394: society, you’re a crazy breed

When you want more than you have, you think you need

When you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed

I think I need to find a bigger place, because when you have more than you think, you need more space

390: 我们都别说谎

Here is the story of someone who loved not wisely, but too well. Here is the story of someone who remembers everything, from start to finish. Here is the story of someone who has been up, and down, gone the long way, only to find herself back at the beginning. People never really move from the same spot; they’re the same people they always were. Shallow, selfish, cold. Scared. Alone, lonely, awake in the middle of the night. When the same things run through your head, the same scenes, the same words, and your pillow is wet when your eyes open. Your hair curls in tangles, your fingers are clenched. You hold on to the same old dreams. But we’re running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears.

388: look at the stars

I was wrong. There is a bigger storm coming.

385: 小さな世界

There’s a weight spreading heavily across my chest. The last jump, the last shout. That night I was the happiest I was in a long time, but my emotions are all mixed up and I’ve spent the past week not knowing what to think or do.

Tell me this is normal. Why do I always go searching for doomed endings. Be still.

377: people are like electrons

374: lifelong ambitions (让一切随风)

365: when i look at you i watch the sun rise

I’m not counting. 

364: 痛苦的相思忘不了

 

 

361: it’s just rough to stay tough

It’s funny how things never turn out the way you expect them to. And though I’ve said this many times over in the past few months, it probably never really hits you till it should. Where do you go when you’re lonely? Do you remember, that time when we were still in love, and as usual I was being cryptic because I’m retarded like that, and you said, no, I’m not here to gun down romance, but you did anyway, in the end, barely a week later (or two; who remembers?). Slowly the answers to every question matter less and less; there is no point asking why anymore. Why? has no answers, or at least none satisfactory. And finally, the answers die away, in a corner by themselves, like little birds in the winter. 

356: 口上的棉花糖也溶化了

When the curtains closed last night I didn’t know what to think. I sat in my room looking out at the window, but all I saw was my own reflection because the outside was so dark. I think about the construction site and how my friend teased me about opening the curtains, and then I remember how it used not to be there at all, and it always amazes me how fast things change without you even noticing. Can you see the sunset, Sharmila used to ask me, when we were walking from our house to the supermarket, then wearing just slippers and a t-shirt and jeans. As the weather turned colder and our clothes got warmer the site grew and grew and the roof eventually appeared and blocked out the sunset altogether. It’s still not ready yet, and I wonder if it will be by the time I leave, but it’s not the same anymore. 

350: all i have is your letter read

“But—but it seems so weak,” said Josephine, breaking down.

“But why not be weak for once, Jug?” argued Constantia, whispering quite fiercely. “If it is weak.” And her pale stare flew from the locked writing table — so safe — to the huge glittering wardrobe, and she began to breathe in a queer, panting way. “Why shouldn’t we be weak for once in our lives, Jug? It’s quite excusable. Let’s be weak — be weak, Jug. It’s much nicer to be weak than to be strong.”  

One of the things I will remember most about my school life is the short story. At certain points in my life random quotes from books will pop out at me at jarringly relevant intervals to remind me just how tellingly accurate literature sometimes is when it comes to observing real life. Sometimes I feel like I should stop living in quotes and books and lyrics of songs and using them to describe how I feel, but yet such words continually touch the human heart and spirit, and it is amazing how literature continues to influence my life.

I remember most all the quotes from that book. The only story I didn’t truly like was The Secret Sharer; every other short story has left an indelible impact on me. And then — that time when I filled in the worksheets, three blanks to fill in the correct words from a quote  — so primary school, but it worked — weak, weak, weak, strong, and it always, always springs to mind whenever I wonder if there is any point in borrowing strength from an invisible source.

But there is. There always is.

343: i have fought the good fight

There are things I would like you to know, if only you have the time. After all that has been said and done, after all that has come and gone, what matters that is what is left is you and me. Maybe you and me, on two different ends of the earth, maybe you and I, who have been different from the beginning. We have travelled these roads, gone up and down these hills — as uninspiring as they might have been, our journeys are what we make of them. 

How do you feel as you travel through time and space towards a love you cannot save? The train rolls on, and the landscape never changes. Here the skies are dark and wintry, and one barely sees anything through the windows. One makes out the skeletons of trees and the falling snow, grey against the dark ground.

