In the past it was dreams about saving the world. Decked in cool costumes. Fighting. Transformation. Big robots crushing the villain's robot. I'll wake a little, and turn back to sleep, hoping that the dreams will continue.
They don't.
I wake up, and continue my day. To school and back. At night I wonder if the dreams will continue, but they don't. Or I don't remember them.
And then I'll wish my maid never woke me up.
Now the nature of dreams has changed. Sweet. And I find myself half-awake, and not willing to be awake, but turning back to sleep in hopes that the dreams will continue. It's the holidays. I fall back asleep. The dream continue along the thread of its story. How blissfully sweet. I feel loved. My heart feels light - real light. Joy. Small smiles. Exploring places.
What a strange beautiful dream.
But amidst this joy lies realisation. A subtle reminder to something I have not wished to think about much. But when there are dreams, and dreams that are actually remembered, I can't help but wonder, really, am I changing again?
I don't mean a major change, from extrovert back to introvert, from feeling to thinking, from intuitive to sensing. Or at least, not such a drastic change in the major scale anyway. But just, perceptions, perceptions.
A little quieter. A little less stamina. A little less care for writing. Again?
Is this just a temporal phrase, or permanent? I don't know, but there seems to be a drop in my writing. Down, down down. I'm still a storyteller, I think. But the frequency has dropped.
What are experiences if they are not shared? Illusion? Or reality. What is joy not shared? Did I really went to watch bridge to terabithia? Did I really cry until my eyes were red, even after I got out of the cinema? Did I really tell stories, had fun with soap? One day I'm going to forget that I'm starting to like spongebob now. Or am I? But no one would remind me.
I want more games. There's only one going on, and I want more. But others are too busy. So no one even knows.
And more and more tales are kept to myself.
Meanwhile reality reminds me of work and work.
May 31, 2007
May 30, 2007
never-ending laugher-
"Soap, soap, soap!"
An impromptu story that was only learnt on the very day itself sends them into laugher. They laugh and laugh. I feel happy. I feel light. I jump, skip around, hung my head way low. I give shocked expressions. I open my mouth in extreme amazement. I touch my face, look at my hands. I make them laugh.
Soap's a brilliant story. It did not seem that brilliant at first. But a little actions, and it sends everyone into laugher.
Feels good to act silly. Act out of character. Do dramatic actions.
Coyote was an even greater hit. They got grossed out. Went eee. Squirmed. Squealed. Laugh.
Ah... Coyote's one amazing story.
"Soap, soap, soap!"
An impromptu story that was only learnt on the very day itself sends them into laugher. They laugh and laugh. I feel happy. I feel light. I jump, skip around, hung my head way low. I give shocked expressions. I open my mouth in extreme amazement. I touch my face, look at my hands. I make them laugh.
Soap's a brilliant story. It did not seem that brilliant at first. But a little actions, and it sends everyone into laugher.
Feels good to act silly. Act out of character. Do dramatic actions.
Coyote was an even greater hit. They got grossed out. Went eee. Squirmed. Squealed. Laugh.
Ah... Coyote's one amazing story.
Soap
Once when life was simple,a woman was doing her laundry when she discovered she was out of soap. So she hollared for her seven year old boy, "Boy,boy! Why don’t you run down to town to help me buy some soap? Don't forget now! Soap! You just keep saying "Soap" till you get to the store." So the boy left and took his usual short cut down a dirt lane. Now it had been raining and that dirt road was muddy. "Soap ... Soap ... Soap ! Soap ... Soap ... Soap!" He was concentrating so hard, he stepped into a muddy pothole, stumbled and almost slipped.
But when he caught his balance, he'd forgotten what he was supposed to get. "Here I had it! (pacing) Here I lost it! " "Here I had it! (pacing) Here I lost it!... " A man came along and noticed the boy's strange behavior. "Here I had it! Here I lost it!" "What have you lost young man? I'll help you find it" But when he stepped forward he slipped into the same muddy pothole. "This spot is slicker than soap!"
"Soap! ... Soap! ... Soap!" (dance around)
The man, however, thought he was being made fun of. "Don't you make fun of me, young man! Say you're sorry and won't do it again!" "I'm sorry... Won't do it again!" He ran down the lane. "I'm sorry! Won't do it again" "I'm sorry! Won't do it again" He couldn't remember what he was supposed to get. He ran around a corner, and right into an old lady with a basket full of milk and the basket flew into the ditch, the eggs breaking and the milk spilling out.
"I'm sorry ... won't do it again"
"Well, I know you are sorry, at least you can help me get my basket."
The boy fetched her basket and got dirty all over. "I'm sorry ... won't do it again" "That's all right child, I know you are sorry. There's no use crying over spilt milk" The boy headed on down the lane. He still couldn't remember what he was going to get. "No use crying over spilt milk". "No use crying over spilt milk". Then he came upon the Milk man whose wagon had gotten stuck in the ditch. He was trying to push it out.
"No use crying over spilt milk".
"I ain't crying, kid - help me push this wagon out. Can't you see! I need help!"
