A little quiet, a little soft.

Subdued. I think that's the word.

The days been lovely actually.

When I find strength I'll edit this entry.

-Colours

She gingerly felt for the tap, and upon finding it, gave it a quick twist. A gush of hot steamy water fell upon her and she gasped at the sudden shock of it.

“Hey Gwen, are you ok?” a voice echoed through the bathroom. She frowned and replied, “Yes Jess, I’m fine. Now can you get out of my room please?”

“Oh… sure, I’ll leave. Um…I left the sky blue turtleneck sweater and a pair of long black pants on the bed for you,” Jessica replied. The gentle click of the door signalled her absence from the room, and Gwendolyn let out the air she had unknowingly held in. The water was still beating down on her, but she welcomed it. It was comforting, like a therapeutic massage, easing frustrations away. She closed her eyes, enjoying the melody of water meeting earth. But the tranquillity was shattered as thoughts flew to that of her sister, Jessica. Unwelcomed thoughts flowed and as images of the accident flooded her mind, her eyes opened…

To darkness.

Disabled - that was what she was; a girl with sightless eyes due to a car accident two years ago. A scream threatened to erupt from her throat as her eyes prickled with tears. She shook her head wildly, finished her shower, and groped for her clothes on the bed. Finding her sweater, she fingered it critically. “The sky blue turtleneck sweater and a pair of long black pants”, the words swirled around in her mind, repeating itself.

She laughed, a soft bitter laugh. It was so typical of her sister, to add in descriptions of the colours, mocking her disability. “Oh, to your right Gwen, there’s this gorgeous rose bush. The roses are such a deep rich maroon.” she mimicked in a falsetto voice.

Remembering what all the colours looked like did not help matters. She could see it now, a luminous maroon rose; each petal delicately defined by Mother Nature herself in its greyish shadow among the green of the rose bush. With a poof, as though it was a magician’s trick, the image disappeared into the darkness. Gwendolyn clenched her hands tight into little balls and slowly exhaled. She refused to let herself focus on that.

But the memories came, poignant memories of holding a paintbrush, dipping it into the paint, swirling it with other colours to produce brilliant hues and shades. She remembered observing fruits thoughtfully, carefully curling the paintbrush to mirror the curve of the rosy pink peach dappled with yellow. She remembered lovingly applying colours to the white canvas, filling up an empty blank with something beautiful.

Once, she had painted this sunflower. Painstakingly, she had mixed colours to get the exact dusky shade of yellow for the shadows of each petal. Crafting out details people might not even see was so much work, but she loved it. The satisfaction and joy she had when she finished it was indescribable. She had been an artist, adoring man’s ability to be captivated by meanings and raw emotions in colours splashed onto canvas, giving shape to otherwise meaningless colours.

Never could she capture beauty in its fleeting moment now. To be able to paint was a lust that haunted her. She could see it in her mind’s eye now, of a paintbrush slowly blending the colours, of applying pressure to the canvas – how she hated her disability then! Without sight, what was she? What was she?

The sound of her name snapped her out of her thoughts. “Gwen? Are you done? I would like to bring you somewhere,” Jessica said.

“Just give me a moment,” Gwendolyn replied. “I would like to bring you somewhere.” - How many times had her sister said that ever since she was blind? It seemed like a kind of ritual, in which her sister would drag her off to “somewhere” and then start describing the places. The last time they went on vacation, Jessica was dragging her to a new place every day. “Oh, there’s the sea lapping at your toes in front of you. It’s this beautiful greenish-blue with purples. There are shells too. Oh this shell, it’s seems to be a lighter shade of coral red with bands of white in between. It’s so pretty. Here, feel the shell. Can you picture it? ”

“Gwen? Are you ready now?” Jessica rapped on the door.

They went out, Jessica guiding her along. Fiery red-hot rage bubbled up within Gwendolyn then, with a hue of bluish depression mixed into it. Why her? Why was she the one who was in the car which crashed, sinking into oblivion as she lost consciousness, only to wake up to eternal darkness? The one who tore at her bandages, fearful of what this pitch-black darkness might bring? Subjected to the realisation that she would never see the colours of this world, her life had indeed been shrouded in blackness.

They stumbled up a gentle slope. Soon, the trickling of water was heard and as they both sat down, Jessica launched into a detailed sketch.

“There, in front of you is a little stream, bubbling. Oh, its waters are clear and there are little pebbles and rocks scattered on the stream’s bed. You can actually go wade in it if you want to; it’s a gentle shallow stream. Try picturing it, it’s like the stream on Aunt Lucy’s farm, only smaller. You can see little fishes darting around, they are a silvery white. Their scales actually gleam and glitter when they catch the sun! There are trees to our right, and they are flowering! Ooh, I like the flowers. They’re so interesting. It’s like several little joined stems, white at the bottom and slowly changing into fuchsia. And at the very top, there’s this small cheeky-yellow ball. It smells lovely. Here, take it and feel it. Can you picture it?”

Gwendolyn could. And it gave her so much pain, not to be able to capture the flower’s likeness, its grace and elegance. The pain smarted, and all of a sudden, the words spurted out of her mouth. “Why Jessica why?! Why do you always describe these beautiful things, and cause me pain? Do you know how much it hurts not being able to see, not being able to capture grace with paper and brush anymore? To be good at something but have it taken away… Why do you make it harder? Do you find joy in that!”

She could hear the ragged beating of her heart in the stunned silence that followed. The silence itself seemed to yawn bigger and bigger, like a great gaping abyss. And then her sister’s voice came – sound waves that crept apprehensively to her ears: “I… I didn’t know I was making it harder.” Jessica mumbled. The silence was broken.