One may ask, 好好的一份爱，怎样会慢慢变坏, but the answer is simple. You remember the times when he said, there will be nothing left if only one side keeps paddling. One is tempted to continually attribute fault to one person, but the fact is that the oars on both sides must move in order to keep the boat moving; and then, more than anything, it must take two hands to clap.

The train is less silent than one expects. In France it was full of Japanese, polite to a fault and quiet as death, whispering around each other, afraid of stepping on someone else’s toes. Here there are murmurs of conversation, muffled laughter, and the sound of little children. Everywhere on trains people sleep and start up again, their heads nodding in time with the jerk of the trains along the rails. If I could, I would whisper my love to you across the tracks, and maybe you would wake up too.

And yet, even if everything is doomed, we take the same chances; and in a warped way, we follow the same paths. We try to not hurt other people as we strive not to hurt ourselves, rejoicing in our youth as we hurtle towards adulthood, drinking in the year as if we were starved of air. Like maniacs we shuttle from place to place, checking off boxes and ticking off sights as we go along, as if each place were so easily explainable, so easily seen. As travelers we brave only the surface of the iceberg, intrepid as we are, and yet what swarms beneath is what is important. What is essential, you remember, is invisible to the eye — it is only in your mind’s eye that you can see rightly.

And then, we paint our pictures in our memories. When we prefer not to take pictures, each detail of every city is absorbed, and we cannot get enough. We struggle to remember everything, as if each day were our last, and we could only breathe that air once. It could be that the people are unfriendly, too friendly, or unnecessarily friendly or unfriendly, but if one is objective one remembers that we do not know enough to judge. All we have are our impressions, and our thoughts, and these are all we have to go on. 

All was good and seemed normal as she walked towards the train that would bring her away, far away from these memories and the things that made her sad. For some it must have been a journey they have made before, towards a future they did not understand. She laughed and joked and smiled, just as she did all this time, brave and strong as she tried to be. As she stepped into the train she waved half-heartedly, as if she knew it might not be the last time that she saw him like this — and yet it was too late when she settled herself, and sat by the window. As she looked out she found no trace of him, and it might have been then she finally realised — neither too early nor too late, perhaps — that there might have been a time when he would wait until she left, but not anymore.

And then — across the rails. The train began to speed towards a new beginning in the middle of the night. Unclear and dark, perhaps, to a girl alone and scared as hell, but still surging forward, the only way she knew how.

 

房子建在海上，就注定一生漂泊. 但连浪子也不会吃回头草. 只要自己能抬得起头往前走，就是对的. 自己问心无愧，光明正大地活着，这才是坚强，这才是力量.

339: remember 2008

The year has been eventful, to say the least. I ushered in the new year at the beginning of the year (last year, now) in a variety of circumstances; every year with the Hwa Chong people, screaming “Happy New Year” at the top of our voices around the swimming pool, and then drinking Raffles beer at the front of Block B, our cars parked in a perfect straight line along the parallel parking lots. I was wearing a red dress, I remember, and the rest were happy and drunken.

330: one night in beijing

Things begin, things end, things begin anew. The logic is the same and it is always the same cycle, and everything appears to be a game. You play, you win, you play, you lose, you play. You win again, or you lose. There are never grey areas; everything is one or the other. Still you play. Everything defines itself by something else, and when there are only two alternatives there is always something that has to give. Rarely are we faced with more, and like most life-changing decisions, there is really only one way to properly go about it, which is to say, not at all. Nobody thinks. Nobody cares. We remember the times that we sat together by the riverside, thinking about our lives, wondering where we would go. We eventually came to the conclusion that there was nothing we could do; this is the way it is, this is the flow. If we make a mistake, so be it. It is our life to live. We win, we play, we lose. Everything is a risk and we pursue the exciting rather than the familiar, because we are free, because we are young, because we can. It is the reason why nobody turns back, why nobody wants to be faced with regrets, why everyone looks forward and keeps going, because the past is painful and hard to bear. There are only two alternatives. And yet everything in the present must also have a past, in the same way that it must also have a future. It may not be better, it may not be worse,  just — different. And then how much remains the same is the scariest question, because it is possible to come full circle and realise one has never moved from the same spot. It may be the same as watching someone sit quietly by your side, not saying anything, but understanding. It may be that someone’s back is turned away from you, someone who doesn’t look at you anymore, who doesn’t say anything and will never say anything anymore. It may be the case that having someone is like not having anyone at all; or that we are faced with the ghosts from our past all the time, pretending all the while that someone is there when they are not. 

