patrick

it was cold today. she could feel it everywhere on the tabletop where she leave her glasses before she goes to bed; the edge of the basin where she usually supports herself with one hand while she brushes her teeth with another; the handrail that she clings on with whatever life that's left in her fragile bag of bones when she walks down the stairs. at the end of her hand where fingers were meant to be, she felt ice popsicles and there was so much frost building up in her hips which made walking down the stairs an impossible feat and when she managed to reach the end she felt as if she had conquered Mt Everest. she wished she had someone to blame had someone to complain to about the cold and everything that was astray but there was no one she could point her finger at because the man in the television had informed the nation that it was going to be freezing today and she had forgot to turn on the timer for the radiator the night before. and then, Patrick wasn't here.

she could blame Patrick for not reminding her about the cold for not turning on the timer for the radiator for not walking down the stairs with her for not making her her tea which she always woke up to for not running warm water in the basin before she went in for not handing her her glasses when she needed it for not holding her hands in his trying to warm it up. but you don’t and you can’t blame dead people can you?

Karen was there when she walked into the kitchen. Karen was the caretaker that would come in few times a day to prepare her meals and made sure she was alright otherwise. she didn't fancy Karen but she didn't dislike her either but Karen just could never make the tea at the right temperature like how Patrick always did. Karen moved around the kitchen swiftly and in a few minutes, had her breakfast ready. she didn't like that as well she preferred how Patrick worked in the kitchen how he would inch from one end to the other in that 5 feet wide space and how he’d turn around slowly every time and asked if she wanted extra sugar in her porridge or if she preferred honey instead. sometimes he would just turn around to ask something but halfway through turning around he'd forget what he wanted to ask so he'd just smile at her and that glow in his face never failed to warm her up. Karen was talking to her now but she couldn't hear her. she nodded and smiled and watched as Karen left and was slightly irked when the door slammed behind her. she remembered how Patrick would always take ages to close the door when he left making sure it didn't made too much noise or any noise at all. then for the rest of the morning she would brood over how life was before Patrick left.  

the doorbell rang. startled by it her eyes ran everywhere across the room and she noticed the set of house keys across the table.

"Patrick."

she blurted out and then within that split second she remembered and she burst into tears.

mountains are party hats for giants.

noise. no. sounds. many sounds happening at once. new acquaintances talking about their lives. how similar they really are is it still a conversation if one say and the next one rummage in her own life and find something that is as similar as it is? is that even a proper response? stories that get drowned in a sudden blast of laughter near where the ornamental tree stands and it's just random and many babblings and yadah yadah and then shrieks from the stairs something is happening there someone makes a fuss starts to shout and the other follows suit which breaks into another set of laughter and there are many conversations happening at once and concentration like an air filled balloon floats across the room without any direction here to there right to left sudden silence because the music stopped and the noise gradually grow again. let's runaway before it's too late run to where the mountains are runaway before tonight becomes yesterday runaway before the body breaks apart and becomes a million pieces like all the noise. 

but watch out! no don't run to the mountains there're giants living underneath there that eat runaways and travelers and wanderers and dreamers there's no place to hide because mountains are party hats for the giants did you know that? no? I thought so too why do I know? I saw the mountains move once and I saw confetti in the air I saw the fireworks I smelled the air that stinks off alcohol and meat and I heard the noise they made stomping along with the beats dancing away in the night under the moonlight and then before the sun comes up they go to bed with their party hats on. so don't run to the mountains run away from it because mountains are party hats for giants.

there are so many things happening now so many so many and there's an eerie tiredness freezing over me something that pulls my whole weight down and all my limbs become really heavy and my eyelids become heavy and then something holds it back from just closing entirely. I could sleep right here right now in this position and diffuse myself into the wall i can't take it anymore and I am angry at myself for even wanting to come here in the first place I don't know why but I feel so old tonight like i've never slept in a thousand years and I feel so tired I want to sleep.