So the boy got in the muddy ditch behind the wagon. After a few shoves and a few tugs, the wagon was freed. The man thanked him and drove off. When the boy reached town, he still couldn't remember what he had been sent to get. "Can't you see! I need help!" "Can't you see! I need help!"
Just in front of the store he met a blind old man. "Can't you see! I need help!" "I may be blind, but I sure can smell. You sure do stink! and you need a bath, I think!"
"I sure do stink! Need a bath, I think!" "I sure do stink! Need a bath, I think!"
The woman behind the counter looked him over. He was filty from top to bottom, face all black, hands all dirty, tears streaming down. "You sure do need a bath, boy. And you'd better use lots of soap!"
"Soap! Soap! SOAP!" Said the boy! "That's what I need, Soap!" So he bought the soap and went straight home, without taking the shortcut.
The day is beautiful. Glorious blue, speckled with white. Scraps of grey clouds move among them, like tattered dirty children full of joy cheer and spirit, determined to win the whites in a game of conquest.
Wake up, can't you smell the coffee?
Actually I can't...
Oh um hee well, it's actually not coffee, but milo. My bad.
Haha.
They run, they cheer, they score. Both white and grey roll merrily in their ground and all become dirty and dusty.
And I laugh.
May 20, 2007
goodbye, goodbye - the words echo, and go on and on and on.
then gone, for another week. two weeks. four days. three weeks. another hello, another goodbye.
soon soon, another shall be robbed.
where to next.
then gone, for another week. two weeks. four days. three weeks. another hello, another goodbye.
soon soon, another shall be robbed.
Mad World, by Gary Jules
all around me are familiar faces
worn out places, worn out faces
bright and early for the daily races
going nowhere, going nowhere
their tears are filling up their glasses,
no expression, no expression
hide my head I wanna drown my sorrow
no tomorrow, no tomorrow.
and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad,
the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
when people run in circles its a very very
mad world, mad world
children waiting for the day they feel good
happy birthday, happy birthday
and I feel the way that every child should
sit and listen, sit and listen
went to school and I was very nervous
no one knew me, no one new me
hello teacher tell me what’s my lesson
look right through me, look right through me
and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad
the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
when people run in circles its a very very
mad world, mad world
enlarging your world
mad world
where to next.
May 19, 2007
(an edit, since I was unable to carry out my previous idea properly)
1.
Water. That transparent compound of element hydrogen and oxygen pumps through his body, mingling with those red blood cells to form that red fluid which provides life. It constantly flowed through his body, that deep red liquid of life, but he could not feel the flow. No feelings were felt, as he sat in front of the computer screen.
Insects buzzed around him, softly, their wings lightly tickling him at the nape of his neck. They were close – intimate almost. He sat still, knowing fully well that any violent action on his part would send those insects away. But they would come back, seemingly faithful and loyal. But alas, their lifespan was short. Too short. A few hundred hours, and they would be gone, unknown and unremembered, leaving him still as alone.
So he threw himself into gaming instead. No, he was never lost in that fictional world. He knew exactly where he was threading; he knew the curves and contours of the various landscapes available for his one faithful loyal character. His character, his comrade, his sidekick. The line between the real and the virtual would blur, body entwined, they merged, and every wound was his wound, every move his move, and as the blade crashed down on the enemy, he heard the thud as body met ground. They ran, they dashed forward, and the victorious hand held the severed head up by his long messy mop of hair. Bloody, but good.
Another giddy rush of blood gushed to his head - what a jolt of adrenaline. Hot, so hot; never before had he felt more conscious. His fingers flew fast and furious around the keys of the keyboard and they smashed the minions and slew the boss with clever combination moves. They defeated the grotesque gnome, and stood on top of the world, as one. Rain lashed down upon them, little silver whips of water, and he stood there, sat there, savouring his virtual victory.
His character and him. Him and his character. Why bother distinguishing? As one, they would get out onto that virtual plane. His fingers flew and then the blade went down, swift and strong. Dead. He withdrew the blade from the dead never-alive, and it came out slicked wet with red. Sweat formed on his brow and palms, falling, pooling into tiny puddles of water. A flick of the head, water sprayed, everywhere. He took a gulp of ice-cold water from the cup standing so elegantly besides the lamp on the table. His teeth crunched hard into the ice, splitting them, spattering the cold bits all over his mouth before swallowing. Insects buzzed around him again, but this time he only flicked them away, slapping the mosquitoes, smearing the blood away by rubbing his hands.
At night he wondered why there seemed to be a faint smell of metal, but it would soon disappear as he dropped off to sleep and dreams. The night was hot, and in his dreams he panted, sweat trickling off his brow, down his back as he fought with monsters. He would awake the next day to fight some more. Life, blood and endless battles.
2.
Fear awoke in his parents’ hearts. They gave him more smiles; they invited him to join them in vacations to exotic places, places that promised beaches with sandy white sand and inviting azure blues. Their hearts contracted so when he shook his head with that hint of a small smile on his face. How about green forests, tall majestic hardwoods, or the twinkling lights of the busy city… their offers would die off on their lips, as he stood up and quietly slip into his room.