326: look what love gave us

These few days have been better, but it might have been all the alcohol.

Everyone is going home soon, and it’s hard to fathom that one semester has already passed us by. In these three months so many things, good and bad, have happened, sometimes changing our lives irreversibly. Whatever it is, whether it’s the people we’ve met or the people who have left or are leaving, this exchange year is shaping up to be an unforgettable one.

325: 夜夜听歌不睡

It’s always easy to write about others, to trivialise our own pain and the way we are feeling. When the experience is about someone else, everything takes on gigantic proportions. We search for meanings of life, for a way out, for ways to find ourselves in the middle of these messes that other people have made. We rummage through their debris and emerge, philosophically and with a bland smile on our faces, with a life-changing statement. We learn from other people’s mistakes.

And who are these other people? Are they strangers, do we know them, and will we continue not to know them in the future? As people come together and drift apart, as people leave and meet new people, treasure new faces and love new things, the ones left behind struggle to remember what has been lost. The stories of our past shouldn’t always repeat, but they often do, and we end up not being the people that we think we are. We disappoint others; we disappoint ourselves. There are parts to us we have never realised existed. Everyone is upset.

Still there are people who believe in us, who care. Who, by means of a quiet word or two, a gentle smile, packages from overseas and a phone call, a well-placed hug or two, calm our souls without them knowing. The only way to keep going on is by yourself, to make your own decisions. We drift through life this way, relying on ourselves. The more cynical amongst us will tell us that there is no one but ourselves. That the only ones who can solve our problems are ourselves, that the only ones who can calm ourselves are ourselves. Sometimes they are right. But they are not always right — there are always other people. There will be better people, worse people, people good and bad for us, people who love us more and love us less. We are never alone, and for this reason, the people we surround ourselves with are important.

There are constructive relationships; there are destructive relationships. Some cause you pain slowly, some stab you straight in the gut. Some fade away like a distant flower, some explode like fireworks. Some people begin with the end in mind, and others keep dreaming things will last forever. At the end of the day, we make the best of things as we can, we tidy up our lives, we try to move on. The ones who stay with us all the way are the ones worth keeping.

322: お前が消えて喜ぶ者にお前のオールをまかせるな

There will be times when I falter, when I lose sight of myself, and what I’m supposed to do. There will be times when I cannot deliver what I promise, times when I don’t tell the truth. There are times when I mock people behind their backs, to their faces, whether I truly mean it or not.

This is me. All of this is me, but I am also other things. And what matters is to know yourself, to know the things that you want and the things you don’t want, to keep looking straight ahead, at the future, even though past mistakes don’t disappear.

When God closes the door, somewhere he opens the window. I’m not everything anyone wants me to be, but I have strength, and courage, and hope, and lots and lots of friends who love me. I know that if I keep believing, things will definitely change.

And whatever happens, you save yourself, or you remain unsaved.

318: excerpts from the various notes strewn around the bedroom of april connolly, february 24 1997

‘Why I should leave… no – Why I’m leaving you for him. Well, let’s see here… well, let’s see; where should I begin? Every night you get annihilated with all your friends, and every night I drink alone until you stumble home wanting some – like some fuck and run. I know you sleep around, I see it in the eyes of those girls. Those fucking girls… they smile and nod, but never offer a single word – I’m just in the way – I’m the ball and chain, you’re the jailbird chirping, “Wow hard life is in the cage!”, how hard it is waking up next to me. Well, you’ve dug this hole, come on and fill me up. When you said you loved me I knew I was getting fucked. You said you’d never let go – all that stopped… you used to turn me on, now we’re just getting off. That’s why i’m leaving you.’

And the drunken erratic response from April’s ex-boyfriend Trevor Post, upon finding said various notes:

You really, really think this guy is gonna make it all right? You told me you could never be in love with another man, “Oh, but this one is it!” But I remember when we met we knew that this was the end. Yeah, I remember – I remember everything – the haircuts, the dollar movies. We used to sneak a six pack in your bag, and wait for a girl to scream or a car to crash so we could crack open our cans. Or the time you shaved my head in the front yard; a passerby stopped to take a picture – we ended up in the paper. And now you want to leave? Well, maybe I forgot a couple things, it doesn’t mean I don’t remember how it feels when you’re lying naked next to me. Valentine, I want to feel your hips pressed up against mine. We’ll push into each other – love’s alive. It might be fleeting, but it’s ours and it’s tonight… so won’t you reconsider love-lost lives? You might be lonely, but I’m still by your side. You might have to leave, but not tonight.

