When you're gazing at a rainbow, what you're really seeing is the collected light from millions and millions of different raindrops in that one fleeting moment. Move a little to the left or the right, and you are looking at new raindrops and thus, a new rainbow!

So even if you're seemingly admiring the same rainbow with your friend, the two of you are actually seeing different rainbows.

Each rainbow is your very own.

Just like how looking at stars is looking at the past, since those starlight came from far far away a few light years ago - that the light you're seeing NOW is a star that might not be existing NOW.

How mystical. Such as watching a person grow and progress. It's a beautiful experience, if not humbling.

To see that person really change for the better, helping others. You feel so comforted.

Who hasn't done it befoe?

She was at the 4th storey.

Below her, she could see the quadrangle. And the small little classroom doors. They looked tiny. Real tiny. The wind was ruffling her skirt, almost about to blow it up. She tucked to the back and leaned against the pillar.

Her hands held the sleek black phone gingerly. What a contrast it was, her in her white blouse and skirt, with that black phone in her hands. She waited for it to ring and vibrate.

It refused.

The clouds floated by leisurely. Big, puffy, pretty. Pretty. Ring phone, ring please. Anything will do. A sentence, a short phrase, a word, a letter, blank. Anything will do. Just something from you please.

Silence.

"Hey, you going in now?"

She looked at the person who spoke. "yea." Took one last look at the clouds, one final check of her phone, and walked in slowly into the room. The door closed. She put the phone away.

Afterwards, after the training session, she would check again immediately. There would be nothing. Or maybe there would be. But it's not the one desired.

Clouds still drift.

The words that can come out in a drunken stupor of depression and dejection are apparently sharp and lethal, like a sword designed to slice and strip to the very bone. Where a thin silver of blood drips from the wound, and it hurts not only the flesh, but the heart and soul.

Yet in this haze I know not whether those words had even been said, whether those thoughts even appeared. I stand trial now, in a seemingly guilty till proven innocent case. The accusant has pinned this crime onto me, this crime which I have no recollections of at all. Here I stand, horrified, and seeking for answers, for the parts of the jigsaw puzzle to piece back the exact scene. For my memories apparently run on a different track.

Here I sit in front of the screen, staring at the words that so eloquently place my crime before me. Here I am, frantically typing, to make sure I have not seen wrong, that he had not remembered wrong. And I'm the one who's seeking for answers, who's trying desperately to clear myself of this accusation.

For I certainly do not remember hurting them in such a way, throwing such a bitter and harsh question out at them. Why would I? I'm not fit to ask them such a question in the first place, and I wouldn't have. One day they would stumble upon their questions themselves. I need not tell them, I need not, should not, be the harsh and critical one who tell them.

I cannot leave this issue alone unresolved. Yet my mouth is filled with the unplesant taste of realisation - that you'll probably want to dismiss this matter.

I pray you won't. For the knots would leave me twisting in agony.

The slow sinking feeling of horror and despair.
How am I to lead when I'm just as blind?
How am I to lead when I have a log in my eye?
Who am I to say, "try not to next time"?
I wish this has not come upon me so fast.

Her hair combed nicely, twisted up elegantly - full of smiles she was, her mouth curved upward. She was picture perfect. Delicate steps she took, smiling graciously at anyone who caught her eye.

It was not a particularly beautiful smile, but there was an elegant hint about it. Her smile was kissed with the moon, and not the sun. It was the moon that had descended from her place up in the celestial realm, glistening with a pearly-white, and came upon her, landing gently on her smile like a butterfly would perch delicately on the flower. And that was what it held, a surreal glow. Her smile needed no make-up, no artificial glint.

People knew her smile.

But how many could claim to know what was behind the smile? How many could sense the sadness, the fragile strength of keeping the smile up? How many had been caught up into the whirlwind of her emotions, and felt her pain to be theirs?

Let’s not even speak of feeling. How many had seen her broken side, her tears which flowed? Do not trust the movies, for when one is reduced to tears, there’s nothing pretty about it. It’s a confession of weakness, a sign of vulnerability. It is a need for help.

How many had put their hands on her back as she sobbed, their hand providing a warmth, a steady support – a big contrast with the trembling of the shadows? How many had wished to bring her into their warmth, enclose her safely in their arms? How many had felt their heart ache along with her broken state, and wished to tenderly close her wounds?

Few.

The cool air whispered past his ear - seemingly caressing, but icy in its touch. He stood still, a lone tall figure in the murky shadows of the buildings that surrounded him. Leaves swirled around his feet.

Cold. So very cold. He stood still, and it was not long before drops of rain fell on him, silver darts of light against the dreary buildings. Every drop on him was like cold lashings of the whip, but he stood there, taking it in. And slowly, slowly he sank down, and there he was sitting, back against building, heads and shoulders slumped.

The rain came in torrents, but he was quiet. It was silence that bubbled within him, silence that run through his veins. It was silence that sealed his mouth, sewing it shut with its invisible thread. The general public walked past him hurriedly, caught up in their own worlds. Their own little worlds.

He looked out through clear lenses, out of his own bubble in his slumped position. A fallen flower lay at his side. He saw it, out of the corner of his eye, and his fingers crept towards it. One by one, his fingers closed around it, and he brought it to him. There it laid, in his palm, gently cradled.

It stem a withered brown, but oh! The flower petals itself still a vivid yellow. Frail it was, but it seemed to speak of life within it, a little seed of life hidden in the depths. Against his wrinkled palm, it seemed almost sacred. He blew slowly, softly into it.

A wind came by, and the flower drifted away from his palm, along with it. He gazed at it, see it flow as one with the wind, doing its little spins and twirl.

And with the next blink of his eye, it was out of his sight.

Out of his grasp.

There comes a time when you have to let go. Where you have to trust and believe that you'll remember by yourself without the aid of mementos, because there's no other choice. Dare you do so then?

Dare you?

Leaving behind tugs at your heart strings. There's always this feeling of, "no, I can't. it holds too much memories."

Are the memories painful or uplifting?

If they're painful, cast them aside? Or leave it as a sober reminder, a realistic thought? What do one do with these painful memories, that cause tears and gashes in your heart?

Who knows.

Who cares.

Smile and face the day. That horrible feeling in your guts, in your heart can be quelled. Once quelled, it'll pass. Sooner, or later.

Soak yourself in new experiences. It'll make you forget. Youths are naturally resilient, and in an environment of new stuff, one learns to forget and move on.

Smile at the happy thoughts, the one that makes you feel sweet.

Cry if you have to. Even if it happens to be in the public. That's what the toliet for really. Or that isolated corner that hardly anyone visits in school.

Find irony in life. Look on the positive side.

Be glad you know who can understand and make you smile, who you can go to when you need a realistic tug back down. Even if you went through tears to find out.

Write. Sing. Move.

That feeling might not be washed away in a blink of an eye of course.

Listen.

Wear black. Then red.

Play Ghost.

Don't think about others pampering you. Pamper yourself instead.

Read.

Give all kind of random comments. Make people laugh.

Regrets.

Be pasta.

-Abandoning the wanting to find out and define my thoughts; throwing them out instead. It's a cruder form of venting.