the house host comes up and asks do you need anything? no thank you. and then a really strong forceful smile but she must have noticed the eyes that only look at the infinite dreamland somewhere ahead past the people past the walls past the mountains past these life stories and she walked away. I've secluded myself so much i have created a really wide space for myself in this small and compact living area. the noise hits back again and it starts to become unbearable so unbearable and all I want to do is just sleep right now.

strangers

lights turning red and yellow and green. the anticipation pervading the air on both sides of the road. the heavy paper bag sinking continuously to the ground the strings biting into the creases between the fingers it hurts. green. Hi. pink earphones. the world stopped for that tiny fraction of a millisecond and then everything crashes back again. fingers that hurt so much it felt like it was already bleeding. everything started to move behind and people walked by. excuse me. sorry. politeness that has lost its meaning that has evolved into a reflex something to say to not offend, to get out of trouble. that initial delicate feeling being washed away by the stream of people, being brushed off by shoulders and that stain of awkwardness probably now ten yards away. twenty. thirty. and then it doesnt matter anymore, does it? a face turns around and it's a face from the past. a reminder of naivety of adrenaline rushes of an era of many first things.

outside, a wind like a brush strokes gently along the street. someone pulls their coat closer. blow into your hands and start rubbing. poof a genie appears but fades away along with the wind that sends chills trickling down the spine and there's a little shiver. inside, an exchange of well-beings, and laughs that dont sound convincing at all. little talks about ambitions that never were, retracing past incidents and skimming upon the timeline when it was all too close to that point, concerns about what's going to happen next, the true reason of being a pescetarian and learning the word itself, christmas plans that reveal current relationships, an abrupt pause once in a while that is all too uncomfortable and an instantaneous reflex of looking at the phone or the action or feeding oneself cautiously. open your mouth as wide as possible it's a game of not touching the edges and then wipe off that imaginary stain on the corner of your mouth with the paper napkin. wow, this is really good. now, the next question.

there is something calming here in the underground. under-ground. tames the uneasiness and snaps you out of that what-if moment. there is a queer aftertaste inside. the laughs the smiles the casual talk and the hug among the crowd which almost felt like it would only have happened in a movie. the one that deserves a spotlight on a stage in a play. the one that should have had happened years ago. it is a funny feeling something that is good but tastes of irony and maybe in it a slight pinch of sadness and regret. like how Gordon puts it, a pinch of salt just to taste, nothing more, brings out the flavor in it. in what? and just before the question was answered, the smell of anticipation once again pervades the air and like an invisible force pulls the train into the station. 

spring

hints of green weighing the branches down, waving quietly outside the window. grass spotted with little white flowers, like scattered snow that never melts away, that will last till autumn comes. and the sun hangs high above caressing everything gently, like a mother's hug, like that comfort pat on the shoulder. the air is crisp and fresh and smell like spring - if it had a smell - but winter has not gone for long yet, not in this country where it leaves a trail of itself until it returns again, as if it had been pushed out of its rightful place, as if it resented the idea of changing seasons, as if it was overly possessive. or spring could be a facade, a mask, a play, an act, an illusion something not real, something that is nothing but false pretense, something to cover up that coldness, something that create hope and joy so to break them down again, something that makes people forget about their mistakes so that they'd do it again, something. really. it never really changes, only deliberately coalesces with our lives, and slowly we get used to it until we never know it is there anymore, until it becomes a habit, until it becomes who we are, until it makes us who we are. it's not really spring is it? there are times when the mask is not tight enough and it slips off a bit and the temperature drops and the shrilling wind carries the cold past and hit us in our faces; or like the sharp edges and corner of the glass table that we forget about until we kick it again; the impact hard enough to remind that winter is still here and it never really leaves.

that is, unless you fly back home.

hello!