— Cursive

298: i don’t know where we are going now

This is how it is; young people are wistful. Young people like to lean on a tree and pretend they are old, as if being 21 is a great weight on their shoulders, and we suffer in order to be able to carry it, and carry on. We tremble with the weight of our youth as we look up into the sky. 

We make friends; we drift apart. We think we run in the same circles when maybe we don’t, not anymore. There are things that pass us by, including time, that nobody realises, not until it’s too late. When we meet again, we’ll talk about life since then (maybe talk about why, and did it ever end?), we’ll bump into each other at our usual coffee place, with different people now, the same conversation, and the same painful itch at the heart. 

Sometimes we mourn our losses. Other times we don’t know that they’ve gone. When we do realise, maybe we feel sad, or maybe we feel nothing at all. There is a downcast look (or three), but we pick ourselves up and go back to the person in front of us. This is here. This is now. We keep saying this to ourselves. We look across the vast field of our youth and convince ourselves there is a long way more to go; yes we can afford to lose some, because we can’t win everything. Perhaps as we think we grow older our perspectives change. We become used to things; we may not welcome them always, but we can always find a way to explain everything away. Reason. They always say that if you are thinking too much, it is a sign you are getting old.

Maybe the young think about different things. Maybe they don’t. How much of us has changed is open to doubt. Some things are immutable, and everyone, or maybe no one, has been this concerned about love. Life, friendship, staying in touch. Keeping people with you. 

How much remains the same; that is the scariest question.

294: youth’s like diamonds in the sun

 

So many adventures couldn’t happen today

So many songs we forgot to play

So many dreams swinging out of the blue

We’ll let them come true

276: when she’s sad, she comes to me

I thought about it and I thought it would be better if I left it like that. Hours later I’m still wondering why I didn’t pick up the phone. Strange? Maybe yes, maybe no. I keep having to pretend I’m not there or that I forgot about it, or that I completely missed it. It’s selfish to start thinking about how I shouldn’t have to be dealing with this right now. 

Endless phone calls? How old are you, six?

I don’t even understand why there is all this bitterness on my part. This doesn’t even have anything to do with me. 

I, we. There’s no doubt about it.

241: something good will come my way!

Things that don’t bear thinking about:

Why I am going back to school tomorrow.

Why my knee is suddenly acting up and hurting like a bitch today. I can’t bend it or walk properly. WHY?

Why I have a really bad and horrible throat.

Why my attempts to eat Penang Laksa at Jalan Bukit Merah have failed. Thrice.

Why that Miu Miu bag is so expensive.
(US$285 on eBay, ending today!!! If I weren’t so broke, it’d be mine, for my birthday. Hint.)

But.

My timetable this year is pretty sweet.

After more than a year, I’ve decided what I should name my car. And in the name of spontaneity, I present to you Judy Bloom!

We are going to get our asses on the dean’s list this year.

240: 天空海阔 你与我 可会变

It’s 6am — what do we do? 

Today I met — no, I bumped into — no, I saw – the ex to end all ex-es, in the midst of my alcohol-induced high, in Phuture. The very first. But not the very last, in the string of secondary school mistakes (which amounted to two, including this one. There was another, which was also… what we could call a mistake, but for different reasons). And that was a really big mistake. I remember feeling stunned, for a long while, just before a PE lesson when Charlene told me some very bad news. One is aware that I would not be so honest if not for the alcohol now running through my system, but we must take these moments of spontaneity as they come. I didn’t feel much, because I hadn’t been thinking about him in years, but seeing my friend go up to him and say hi reminded me just how long we hadn’t talked. And I thought that things, after so long, would have changed (he even refused to say hello to me when we were in the same school, years after the debacle, totally unaware that all of it was his doing, but that’s another story), but clearly they haven’t. It’s not that it’s a bad thing; I just hadn’t thought of it in years, and suddenly all these intellectual thoughts come sprouting out of my brain, in the midst of an alcoholic stupor.  

Now I am carrying out an (very enjoyable) intellectual conversation with Daming, which I haven’t had in ages. While half-drunk and at 6am in the morning, and listening to Beyond on repeat, which in my opinion is the greatest Cantonese band that ever lived. Even though my boyfriend is currently in Genting gambling his life savings away with the Catholic Boyfriends’ Association, I can honestly say that I’ve never felt this breathless and carefree in a long time. 

