The song has ended.

She stood there, as the notes slowly faded off. Her heart still strummed those tender notes, and she closed my eyes, pulling the notes in, closer to her. And the melody was alive in her heart, in her blood, rushing through every nerve of her being. Memories came, bright and clear. Flashing. Going. She never had them so vivid before. And she drowned in the clarity as she embraced those notes.

Eyes opened to see a world of grimy grey. Night had fallen, spreading her wings of darkness across the cities. The dim orange glow of the street lamps was the only light source, but even then, it was a dusky kind of light. Sounds of shuffling shoes, hurried garbled voices on the phone. Her eyes were bright black against white, but for an instant, sadness and pain clouded it. She shook her head, cleared her vision. Hair flew into her eyes, and hands swept it away. And then she heard the tinkling of coins.

Her eyes moved down, and right before her eyes lay a man. Dressed in rags, tattered and torn, with wrinkles all over his body. So very old, almost like a fossil, fading into the pavement, into the cracks of the grey slab of cement. A rust-stained harmonica lay by his side as his tired hands stretched for his treasure - his money of the day. Cradling the bowl to his chest, he picks up his harmonica, and rises.

He was not shaven. Hair, meat, dirt, rags rose up, tall but defeated. She stood a distance away, gazing. Their eyes connected.

And she realised with a jolt the music played in him too. It was different, yet the same, and for that one instance, they swirled together. Looks never did kill. They only connected two souls and send them flying, shaken out of their world. Their music played in beat, her heart ached and heaved, and she could not breathe. The man was so colourful and deep, but the colours was not a bright myraid swirl. It was deeper than that, but still as bright, as vivid, as clear.

Lights flashed, stars shone, moon gleam. They disconnected, but the notes and colours stayed. She walked towards him. Steps that were small, but not hesistant, holding an unknown purpose. She came to him. She held his hands. And then she broke contact. Her hand went deep into her purse, and she pulled out a fifty. She folded it up, and placed it in the bowl. And she left.

And the world had one more person alive with sorrow.

Suddenly you feel so much like a little child again.

The world is spun new with colours. Deep swirly colours. Perspiration gets into the eye, and it stings, the world blurs, and it is oh so very beautiful. And I think back about how things make me feel special. Warm, comforted, cosy. Like being the only priviledged person to hear that one special concert, to see those precious words meant for you. No one else can steal that away from you.

And I remember how he freed time up for me among his chaos, his busy life of deadlines and work, and listened to me. Somehow I am nuzzling that thought, nursing it close to my heart, and it's of such comfort. Like the baby blanket you grew up with, thick and familiar with your very own scent.

Be it one day, one month, one year. And I remember. How a greeting can make me happy. How an enquiry about my well-being would be an instant balm, a soothing spell that makes everything all right for that one moment.

And I think, and I remember. And I feel like a little child.

It's bedtime now.

I am scared. 10 weeks of school loom ahead of me. 50 days of actual school. 70 days of extreme stress. But even as I fear the coming weeks, the sun still shines. Ever so brightly. And the sky is of such a clear clear blue. So brilliant, so startling a blue. And I look on, and it's almost as if I can drown my heart in the colour, pour my sorrows out to the sky. It will accept my cries. I just know it. And maybe this trembling heart can stop trembling for just a little while. And I can breathe deeply and freely. For just a little while.

For the reality which I once believe in has gone with the passing away of belief. But at least I once had that reality.

Yep.

ooh. Sickness comes, like a great beast. Its tendrils crawl around me, going round my body, grabbing me, and tossing me around. I've been immune to it for so long, but now it finally has me, and what fun it has, juggling me around and around.

And I spin, giddy, sick. Hurting hurting and thirsty. That thirst burns in my throat. HARD. SEARING. What I would do for a drink that would soothe this aching aching dryness. It hurts so much. My throat feels so very very dry.

Thrice in a night I have woken up to get a long drag of water that is unable to soothe the dryness of my throat. The water runs down my throat, and I fell full. My stomach is bloated, and refuses anymore water. Still it aches on. Oh, it hurts to talk. Very very much. My nerves tremble with pain as air moves through it. They are silent in their protest, but their silence is deafening.

Cold. So very very cold. Sneeze. Once. Twice. Thrice. My numb brain struggles to work on. On and on. My hand struggle to write down the words. My brain tries to compose.

So very sick.

Days pass and pass. The sun was supposed to stay and last a little longer, but somehow it’s dying out in my world. It’s a brilliant ruby, and it’s slowly fading away. Everywhere I see, it's tainted with that reddish, bloodish glow. Homes are filled with chaos and agitation. The garden ain't a relaxing place anymore. Ice cream melts away.

The scent of disasters is strong in the air. It's thick and heavy, and it's pressing down on me. Hard. I can hardly breathe. There's too much assignments, too little time.

And I have no more energy. Limp. Like a rag doll. Thrown aside. In a city of grown-ups, there's no child to spot a treasure in me. None. I'm torn, broken. Burnt out. This feels like the end. I'm nonchalant. It starts raining. I'm all wet now. Oh well.

And so it's been 3 days of troubled sleep. I can't think. I mean, if I'm thinking, they're one whole bunch of disjointed stuff. They don't link up. Tossing and turning. Turning and tossing. Why am I waking up in the middle of the night? Huh? I'm up again? Oh yea, I am. I can see light coming in from under the door. My parents must be up. I need to go back to sleep. How many times have I woken up now? Three, four times? I've lost track.