a many thousand things have happened since i last wrote and for the past twenty minutes or so, i've been staring at this big block of white with the thin line appearing and disappearing incessantly. there are so many things i'd like to say at so many moments for the past year but i never had an idea of how to rather than where to begin with and this procrastination has taken its toll on me, with all these incidents now building up into this big ball of stories and emotions jumbled up inside my head. writing and keeping a record of this now feels strange to me, printing out images from my head into these characters, these words and occasionally looking up for a flamboyant word or phrase to show that i've not lose the touch to write. or maybe i already have. but for the past year or so i've been continuously asking myself through and through why do i write and what do i write about? i do not find it necessary to express my feelings in words anymore, not when now i have someone to share with; neither do i find an urge to translate images or that precise moment of life into words, not when now i do have a camera that will do the job for me; neither do i require to channel my wild imaginations of sorts on to this online platform, not when i am able to do it through producing videos. so, what really do i write about? 

i miss writing, this whole package of creativity bundled in words sleepless nights soft music in the earphones as well as that occasional cup of coffee and ten exact pieces of crackers - no more no less - and the silence of the streets that hums through the window in my room. i miss this tranquility when i write when i think of the next appropriate word to match the former when i pour out everything inside me and rearrange them into words and it feels like being immersed in deep waters and the moon rays dive through the waters and everything is still and silent and i have all the time i need in my pocket. it is like a time machine that connects all the emotions the memories of the past the present and the future every time i write. the same feeling that runs through my body and calming all my nerves and muscles telling them that everything's fine. then again, today i did not begin with the intention of writing about this and i digressed but the feeling's there again once more that feeling of tranquility there calmly flowing through my body and then i remember why i once loved writing and then it all comes down to the same question again:

what do i want to write about? 

welcome to the refuse room

where you are allowed to say no to anyone. children upon entering are allowed to say no to vegetables they don't like, to say no to classes they don't want to go, to say no to school, to say no to homework, to say no to curfew, to say no to punishment of any sort, to say no to sleeping earlier. grown ups upon entering are allowed to say no to any family/relationship obligations thrown at them, allowed to say no to questions which people expect a yes as an answer, allowed to say no when they feel like being mean and really really rude, allowed to say no to the confinement of this society the chains and barriers that hold them back from what they really want to be, allowed to say no and disregard of how the others feel, allowed to say no to those in power-disobeying direct orders, allowed to say no whenever they feel like it and allowed to not pretend and put on a smile that they don't mean it, allowed to say no to things that are not in their favor and make a big fuss out of it, allowed to say no to anything, everything and allowed to become a child once more when throwing tantrums and saying no is a privilege. 

2012

the morning breeze slither through the window grills pushing gently on the curtains and somewhere out there, the rumbling sound of a motorcycle engine which resists to be turned on and all the dreams scatter and run away into the dark. it is on days like these -days that i do not have to wake up to the phone alarm, a favorite song back then ten years ago- that i am grateful that i have enough sleep and that i have a feeling that today will be a good day. there's this spark of joy firing up the reactors within me as i push away the blankets get down from bed and run down the stairs and skipping a few steps just for good measure.

the phone rings and there's the reminder for an assignment due tomorrow and then all the other whatineedtodos come rushing and barging and darting in at once. today i shall procrastinate like any other day and indulge myself in this warm bath of sunlight and the neighborhood orchestra- a blend of chatters and engines and life- and pretend to be a king in this little fortress of mine, with walls of papers and books, right in front of the laptop. lecture starts at 130 and i have a feeling that i might be late. but it's alright because i have a feeling that it's going to be a good day.

we only meet at farewells and funerals.

and we joke and laugh. and we cry and mourn. we look at the one we have to bid farewell to - in the coffin, at the gate, all the same - and wave our hands. we talk to them trying to persuade them to stay on - at least a little bit longer. we ask them to take care when we realize that's not going to happen. we'd repeat the same questions and hope for an answer we would want to hear. we walk closer when they say its time to leave. we hug the alive and embrace the dead in our hearts. we stare at them when they leave as if they'd come back if we stared harder. we pound on the window panes and the wooden box when they leave and hope they'd look back one more time. we cry again and we mourn again. and the moment before they disappear from sight, we hold our breaths, grasping any tiny chance of hope around and in the end disappoint ourselves again. they leave, never looking back.