Late at night, his parents would open the door after returning from work, and gaze upon the bulk that lay on the bed, their hearts constricting painfully, blood coursing quick, too quick through their veins. Saliva would be swallowed, before his dad loosened his tie, or his mom took off her heavy chunky necklace, and they would go to the kitchen, to get a drink. The sound of water trickling and splashing happily would soothe their poor tired nerves. There were times, as they sat and waited for the cup to be filled by the water dispenser, when they were lulled into such a fake peace and calm that they would close their eyes, leaning forward to rest their head on their arms, and just listened to the sound of droplets meeting a pool. But it could not go on forever. One of them would rise, and flick the switch of the water dispenser back.
Each, would gaze at the other, silently taking in the tragic image of a tall grown-up slumped in helplessness, with all nobility shed – flown away. Hunched figure, worried frown, the melancholy hollowness of eyes, long drawn-out shadow emptily echoing in fake fluorescent glow. Sometimes one would rise, and bring the other into a hug, like hapless little kids huddling together after being bullied. They would sip from their cup of water as fingers gently circle and outline his 13-year-old picture, framed finely in a warm wooden frame, and placed in the living room as the latest photograph of him. Dark grey clouds which hid the moon and stars met their eyes when they raised their heads. The next day, as heavy fierce rain drummed onto their vehicles of steel, they tried to blink back their tears.
On his 18th birthday, his door was closed and locked. They pressed their ears against the door, only to hear fast successive clicking sounds on the keyboard. Both walked away with heavy hearts and slow steps. One turned on the television, and the room was filled with the gibberish gabble of unknown characters. The other turned to a book, but the words flitted past through his mind, and he was distracted just that little, but enough for him to put his finger on one particularly hard paragraph, and re-read it. Again, and again, and again. Then both would pause, and take another drink of water.
But, cooling as water was, it was unable to soothe the burning laceration in their hearts.
1.
Water. That transparent compound of element hydrogen and oxygen pumps through his body, mingling with those red blood cells to form that red fluid which provides life. It constantly flowed through his body, that deep red liquid of life, but he could not feel the flow. No feelings were felt, as he sat in front of the computer screen.
Insects buzzed around him, softly, their wings lightly tickling him at the nape of his neck. They were close – intimate almost. He sat still, knowing fully well that any violent action on his part would send those insects away. But they would come back, seemingly faithful and loyal. But alas, their lifespan was short. Too short. A few hundred hours, and they would be gone, unknown and unremembered, leaving him still as alone.
So he threw himself into gaming instead. No, he was never lost in that fictional world. He knew exactly where he was threading; he knew the curves and contours of the various landscapes available for his one faithful loyal character. His character, his comrade, his sidekick. The line between the real and the virtual would blur, body entwined, they merged, and every wound was his wound, every move his move, and as the blade crashed down on the enemy, he heard the thud as body met ground. They ran, they dashed forward, and the victorious hand held the severed head up by his long messy mop of hair. Bloody, but good.
Another giddy rush of blood gushed to his head - what a jolt of adrenaline. Hot, so hot; never before had he felt more conscious. His fingers flew fast and furious around the keys of the keyboard and they smashed the minions and slew the boss with clever combination moves. They defeated the grotesque gnome, and stood on top of the world, as one. Rain lashed down upon them, little silver whips of water, and he stood there, sat there, savouring his virtual victory.
His character and him. Him and his character. Why bother distinguishing? As one, they would get out onto that virtual plane. His fingers flew and then the blade went down, swift and strong. Dead. He withdrew the blade from the dead never-alive, and it came out slicked wet with red. Sweat formed on his brow and palms, falling, pooling into tiny puddles of water. A flick of the head, water sprayed, everywhere. He took a gulp of ice-cold water from the cup standing so elegantly besides the lamp on the table. His teeth crunched hard into the ice, splitting them, spattering the cold bits all over his mouth before swallowing. Insects buzzed around him again, but this time he only flicked them away, slapping the mosquitoes, smearing the blood away by rubbing his hands.
At night he wondered why there seemed to be a faint smell of metal, but it would soon disappear as he dropped off to sleep and dreams. The night was hot, and in his dreams he panted, sweat trickling off his brow, down his back as he fought with monsters. He would awake the next day to fight some more. Life, blood and endless battles.
2.
Fear awoke in his parents’ hearts. They gave him more smiles; they invited him to join them in vacations to exotic places, places that promised beaches with sandy white sand and inviting azure blues. Their hearts contracted so when he shook his head with that hint of a small smile on his face. How about green forests, tall majestic hardwoods, or the twinkling lights of the busy city… their offers would die off on their lips, as he stood up and quietly slip into his room.
Late at night, his parents would open the door after returning from work, and gaze upon the bulk that lay on the bed, their hearts constricting painfully, blood coursing quick, too quick through their veins. Saliva would be swallowed, before his dad loosened his tie, or his mom took off her heavy chunky necklace, and they would go to the kitchen, to get a drink. The sound of water trickling and splashing happily would soothe their poor tired nerves. There were times, as they sat and waited for the cup to be filled by the water dispenser, when they were lulled into such a fake peace and calm that they would close their eyes, leaning forward to rest their head on their arms, and just listened to the sound of droplets meeting a pool. But it could not go on forever. One of them would rise, and flick the switch of the water dispenser back.