Strange textures. Her hand flung out and brushed across strange unfamiliar textures. Here a sudden sharp corner greeted her finger. There a sudden smooth soft thing. They were the most unfamiliar things. And they were in her house.

She was really quite scared. A soft gasp escaped from her heart and flew to her closed lips, and then the next second her lips opened to let it out. Was this really her home? Yes, indeed, it was. But it was suddenly so strange, so unfamiliar. So detached…

She huddled into that one small corner she was familiar with. The corner which she would run to when she was scared, or when she was crying. But it had changed. It was not the soft pastel green. It was suddenly murky. And somehow, she could not crouch into it as comfortably as she once could.

The harsh light glared onto her. 5 bright fluorescent white light bulbs. Where was the warm orange tone she was so used to? Gone, gone, all gone in a sudden second. So there she was left in a strange remote place that was her home and yet was not.

So the ghost of insecurity came upon her and materialized into something tangible. And she could feel it traveling round her, and skipping around in her very heart, making a playground out of her treasure. It built up such a pressure, such a very painful ache, but it was not one she could get rid of. Not when the ghost was having his fun. Not when there was no one to slay the ghost.

I've gone too deep. Too deep, too fast. And I made the mistake of telling him. I started, and then the ball of string rolled away from me, all of a sudden, my thoughts and emotions were unraveled. It burst out of control, and became one messy tangle when I tried to pick it up.

And this conversation feels like a chess game. I've spilled myself out, I think I'm ready for the killing, but all of a sudden the game falls away from me, and I'm making moves on impulse without realising. And he stops his own moves, he's taking a longer time to consider. And that gives ME time to think. And I stand up to get a drink of water and suddenly I realised I can't make a move anymore, that all that is done has been done, and I went so deep I didn't even know it. Now I'm waiting for his move. He's not replying though.

I know his style, know how he work. I know how sometimes he leaves a conversation, just say bye, and go offline. Sometimes he does not even bother to leave you a message. He just go off.

I don't know which is more preferable. Him not replying and just signing off without a note. Or him saying, "oh oh, I gtg" and then sign off. Or actually, actually replying.

This is an idiotic chess game. But I initiated it. And I can't relax till he has made his move, struck his blow. Till he has claimed full victory.

Perhaps, it will end differently. But I remember the last time I played this chess game with someone else. 2 years back. Things I never knew spilled out. Some smart-aleck stuff came tumbling. Then he gives me one short look, and told me I was cynical.

Me, Rebecca, cynical. I never knew that. So in a way, somehow he won, because he sent a blow that crushed me, that sent me reeling.

Checkmate.

Oh hello. The world is stormy.

And it's raining raining all around me.

These droplets of fluid are able to sting like rock-solid ice. Sting like fire. They penetrate my clothing and I'm all cold on the outside. I'm shivering, I'm a pathetic bundle of nerves. Inside I'm feverish, sweating, the burden hard and heavy on my shoulders. I'm taking all the wrong steps apparently. Stuck in a maze.

Thankfully, even the hardest of maze has at the very least, one exit.

So that's a nice comfy thought, the kind of thought that makes you feel all fuzzy and warm, and you're able to lean back into soft cushions. You're wearing comfortable clothing, the temperature is nice and cool, your stuffed toys never looked more adorable or sweet. Your shoulders are relaxed..

In actual truth, the weather's been hot. My shoulders are tensed up. I have 4 stuffed toys, and they are lying on my bed with a bedsheet of a rather pretty shade of light green, but I am not on my bed. I am sitting in this rock hard chair, and I'm wondering if I should ask you for updates of the progress. But all of a sudden I am sick and tired

And the feeling seems never-ending. And that's how a maze brings you down. It traps you in, it gives you the feeling of never-ending twists and turns that lead to dead ends.

So the sun shines brightly, so bright and sunny, but it only heightens the shadows cast by all the obstacles. The dead end seems so much bigger.


I do not know how to handle that feeling of raw naked skin meeting fresh air.

I wanted the best, though it was out of my reach, I aimed straight for the moon, the light flashed, my hand shook, thus I failed, and you would have thought I would land among the stars, but no I did not, instead back to earth I fell, and boy was it a heavy fall.

He stood from the ground, he took it easy, he did best what he knew he could, and the scene was captured, and it’s so much more pretty, with that small crescent of a moon grinning at me, and as I watched the moon lit up his path, so he was brought to the stars, and that’s the end of this whole short story.

She's a secret, the rare gem that only that 30plus number of people know. She's their secret. Her identity remains known only to that select group. They were brought together due to the random sorting done by computers, and together, they entered into that new room. Here in the space of one classroom, in a small little school along Dunearn road, up there at the fourth storey, and later, at the second storey, they shared in laugher and joy, went through teachers like a whirlwind, found a common love in literature, had good old times with star wars, and blossomed. The year was unique and they grabbed hold of every chance. 3 was their number, and 3 it stayed, till sec 3 where the were separated. She left, but they kept her, and no one else is to know the existence of her little stuff, of those sides and faces of her. Her blog is kept as an almost sacred secret. Wild lightning in their eyes, oh will you ever meet another like them. But shall I weep? No I won't. I'll just take that bottle of water from you, and gulp some down, before wiping off the droplets off my lips.
--
Random rants. Sorry. And and, I can't bear this.
--
My confidence in communicating/writing in chinese is totally wrecked. How nice.