we say 'keep in touch.'-despite the fact that we always never do- , wave, and leave for our respective homes.

then we say hi again when someone has to leave us. all the same again.

goodnight.

here's silence marching on the road with proud strides and an air of arrogance. the trees stood still at attention and the dim roadlights stopped flickering. a cat which was purring gently at the air on the wall paused and looked around. something's out there. her pupils dilate but there was nothing for her to focus on. silence chuckled and waved gently at her. she stood up alerted and with swift movements jumped off the wall and scurried away. without looking back. somewhere near where silence stood a car alarm went off. he frowned, walked over and patted the car gently. the alarm stopped and the snoring from within the house resumed.

oh look the lights are still on in this house.

silence stood right in front of the door and smiled. his spread his arms and closed his eyes and then the smile on his face broaden. he began to grow in size. he grew and grew until the window on the upper floor was at his eye level. and he walked towards the house. he diffused through under the doors and crept in from the window. he rolled across the living room and crawled up the stairs. he walked in to the only room where the light was still on and never bothered to close the door behind.

the boy was alarmed and shocked to see him in his room. silence only smiled and opened his mouth. he engulfed the boy.

across the road the cat stared blankly at the house and thought she heard a scream.

Orientation

has it only been three weeks? three weeks since I introduced myself in front of a bunch of juniors in that small crappy room like a failed job interview despite the infinite times I ran through the introduction in my mind during lectures earlier that morning. i was looking at a group of blank and lost faces who stared back at me and laughed dryly at the jokes I tried to crack and thinking to myself that they must be thinking to themselves who the fuck is this.

but now.

it only seemed like a few moments ago that i was cheering screaming laughing pelvic thrusting with them and there were many times I wished I were with them instead of getting stuck in a room with a woman that read so slow the dinosaurs relived and became fossils again or in a hall where the only thing I see on the screen is all their faces, all enthusiastic and looking ready and set to do something exciting. i must admit that i did dreamt of them. then again, it felt like I was going through orientation all over again. it definitely did not feel like three weeks to me. it only felt like a day and yet, like we have been friends for so long. they were so real, free of false pretenses and had nothing to hide. i wonder at times that if the wall that I had around me still stands as firm as strong as rigid as it used to be. then I realize that there must have been a crack somewhere and something must have seeped through.

here's to new friends and unexpected friendships.

Ivy by the road.

raindrops hit the windscreen like little bombs from the ever gray skies. and if one were to notice, each raindrop hits the pane and more little raindrops bounce off and hit the pane and again and again until kingdom comes. for one moment, the windscreen is clear of the pelting raindrops and the next, its not. it's magic at its best, the thin little back hands say, now you see it now you don't. the road is lit up with dim red lights that brighten and stay in their positions for a while, dimmed down and move on. on the other side, yellow lights pass by, sometimes followed with a splash of water across the windscreen. within this enclosed compartment, there is only silence.

sometime later, the skies smiled and i thought i saw an ivy woke up, stretched it's vines and crept slowly up the spine of a tree by the road.

Can you see the sun?

a blind person could see again but he got so afraid of what he saw he stabbed himself blind.

Santa in Summer.

There was a house renovation across the road.

And there was a man by the door. A laborer as everyone would have assumed and guessed correctly. Tall, a rather big tummy I would say. He was shoveling dirt off the ground and into the cart and sweat was all over his face like little streams. He had a short pony tail and his hair was white where the roots were and black at the ends. Occasionally when he stopped, he would wipe the sweat away from his face with the towel hanging over his neck, and then he would touch his goatee and look straight ahead not focusing on any object but probably back into the past.

I thought I saw a twinkle in his eye but the sun was scorching up above and it could have been just my eyes. I walked up and said hello. We exchanged simple greetings and smiled and I walked to a side and watch him resume shoveling. Just right before his shovel hit the dirt, he turned to me and asked me

do you believe in santa claus?