Each, would gaze at the other, silently taking in the tragic image of a tall grown-up slumped in helplessness, with all nobility shed – flown away. Hunched figure, worried frown, the melancholy hollowness of eyes, long drawn-out shadow emptily echoing in fake fluorescent glow. Sometimes one would rise, and bring the other into a hug, like hapless little kids huddling together after being bullied. They would sip from their cup of water as fingers gently circle and outline his 13-year-old picture, framed finely in a warm wooden frame, and placed in the living room as the latest photograph of him. Dark grey clouds which hid the moon and stars met their eyes when they raised their heads. The next day, as heavy fierce rain drummed onto their vehicles of steel, they tried to blink back their tears.
On his 18th birthday, his door was closed and locked. They pressed their ears against the door, only to hear fast successive clicking sounds on the keyboard. Both walked away with heavy hearts and slow steps. One turned on the television, and the room was filled with the gibberish gabble of unknown characters. The other turned to a book, but the words flitted past through his mind, and he was distracted just that little, but enough for him to put his finger on one particularly hard paragraph, and re-read it. Again, and again, and again. Then both would pause, and take another drink of water.
But, cooling as water was, it was unable to soothe the burning laceration in their hearts.
May 14, 2007
What folly, What folly!
Two words echo, but leave no mark. Bouncing off the shell of this body, ricocheting harmlessly.
I want to just vent it all out, yet, I don't want to explode. And I almost want to swear, using all the forbidden words, for probably the first time in my life, and yet I'm not going to swear, though the texture of those words would might sound so viciously good on my tongue. But the fact that it's a vicious impulse stops me. It's not something to be acted on. But the impulse is strong, and the words scream out in my head.
What then. What then!
Too long I have been dealing with the subtle. The shifting of emotions, the molding of them to change their form, to hide jagged raw edges in more smooth metaphors, to have a steady constant underflow, and not violent scalding spurts. But it seems like I've reached a point where once again, there's too much, too much.
The memory of your gentle caring voice soothes me, for a while. But the words you utter were painful. Yet your voice was so full of approachable warmth and gentleness. Warmth, against pain.
Curl up, and huddle.
Two words echo, but leave no mark. Bouncing off the shell of this body, ricocheting harmlessly.
I want to just vent it all out, yet, I don't want to explode. And I almost want to swear, using all the forbidden words, for probably the first time in my life, and yet I'm not going to swear, though the texture of those words would might sound so viciously good on my tongue. But the fact that it's a vicious impulse stops me. It's not something to be acted on. But the impulse is strong, and the words scream out in my head.
What then. What then!
Too long I have been dealing with the subtle. The shifting of emotions, the molding of them to change their form, to hide jagged raw edges in more smooth metaphors, to have a steady constant underflow, and not violent scalding spurts. But it seems like I've reached a point where once again, there's too much, too much.
The memory of your gentle caring voice soothes me, for a while. But the words you utter were painful. Yet your voice was so full of approachable warmth and gentleness. Warmth, against pain.
Curl up, and huddle.
May 13, 2007
Straight-forward? Um yea, yea. Sure.
You know what they say about needing pain to become good? Well, ok, maybe that wasn't the way they put it. But that all great artists went through pain. Mmm? Well -laughs-, do you think I'll make one?
It's not real pain and torture. Not as bad as some others anyway, you know?
Funny things happen at night.
She should really go sleep early more often. Seems like drama always happen at night. Or usually. What is it about the night that makes it so so so.. such a setting for drama. Oh darkness! Oh fears creeping! Oh being alone and solitary and no social pressure to conform to!
Good gracious, small things were driving her crazy. Just yesterday the lightest touch of a human leg on her bed was like a slap across her face.
You know how sometimes you just cry and cry and cry and actually really really unable to stop and then started getting scared, and cry more because you're scared? What a horrible experience. Wasn't even a cry that makes one feel good afterwards. Just w.o.r.s.e worse.
There wasn't any real reason in the first place. It's kinda funny almost.
She wanted to sms someone, but decided not to. Who would reply at this ungodly hour anyway? They're just students, mere students. Little children who are supposed to keep to bedtime. Not supposed to stay late. Not supposed to have fine lines and eye bags. Not supposed to have eyes red from tiredness.
The list of not supposed goes on and on and on.
So she cleared the message, placed the phone on the shelf, closed the lights and went to sleep.
"If you know there's a lack of people, shouldn't you be encouraging more to come then?" -silence-
"Fishes," she thought. She might as well just go talk to fishes. Just as silent. More colourful. Occasionally playful and jumping out. More action, swim around. Might be able to spot dragonflies too if she sat there.
If she could only find a lonely spot she would just lay there and look at the sky.
I'm sure everyone has their eccentric moments you know. Some have it less. Some don't let others know. Others proclaim it. Then there are those that revel in it.
Me? It depends on my mood I guess. Wild moments where I would run to Sungei Buloh. Wild fancies and ideas - lots of them fly through my head, but hardly carried out. So... yea.
She don't really want to go to o.n.e. If it were not for the white fluffy creatures goodness know where else she was gonna find reason to keep on going.
