possible to grow towards the light.
In the drizzle of the monsoon, clouds hang low as starlings caw, drooping to HDB flats for the nearest shelter.
A stone’s throw away is this heart of the region – the bakery where people meet for afternoon tea, steamy gossip and work meetings for the usual lunch crowd. Just miles from the regional library, many students can be seen through the glass windows with their heads buried in books, swiping idly at their phones or listening to the latest podcasts with the volume turned up.
There’s still less people compared to last week, thought Hilary. She sipped her own cup of coffee while waiting for more customers to enter through the front door. Most walked by the bakery with a slight nod of curiosity.
Another moment, another day; another day in the life of a simple cashier at Star Bakery.
Meanwhile, the students at table 54 burst into guffaws and giggles, likely over a famous tick-tocker. The old man behind them raises his brows, and continues to read the latest edition of The Straits Times, with some irritation as he clicks his tongue.
Many others lounge with their laptops open, a signature scene at most cafes during this time of day.
A young couple with linked arms walked to the counter from the furthest corner of the room.
“We would like one almond croissant and one ham and cheese bagel, please”, the young woman said. Though in her mid-thirties, she sounded like a dreamy university student whose life had just began. Well, they do say life begins at one’s thirties. It must have only just started for her!
“Sure, please wait a moment”, Hilary replied in her trained voice, all too familiar with repetition for customer service.
Sliding open the glass door, she takes out the food gingerly and serves them to the couple on a tray, not without salt and pepper.
“Anything else?”
“No, that will be all, thank you!” They smiled with satisfaction and took the tray back to their seats, ready for the next round of playful banter, oblivious to the world around them. It’s hardly a mystery why they chose the corner near the bookshelves. Silently, Hilary wished them well and chuckled to herself.
Sipping her own coffee, Hilary counted the minutes to the next hour. At exactly 3:00pm, she would finish her own drink, and prepare the kitchen for the next batch of coffee orders.
Wiping the counter with the tablecloth, Hilary made sure each and every crook was cleaned and polished, a ritual she made sure to complete each day.
In this way, she kept herself sane.
Suddenly, a slight knock came at the door. Now we’re talking, we finally have another customer!
However, when Hilary spun around to see who had entered, she felt her jaw drop. Walking through the door in sandals, black work trousers and a singlet, it was none other than her father.
“Abah, what are you doing here?” Hilary cried as she rushed to her father. Already she could sense all eyes on her as the room fell to hushed whispers.
“Where is Ben?” Her brother must have left the house to get something, leaving their father all by himself.
“I…I’m looking for my key,” her father muttered. He hadn’t washed his hair, and his neck had strange marks. His clothes were drenched, and his feet cracked. Oh dear, Hilary thought. What happened?
“Abah, let’s get you home.”
“No, I want to find my key!” Her father was insistent. Shrugging off her hands, he walked to the nearest table where two women sat.
“Excuse me, could you help me find my key?” He muttered. The two women looked at one another and back at her father. Stunned, they didn’t know what to say, or do.
Face reddening, Hilary pulled her father away. “Abah, I know you want to find your key, but we cannot find it here, we can find it at home, let’s go back, okay? I will bring you back.”
This place is too dangerous for him, he might fall and knock into things, better to talk at home instead.
“No! I don’t want to go back, I want to find it now!”
“Abah, please…” A pain tore through Hilary’s heart. She hugged her father, and tried her best to soothe him. Yet, he continued to pull away from her. “I want to find my key now!” He cried.
At this point, one of the young women stood up, holding something in her hand.
“Is this your key?” She asked.
Hilary’s eyes grew wide. What is she doing?
Much to her surprise, her father stopped struggling, and looked at the key in the lady’s hands. As though the veil of trance had faded, tears welled in his eyes, and he smiled. A smile so beautiful it ached her heart.
“Yes…yes I’ve found it…”, he said.
Soft murmurs filled the room as Hilary hugged her father.
His eyes were crescent moons, and his smile revealed a few missing teeth. Hilary planted a kiss on his wet cheek, and hugged him once more. The scent of sandalwood filled her lungs. A scent she has smelled since she was young, and which would never change.
“A-bah, let’s go home, shall we?”
Silently, he nodded. He had found his peace.
Hilary spun around, taking the lady’s hands in hers.
“Thank you so much,” she gasped, her voice breaking.
“No worries, and we’ll wait for you to come back”, the lady said, smiling gently.
All around, people smiled and wished them well. Some customers even whisked out their phones to record the event, but Hilary didn’t care. It was the least of her concerns. A kind young man opened the door for the two of them.
Walking her father out of the bakery, an immense gratitude filled Hilary’s heart.
Holding hands, they walked to the nearest traffic light, and waited for the lights to change.
“Let’s go home, a-bah.”
Silently, he nodded once more, eyes back to their quiet daze.
Let’s go home. As long as you are safe, everything will be okay.
What a day.
The skies had cleared, and puddles of water remained, reflecting two people walking hand in hand, step by step, after the rain.
Dementia can be painful to cope with the diagnosed and caregivers. Let’s be kind and help those when we can. Dementia may be a condition, but it is not the end. There is always a journey of hope when the last breath is still surviving. Let’s look beyond the condition and see the person.
The Writing Den 