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled at him. Then he turned back and looked into the distance, probably into the past again, and said

you know kids back then used to believe in santa claus. they would do all sorts of things to make sure that they get their presents from santa claus. even parents believe in santa claus back then. they would leave a cup of milk and some cookies by the fireplace for him. but those were the days back then when electricity did not exist yet.

He stopped, sighed and continued

then as time went by, children began to doubt if santa claus exist. and some parents began to tell their children that santa claus was but a hoax for the children to be good kids. but those parents, they were bad kids when they were younger. so how would they have known? how would they?
eventually their kids grew up and told their kids the same thing and it went on for generations.

He paused for a while and looked at his feet then went on

the people still sang my name. they still talk about me but they didn't believe in me anymore. how ironic it became i was all over the place but they didn't believe in me anymore. no more, not like back in those days. no more. they sealed their fireplace and installed electrical ones. the new houses did not even have a chimney for me to fall down into anymore. they installed alarms and all sorts of high tech stuff that still makes no sense to me. i couldn't get into the house or if i did i would have been caught and charged. i stopped what i did.

He continued on with his work and filled up the cart then he pushed it off into the house. I stood there not knowing what to say till someone tapped my shoulder and I turned around. It was the lady living next door. She started off

did he tell you that he's santa claus? that guy's loony. you'd want to watch out in case he went amok.

Then she walked into her house with a smirk across her face. I decided to walk back home and when I turned back for a last glance at the old man he was standing there inside the house looking right at me, this time, I was sure that there was a twinkle in his eye.

tell me where you want to go.

here's a forest filled with thick dense cement blocks, the roads conquered by roaring vehicles, the night brightened up by neon lights and above all, scattered with life. the city's a maze. streets interconnected, taking you everywhere, anywhere but always somewhere. somewhere that tells you that serenity may not only come in the form of high mountains and green foliage. every where's a picture. here, the pace is faster, the escalator, the steps, the everything. even the day and the night. people here walk pass you without even realizing your presence as long as you are not in their way.
this has gotta be the good life. i've heard this from a song but it could be so true. the conference was amazing. the people were. everyone was. i've made new friends and some really close ones. i was myself back there and i had nothing to hide. i snored in lectures like no one's business and got really drunk in front of people i have only known for a few days. i have already began to miss the times we strolled in the streets either to get to mackes(as the australians would have put it) or 7-11 or the local cafes to get supper, and all the while laughing at really silly things we did in the day. i had fun from the morning till i went to bed in the wee hours of the morning. the only thing i had to worry about was nothing.
i love the walk down the harbor in the night where the whole hongkong island comes in sight. i love standing in the junctions, listening to the rapid beep of the traffic light, the many pedestrians that walk across the road and the many cars that drive by. i love the people here how they stare at you when you're slow, but always ready to help despite the grumpy tone. i love the malted vitasoy, something i have to have two packets everyday. i love the convenience store they have all over the place the cool air in it that brings a big difference in the summer. i love the tunnels underground that lead you to so many exits that when you emerge a new undiscovered place greets you.
maybe i'll find it a dull place if i were to live in there but for now i'm addicted and i just can't get enough.

restless

any time now the words on the paper start to run away from the paper. there is a ball for them, a short distance away right next to the edge of the table. it evolves into a carnival sooner and when i try to grab them and cramp them back to where they belong, they scatter off in different directions and they start to laugh and sneer and jeer at me. at my very naive thought of being in control. i look away and up at the walls that surround me. are they closer than they were? and before i could find an answer, they start to scream in my face, into my ears, inside me. then these walls close in. i look at the thin fine gap between the door and the floor and there's this tiny speck of hope that sprouts like a new seedling in a thunderstorm. is someone going to come by? will they know if these walls had eaten me alive? i think of many faces now. but the shrills - the screams had gotten on a new level now - flushes these images away. the carpeted floor beneath me cracks and opens up. it's only emptiness down there.

i pack my bag and leave.

i wake up

to see the cream-colored ceiling staring blankly back at me.