You know what they say about needing pain to become good? Well, ok, maybe that wasn't the way they put it. But that all great artists went through pain. Mmm? Well -laughs-, do you think I'll make one?
It's not real pain and torture. Not as bad as some others anyway, you know?
Funny things happen at night.
She should really go sleep early more often. Seems like drama always happen at night. Or usually. What is it about the night that makes it so so so.. such a setting for drama. Oh darkness! Oh fears creeping! Oh being alone and solitary and no social pressure to conform to!
Good gracious, small things were driving her crazy. Just yesterday the lightest touch of a human leg on her bed was like a slap across her face.
You know how sometimes you just cry and cry and cry and actually really really unable to stop and then started getting scared, and cry more because you're scared? What a horrible experience. Wasn't even a cry that makes one feel good afterwards. Just w.o.r.s.e worse.
There wasn't any real reason in the first place. It's kinda funny almost.
She wanted to sms someone, but decided not to. Who would reply at this ungodly hour anyway? They're just students, mere students. Little children who are supposed to keep to bedtime. Not supposed to stay late. Not supposed to have fine lines and eye bags. Not supposed to have eyes red from tiredness.
The list of not supposed goes on and on and on.
So she cleared the message, placed the phone on the shelf, closed the lights and went to sleep.
"If you know there's a lack of people, shouldn't you be encouraging more to come then?" -silence-
"Fishes," she thought. She might as well just go talk to fishes. Just as silent. More colourful. Occasionally playful and jumping out. More action, swim around. Might be able to spot dragonflies too if she sat there.
If she could only find a lonely spot she would just lay there and look at the sky.
I'm sure everyone has their eccentric moments you know. Some have it less. Some don't let others know. Others proclaim it. Then there are those that revel in it.
Me? It depends on my mood I guess. Wild moments where I would run to Sungei Buloh. Wild fancies and ideas - lots of them fly through my head, but hardly carried out. So... yea.
She don't really want to go to o.n.e. If it were not for the white fluffy creatures goodness know where else she was gonna find reason to keep on going.
May 6, 2007
Water. That transparent compound of element hydrogen and oxygen pumps through his body, mingling with those red blood cells to form that red fluid which provides life. It constantly flowed through his body, that deep red liquid of life, but he could not feel the flow. No feelings were felt, as he sat in front of the computer screen.
Insects buzzed around him, softly, their wings lightly tickling him at the nape of his neck. They were close – intimate almost. He sat still, knowing fully well that any violent action on his part would send those insects away. But they would come back, seemingly faithful and loyal. But alas, their lifespan was short. Too short. A few hundred hours, and they would be gone, unknown and unremembered.
So he threw himself into gaming. No, he was never lost in that fictional world. He knew exactly where he was threading; he knew the curves and contours of the various landscapes available for his one faithful loyal character. His character, his comrade, his sidekick – an obedient fellow who would do everything and anything that he wanted him to do. Sometimes he could absorb himself into that exhilarating world his character was in. The line between reality and illusion blurred, body entwined and swirled together, and they merged, and every wound became his wound, every move his move, and as the blade crashes down on the enemy, he heard the thud as body met ground. Together they ran, they dashed forward, and the victorious hand held the severed head up by that long messy mop of hair.
Bloody, but good.
That little guy was his true other half. Emotionless, and together, they experienced that giddy rush of blood dashing to his head. His fingers flew quick and fast through the keys of the keyboard and together they smashed the minions and the boss. They defeated the gnome, and they stood on top of the world, as one. Rain lashed down upon them, little silver whips of water, and he stood there, savouring his virtual victory.
The makers of the world got together, and devised bots. He eagerly signed on as a beta tester. And there he sat in his chair, talking with his character, his other half, his whole life. They travelled the whole world together, they traced their footsteps back. Strong bonds were forged, ties of gold and platinum. And so, they could be apart, but deep down, those bonds only stretched to accept, and their hearts thus stayed as close to each other.
His parents thought him crazy, and fear awoke in their hearts. They gave him more smiles; they invited him to join them in vacations to exotic places, places that promised beaches with sandy white sand and inviting azure blues. But, he was too far gone, too much in love. He refused, shaking his head, with that hint of a small smile on his face. And then he would quietly slip into his room, his haven - his heaven. There, he was engulfed in bliss. His character. His other half. A glass of water sat elegantly beside the lamp on his table, and he would sip from the glass while he waited for the character always smart, witty reply.
He mouthed out the words he typed, and echoed his character reply. He whispered hoarsely, “shall we go out to battle today?” “Yes.” They would get out onto that virtual plain, his fingers flew, the hand was stretched back, and then with swiftness the blade went down, plunged in with great strength, before coming out, slicked wet with red. Wet wet red, and sweat formed on his brow and palms, falling, pooling into tiny puddles of water. A flick of the head, water sprayed, everywhere. He took another gulp of ice-cold water. “That was good.” “Yeah, it was.” His teeth crunched hard into the ice, splitting them, spattering the cold bits all over his mouth before swallowing. Insects buzzed around him again, but this time he only flicked them away, slapping the mosquitoes, smearing the blood away by rubbing his hands.