Yet after that simple short statement, the silence resumed with full vigour, as thought it was never before interrupted. Gwendolyn opened her mouth to speak as she realised the truth of Jessica’s words, but there were no words on her tongue. She closed her mouth again.

The birds twittered in the trees.

“Jessica… can you see the birds? Would you describe them to me?” Gwendolyn asked tentatively. There was no knowing what could happen next, whether her sister would be angry at this invitation, or take it and try to patch things up. And then as her sister’s exuberant voice rose again after an agonising pause, Gwendolyn smiled.

I'm in love.

Yes, allow me to capture this moment in time, this phrase of simple feelings and emotions, with hardly any worries or doubts.

I'm in love, as much as I think or feel I ever could. Or, at least I think it's love. I'm not too sure. Perhaps I'm using the wrong word. If that is so, someone please correct me, such that this be more accurate, for others to understand fully.

But it seems like each day is so beautiful, that the sun is all bright, and the overcast sky is but only tinted with a soft grey glow that has a shimmering quality of its own.. And the clouds are passionately beautiful, with soft rolls and curls tucked into themselves.

I'm in love with my family, though they do strain and tired me out at times. But they also have their beautiful loving times, where everyone laughs, and is all smiles. Where teasings are kindly made, with a twinkle in the eye. Oh, they really really really do strain me out immensely, and sometimes my temper feels frayed just by looking at them. But still, I have to love them. So I try. I keep my voice down, I try to ask them to leave me alone whenever my temper starts getting too bad, so I won't scream at them and fly off into a really bad rage.

Though eh, it'll be a little nice to have a break from siblings. Um. Long enough for me to miss them? =\ Though I didn't miss them at all during the one week in Hong Kong, so I probably need a really long break. Oh no!

And I'm in love with school, though some may think me mad to even love such a thing. But the deadlines are over, and it seems I can see the nicer things in school. A friendly hello, a kind word, a gaze of concern, from friends, classmates and teachers alike. I'm in love with the smiles and laughers, with huge grins and the friendly crinkles at the eyes. How beautiful!

A patter of footsteps, a shriek of laugher, and yes, who can forget the little kids I am so fond of? The wild little tempers and tantrums, but whose rare, almost cherubic-side which has somehow captured my heart so tightly, who I'll be willing to carry and hold on to, if only I could. So fond of them, yes I am.

But yea, I know not whether is it right to be in such a state, where all transgressions are forgotten, or, cast to the back of my mind.

So is this love?

Or am I drowned in my own delusions, a lie by which my own hand has helped to craft ever so carefully, and growing bigger and bigger till it overpowers my own will, and leave me in an almost fantasy-like kind of bliss.

I know not.

-defeated by thy own hand

I scrawled the message I wanted to tell you on my arm. With a yellow highlighter. Fluorescent cool ink on my skin, and I thought back to what my classmate once told me when I used a green marker to draw all over the palm of my hand. "You're gonna get skin cancer like this!" she said. "It's toxic!"

I wondered if I was slowly killing myself with the toxicity of yellow highlight ink. I wondered if it will really get me skin cancer, and turn me into a monster. But only for a while. Just as quickly my mind focused on the message, the importance of it all, and how it had to get to you. Who cares about me contracting skin cancer at this time??

Not me. The message I was going to tell you was more important than the risk of me getting skin cancer.

I dashed out into the streets, and tried to flag down a taxi. They zoomed past me, on call signs blinking away. Oops. Peak period. My hands feel around my pants and jackets for my phone. None. I had forgot to bring it out. Well, it didn't matter. It was only one kilometre to your house. I could run it, easily.

So I ran, fast, hard, running to you, bursting to tell you my message. I reached your door, I raised my hand to press the doorbell.

Only to see that the words were gone.

Sweat mingled with ink, swirls of yellow ink. The words gone gone.

How do I say this?

Yea, how do I say this without sounding angsty, or whiny? For that is not my point. But what then. What's the point, what's the purpose? Oh, if I knew, that would be the driving force for me to continue writing, for it's something to write for.

But seemingly there's none. Oh yes, throw out possible reasons at me like multiple choice. To remember, to record, to express, for others to relate, for something to look back on, all of the above. But this is not some final year exam in which there is a definite universally correct answer. For there's none.

Different people are driven for different reasons. And it seems like my reasons are but a whirling mess of emotions and ambiguity. And it's my mess. My own.

And yet when I write of it, it comes out as some stuff that teenagers all over the world are talking about. And I fear that. I fear that what I'm saying is gonna be shoved away into someone's brain as oh-so-typical, and that my words do not reflect myself, but a warped version of it.

How do you write of such stuff without sounding too shallow, and yet not elevating to a state which it isn't. Or have my fancies always pushed things up higher, make it seem more invisible and untouchable...

It is tiring to think of such stuff. But still I do. Still I do.

And then I don't write.

Someone see through the order of words into the real chaos of thoughts please..

There are some experiences that are so pleasant.

Like sitting on the stairs, alone, away from the rest. Where there's something sturdy to lean against. And you're crouched low, in this place you can call your own for a little while. Warm warm, the sun shines on you and you can feel the comfortable sensation of heat crawling along your arms, around your neck, almost down to the small of your back. Tingly. Comforting. And your anger is dissolving, seeping away. You know without a doubt that right now, at this very moment, the sun is your friend. And you wonder how long you can stay there. It feels so delicious, so glorious. Still as you are, you could almost close your eyes now, surrendering yourself to this sensation, and fall asleep bathed in warmth and light. Peace.. it feels so safe.

But you shake yourself awake, and know you need to get back. Get back so that others won't be worried. So you stand up and walk back, slowly. Into a whole crowd of noisy youths. Vibrant atmosphere, a birthday cake lies on the table. Pretty, with puffs of white cream.

You take your place and sit down.

And then, you realise you are shivering here.