there is an ache in my neck but I let it be. the smooth wooden surface of the floor is all that feels the tip of my fingers. for a second this place is alien to me. the humid air that floods my nostrils the next moment tells me where i am. are you inspired? the question is not funny today or probably it never was. my arms move around the floor my hands reaching out trying to grab a sense of time. I stop and wonder why even bother? the time here is dry and monotonous. I turn around and spread my hands and legs out. my limbs are hard, like the wood. i stay as I am and wait for something to happen. the vibration of my phone, someone calling my name, a heavy downpour, a dog barking, a long fearful shriek or the vibration of my phone. I wait and I start to imagine my own seconds ticking off the ennui that never grows old. but nothing happens. I give up and let the flatness of this space consume me once more and I close my eyes and I wander off in my slumber.

sometime later i wake up and the cream-colored ceiling stares blankly back at me. again.

And

You wouldn't have known
that the rose had bloomed
and yes, so passionately
and fierce and aggressive
when the night arose from it's slumber

and

you wouldn't have known
that when the clock chimed ten
spirits of the wind dropped by
greeted the flower
and shook him gently by the stem
with the utmost politeness and all
but when they left
he was slightly to the right

and

you wouldn't have known
that when the stars were staring down
at you in bed dreaming about them
he shed off a piece of himself
which had bled and dried up a dark crimson red
and it had stained the other pieces

and

you wouldn't have known
that sometime when the stars got tired
and decided to turn in
and decided to cover themselves
in blankets of clouds
it rained just like that
and pelted on him the rain did
like cannon balls and missiles
they shook him badly
and they took him down

and

you wouldn't have known
that after that heavy rain
when the dusk was creeping in behind the mountains
a morning breeze came by
and wept across the rose
caressing the now limp and almost dead
and when she left
he fell off his stem, beheaded
off the fifteenth floor

and

you wouldn't have known
because you wouldn't have seen
a rose, withered and dead
it's core still a tiny speck of bloody red
waltzing outside your balcony
because you were looking elsewhere

so how would you have known?

Write a letter to your best friend who is overseas telling him how you are recently.

Dearest Nigel,

How are you? How is the weather over there? I hope this letter finds you in the pink of health. I am fine here, so are my family and my pet turtles.

Firstly, I would like to wish you happy birthday, selamat hari jadi and 生日快乐 from your motherland.

Then I would like to tell you about how my first three weeks of university were like. I had orientation for the first two weeks. It was fun. I made a lot of new friends. I tried to pick up a few girls like how you taught me. Some were successful but some were not. There was a girl who looked so fierce I stopped talking to her after a few sentences. wtf.

There are only a few people that I know from my batch, and only one was from the previous class in taylor’s and the other few were from bs1 and bs2. Oh. And then there’s Divar. I also met Irfan, who so happened to be my orientation group senior. Okay, back to what I was saying for the orientation. The orientation was muddy and tiring but it was really fun.

We have lecturers from Sri Lanka and Myanmar. The Sri Lanka lecturers are usually almost bald, short-sighted, mostly with a small tummy, talk with a very strong Indian accent and tend to shake their heads a lot when they talk. Just like what you see from the movies. But some of them are really good. YET, I still don’t know all the names of my lecturers. HAHA.

How is life like over there? I would like to hear from you soon. Take care. And send my regards to err, whoever is closest to you there (?) hahahaha.

Your’s sincerely,

Ding

the idea of going to school

the idea of going to school or if you do mind, a university, after 8 months of not going to a proper education center is pretty exciting.

the idea of going to school and interacting with a lot of people, relatively to that many people that i interacted with during these 8 months of recluse is a little terrifying.

the idea of going to school and realizing the major difference in the life i have been leading for the past 8 months up till now and the probably hectic or disciplined life of a student is quite uncomfortable.

the idea of going to school and then making a fool out of myself when i am not that sober is really embarrassing.

the idea of going to school is starting to sound dreadful and i think i should stop. wtf.

anyway, this is so true. ahahahahhaha.

When they run out of ideas,

they'd literally build anything, even a tit. lol wtf.