At night he wondered why there seemed to be a faint smell of metal, but it would soon disappear as he dropped off to sleep and dreams. His parents would open the door, and gaze upon the bulk that lay on the bed, their hearts constricting painfully, blood coursing quick, too quick through their veins. Saliva would be swallowed, before his dad loosened his tie, or his mom took off her heavy chunky necklace, and they would go to the kitchen, to get a drink. The sound of water trickling and splashing happily would soothe their poor tired nerves. There were times, as they sat and waited for the cup to be filled by the water dispenser, when they were lulled into such a fake peace and calm that they would close their eyes, leaning forward to rest their head on their arms, and just listened to the sound of droplets meeting a pool. But it could not go on forever. One of them would rise, and flick the switch for the dispenser back.
But in his slumber, he was kept away from the tragic image of a tall grown-up slumped in helplessness, with all nobility shed, torn away from the figure as one only notices the hunched shadows, the worried frowns, the melancholy hollowness of eyes, the long drawn-out shadows echoing in fake fluorescent glow. He never saw how water was drunk as fingers gently circle and outline his 13-year-old picture - taken at Cameron Highlands with a great white shroud of mist behind, below him - framed nicely in a warm wooden frame, and placed in the living room as the latest photograph of him.
On his 18th birthday, his door was closed and locked. Ears were pressed against the door, only to hear fast successive clicking sounds on the keyboard. Both walked away with a heavy heart steps. One turned on the television, and the room was filled with the empty chatter of unknown characters. The other turned to a book, but the words flitted past through his mind, and he was distracted just that little, but enough for him to put his finger on one particularly hard paragraph, and re-read it. Over and over again - "It had a black canal in it, and a river that ran purple with ill-smelling dye, and vast piles of building full of windows where there was a rattling and a trembling all day long, and where the piston of the steam-engine worked monotonously up and down, like the head of an elephant in a state of melancholy madness. It contained several large streets all very like one another, and many small streets still more like one another, inhabited by people equally like one another, who all went in and out at the same hours, with the same sound upon the same pavements, to do the same work, and to whom every day was the same as yesterday and tomorrow, and every year the counterpart of the last and the next."
A translucent blue cup of water stood forlornly on the coffee table, witness to all these sights. Not for long though.
The door was unlocked, creaking as it swung open. Feet moved towards the table. A hand reached out, and the water flowed down into the wide gaping mouth of the birthday boy, down his throat, into his stomach, ready, to be absorbed into his bloodstream, and flow as what seems to be life, for a while longer.
Insects buzzed around him, softly, their wings lightly tickling him at the nape of his neck. They were close – intimate almost. He sat still, knowing fully well that any violent action on his part would send those insects away. But they would come back, seemingly faithful and loyal. But alas, their lifespan was short. Too short. A few hundred hours, and they would be gone, unknown and unremembered.
So he threw himself into gaming. No, he was never lost in that fictional world. He knew exactly where he was threading; he knew the curves and contours of the various landscapes available for his one faithful loyal character. His character, his comrade, his sidekick – an obedient fellow who would do everything and anything that he wanted him to do. Sometimes he could absorb himself into that exhilarating world his character was in. The line between reality and illusion blurred, body entwined and swirled together, and they merged, and every wound became his wound, every move his move, and as the blade crashes down on the enemy, he heard the thud as body met ground. Together they ran, they dashed forward, and the victorious hand held the severed head up by that long messy mop of hair.
Bloody, but good.
That little guy was his true other half. Emotionless, and together, they experienced that giddy rush of blood dashing to his head. His fingers flew quick and fast through the keys of the keyboard and together they smashed the minions and the boss. They defeated the gnome, and they stood on top of the world, as one. Rain lashed down upon them, little silver whips of water, and he stood there, savouring his virtual victory.
The makers of the world got together, and devised bots. He eagerly signed on as a beta tester. And there he sat in his chair, talking with his character, his other half, his whole life. They travelled the whole world together, they traced their footsteps back. Strong bonds were forged, ties of gold and platinum. And so, they could be apart, but deep down, those bonds only stretched to accept, and their hearts thus stayed as close to each other.
His parents thought him crazy, and fear awoke in their hearts. They gave him more smiles; they invited him to join them in vacations to exotic places, places that promised beaches with sandy white sand and inviting azure blues. But, he was too far gone, too much in love. He refused, shaking his head, with that hint of a small smile on his face. And then he would quietly slip into his room, his haven - his heaven. There, he was engulfed in bliss. His character. His other half. A glass of water sat elegantly beside the lamp on his table, and he would sip from the glass while he waited for the character always smart, witty reply.
He mouthed out the words he typed, and echoed his character reply. He whispered hoarsely, “shall we go out to battle today?” “Yes.” They would get out onto that virtual plain, his fingers flew, the hand was stretched back, and then with swiftness the blade went down, plunged in with great strength, before coming out, slicked wet with red. Wet wet red, and sweat formed on his brow and palms, falling, pooling into tiny puddles of water. A flick of the head, water sprayed, everywhere. He took another gulp of ice-cold water. “That was good.” “Yeah, it was.” His teeth crunched hard into the ice, splitting them, spattering the cold bits all over his mouth before swallowing. Insects buzzed around him again, but this time he only flicked them away, slapping the mosquitoes, smearing the blood away by rubbing his hands.
At night he wondered why there seemed to be a faint smell of metal, but it would soon disappear as he dropped off to sleep and dreams. His parents would open the door, and gaze upon the bulk that lay on the bed, their hearts constricting painfully, blood coursing quick, too quick through their veins. Saliva would be swallowed, before his dad loosened his tie, or his mom took off her heavy chunky necklace, and they would go to the kitchen, to get a drink. The sound of water trickling and splashing happily would soothe their poor tired nerves. There were times, as they sat and waited for the cup to be filled by the water dispenser, when they were lulled into such a fake peace and calm that they would close their eyes, leaning forward to rest their head on their arms, and just listened to the sound of droplets meeting a pool. But it could not go on forever. One of them would rise, and flick the switch for the dispenser back.
But in his slumber, he was kept away from the tragic image of a tall grown-up slumped in helplessness, with all nobility shed, torn away from the figure as one only notices the hunched shadows, the worried frowns, the melancholy hollowness of eyes, the long drawn-out shadows echoing in fake fluorescent glow. He never saw how water was drunk as fingers gently circle and outline his 13-year-old picture - taken at Cameron Highlands with a great white shroud of mist behind, below him - framed nicely in a warm wooden frame, and placed in the living room as the latest photograph of him.
On his 18th birthday, his door was closed and locked. Ears were pressed against the door, only to hear fast successive clicking sounds on the keyboard. Both walked away with a heavy heart steps. One turned on the television, and the room was filled with the empty chatter of unknown characters. The other turned to a book, but the words flitted past through his mind, and he was distracted just that little, but enough for him to put his finger on one particularly hard paragraph, and re-read it. Over and over again - "It had a black canal in it, and a river that ran purple with ill-smelling dye, and vast piles of building full of windows where there was a rattling and a trembling all day long, and where the piston of the steam-engine worked monotonously up and down, like the head of an elephant in a state of melancholy madness. It contained several large streets all very like one another, and many small streets still more like one another, inhabited by people equally like one another, who all went in and out at the same hours, with the same sound upon the same pavements, to do the same work, and to whom every day was the same as yesterday and tomorrow, and every year the counterpart of the last and the next."
A translucent blue cup of water stood forlornly on the coffee table, witness to all these sights. Not for long though.
The door was unlocked, creaking as it swung open. Feet moved towards the table. A hand reached out, and the water flowed down into the wide gaping mouth of the birthday boy, down his throat, into his stomach, ready, to be absorbed into his bloodstream, and flow as what seems to be life, for a while longer.
lemon trust-
She recalled vividly the first day your eyes set on me. Or perhaps, she had idealized the image. In my mind, she saw those soft eyes settling gently on her, before hovering off, and then coming back to meet her eyes, startled. He looked on, straight into her eyes, before walking towards her, and with one embrace pulled her in straight into his warmth. His mouth whispered fervently into her ears, giving promises, reassuring her that he would nurture her into a talent, to mold her into someone whom all would respect and admire. In his warmth, she didn’t realize how coolly he had saw through the eyes she tried to make glint with a hard light, and saw the hovering wide-eyes innocence behind.
She believed him then. Loved him even.
All she knew was his warmth, the accepting warmth that enveloped her so eagerly – that embracing warmth that could only speak of goodness and no evil. He not to be marred, but to be kept pure, and she defended you with an almost sacred passion whenever someone spoke badly of him. She thought she was all-knowing, and shook her heads whenever others hurled harsh comments along her way, thinking that they were all just jealous. Jealous of him. Jealous of him and her. Jealous of them. Ah yes, she thought she could see the vivid green shining in them eyes, glittering with envy that it was her in his embrace, constantly. It was her in his arms, and they could only watch from afar. Afar, and not in his arms. Only now did she realised she had closed my eyes and surrendered myself to blindness.
So this blind love went on, strong and unwavering in the full glory of its blindness. And this blinded heart only swelled even more when he promised he would go that one step further. Just for her. He looked into her eyes, held her by the shoulders, and told her, earnestly, that he would allow her to pursue her interest, supporting her in all her future endeavours. The delicious spark of joy ran through her – she was thrilled beyond words. She looked back at him, and nodded.
And so she went on for a while, drunk with the sweet subtle wine of his words. “I will support you, whatever you choose to do”
But, no story was ever told without a “but”. No tale speaks of a smooth journey, of people who had it easy all their life.
She came running into him, straight into his arms, and with joyous eyes told him she had decided. Pulling his arms apart, she spun out into the wide expanse of his office space, taking a tiny leap and twirling herself about, her laugher twinkling around the room. And she turned back to him, held his hands, and spoke to him of her interest. It had taken time and effort, strength and courage to come to that decision. But with his support, she could go through anything, however unconventional, however unorthodox, however the great gaping difference between her interest and the essence of what she currently undertook in his care.
His smile turned into a sudden frown at the first sentence she uttered. Things were not playing out his way, and his eyes showed a sudden confusion. He turned round from her, and stood still, reviewing the pieces left on the chessboard of his playing field. Arranging the features of his handsome face back into a attractive smile, he turned round to face her, and placed his strong hands onto her shoulders. He looked straight into her eyes again, just like the way he did the first time he saw her, and said ever so soft and gently, “Are you sure? Would you rather not stick with something you’re used to and have worked with? It might be better for you to build your strengths based on what you’re comfortable with.” Each vowel was accented with calculated care, love, gentleness.
She looked back into his eyes. A hard light came into her own eyes, by its own accord. And she pulled away from him, knowing that she only had one statement to say. “You said you would support me, whatever I choose to do”
“Ah yes, I know I did. But this was indeed unexpected; it is a strange choice for a lady to make,” he replied flippantly, raising his hands to stroke back the hair that had fallen into her eyes.
And with that one movement, light shone into her eyes, and she was able to see, clearly. And she started laughing, more struck by the hilarity of the situation than the realisation that she had been duped.
The efforts of years, to ensure that such a thing would not happen, were all but nought. And her brain spins and spins with that sour sensation at the back of her throat and head, as if the freshly squeezed juice of yellow yellow lemons was sliding down her mouth, pickling everywhere it touched, right down to the very core of her heart, shrivelling it into an unrecognisable pit.
She was just a puppet at the end of the day.
//the stuff you find when looking through old files..
She recalled vividly the first day your eyes set on me. Or perhaps, she had idealized the image. In my mind, she saw those soft eyes settling gently on her, before hovering off, and then coming back to meet her eyes, startled. He looked on, straight into her eyes, before walking towards her, and with one embrace pulled her in straight into his warmth. His mouth whispered fervently into her ears, giving promises, reassuring her that he would nurture her into a talent, to mold her into someone whom all would respect and admire. In his warmth, she didn’t realize how coolly he had saw through the eyes she tried to make glint with a hard light, and saw the hovering wide-eyes innocence behind.
She believed him then. Loved him even.
All she knew was his warmth, the accepting warmth that enveloped her so eagerly – that embracing warmth that could only speak of goodness and no evil. He not to be marred, but to be kept pure, and she defended you with an almost sacred passion whenever someone spoke badly of him. She thought she was all-knowing, and shook her heads whenever others hurled harsh comments along her way, thinking that they were all just jealous. Jealous of him. Jealous of him and her. Jealous of them. Ah yes, she thought she could see the vivid green shining in them eyes, glittering with envy that it was her in his embrace, constantly. It was her in his arms, and they could only watch from afar. Afar, and not in his arms. Only now did she realised she had closed my eyes and surrendered myself to blindness.
So this blind love went on, strong and unwavering in the full glory of its blindness. And this blinded heart only swelled even more when he promised he would go that one step further. Just for her. He looked into her eyes, held her by the shoulders, and told her, earnestly, that he would allow her to pursue her interest, supporting her in all her future endeavours. The delicious spark of joy ran through her – she was thrilled beyond words. She looked back at him, and nodded.
And so she went on for a while, drunk with the sweet subtle wine of his words. “I will support you, whatever you choose to do”
But, no story was ever told without a “but”. No tale speaks of a smooth journey, of people who had it easy all their life.
She came running into him, straight into his arms, and with joyous eyes told him she had decided. Pulling his arms apart, she spun out into the wide expanse of his office space, taking a tiny leap and twirling herself about, her laugher twinkling around the room. And she turned back to him, held his hands, and spoke to him of her interest. It had taken time and effort, strength and courage to come to that decision. But with his support, she could go through anything, however unconventional, however unorthodox, however the great gaping difference between her interest and the essence of what she currently undertook in his care.
His smile turned into a sudden frown at the first sentence she uttered. Things were not playing out his way, and his eyes showed a sudden confusion. He turned round from her, and stood still, reviewing the pieces left on the chessboard of his playing field. Arranging the features of his handsome face back into a attractive smile, he turned round to face her, and placed his strong hands onto her shoulders. He looked straight into her eyes again, just like the way he did the first time he saw her, and said ever so soft and gently, “Are you sure? Would you rather not stick with something you’re used to and have worked with? It might be better for you to build your strengths based on what you’re comfortable with.” Each vowel was accented with calculated care, love, gentleness.
She looked back into his eyes. A hard light came into her own eyes, by its own accord. And she pulled away from him, knowing that she only had one statement to say. “You said you would support me, whatever I choose to do”
“Ah yes, I know I did. But this was indeed unexpected; it is a strange choice for a lady to make,” he replied flippantly, raising his hands to stroke back the hair that had fallen into her eyes.
And with that one movement, light shone into her eyes, and she was able to see, clearly. And she started laughing, more struck by the hilarity of the situation than the realisation that she had been duped.
The efforts of years, to ensure that such a thing would not happen, were all but nought. And her brain spins and spins with that sour sensation at the back of her throat and head, as if the freshly squeezed juice of yellow yellow lemons was sliding down her mouth, pickling everywhere it touched, right down to the very core of her heart, shrivelling it into an unrecognisable pit.
She was just a puppet at the end of the day.
//the stuff you find when looking through old files..
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