原谅我这一生不羁放纵爱自由
也会怕有一天会跌倒
被弃了理想谁人都可以
那会怕有一天只你共我 

236: nostalgia – now threepence off

Adrian Mitchell:

Where are they now, the heroes of furry-paged books and comics
brighter than life which packed my inklined desk in days when BOP meant
Boys’ Own Paper, where are they anyway?

Where is Percy F. Westerman? Where are H. L. Gee and Arthur Mee?
Where is Edgar Rice (the Warlord of Mars) Burroughs, the Bumper Fun Book
and the Wag’s Handbook? Where is the Wonder Book of Reptiles? Where the
hell is the Boy’s Book of Bacteriological Warfare?

Where are the Beacon Readers? Did Ro-ver, that tireless hound,
devour his mon-o-syll-ab-ic-all-y correct family? Did Little Black Sambo
and Epaminondas dig the last sit-in?

Did Peter Rabbit get his when myxomatosis came round the second
time, did the Flopsy Bunnies stiffen to a standstill, grow bug-eyed,
fly-covered and then disintegrate?

Where is G. A. Henty and his historical lads – Wolfgang the Hittite,
Armpit the Young Viking, Cyril who lived in Sodom? Where are their
uncorrupted bodies and Empire-building brains, England needs them, the
Sunday Times says so.

There is news from the Strewelpeter mob. Johnny-Head-In-Air spends
his days reporting flying saucers, the telephone receiver never cools
from the heat of his hand. Little Harriet, who played with matches,
still burns, but not with fire. The Scissorman is everywhere.

Babar the Elephant turned the jungle into a garden city. But things
went wrong. John and Susan, Titty and Roger, became unaccountably afraid
of water, sold their dinghies, all married each other, live in a
bombed-out cinema on surgical spirits and weeds of all kinds.

Snow White was in the News of the World – Virgin Lived With Seven
Midgets, Court Told. And in the psychiatric ward an old woman dribbles
as she mumbles about a family of human bears, they ate porridge, yes
Miss Goldilocks of course they did.

Hans Brinker vainly whirled his silver skates around his head as the
jackboots of Emil and the Detectives invaded his Resistance Cellar.

Some failed. Desperate Dan and Meddlesome Matty and Strang the
Terrible and Korky the Cat killed themselves with free gifts in a back
room at the Peter Pan Club because they were impotent, like us. Their
audiences, the senile Chums of Red Circle School, still wearing for
reasons of loyalty and lust the tatters of their uniforms, voted that
exhibition a super wheeze.

Some succeeded. Tom Sawyer’s heart has cooled, his ingenuity flowers
at Cape Canaveral.

But they are all trodden on, the old familiar faces, so at the
rising of the sun and the going down of the ditto I remember I remember
the house where I was taught to play up play up and play the game though
nobody told me what the game was, but we know now, don’t we, we know
what the game is, but lives of great men all remind us we can make our
lives sublime and departing leave behind us arseprints on the sands of
time, but the tide’s come up, the castles are washed down, where are
they now, where are they, where are the deep shelters? There are no deep
shelters. Biggles may drop it, Worrals of the Wraf may press the button.
So, Billy and Bessie Bunter, prepare for the last and cosmic Yarooh and
throw away the Man-Tan. The sky will soon be full of suns.

There are no deep shelters, indeed. Still as relevant and painfully beautiful as the day I read it, when I felt (and was) so much younger. Some days I want to sink into oblivion, other times this tells me there could be worse ways to live.

235: remember 2007

And so — how has it all changed?

This year things are very different. For one, I’m now typing in caps. I don’t know why, maybe I think it looks nicer, but actually I just wanted to do it for that particular post, but now I’m stuck doing it because I like uniformity (gasp) and I can’t stand it if the post is anomalous, not anymore. Which is also why I’m in the process of changing all my ITunes song info into capital letters, after I spent nearly three days changing everything to small letters when I first got ITunes, back in 2004. Maybe it marks a transition; who knows.

Being in university changes things. For one, I no longer really see January as the start of a new year, since I’m still in the middle of a school year, with the promise of a second semester, a second chance, looming in the horizon. It makes things that happened this January so far away, back in my first year of university, though still part of 2007. And it started with nearly getting bombed in Bangkok, spending our New Year’s Eve in a hostel room huddled together, playing drunken games with lots of beer, because that was the only thing we could do. In that time, how much I really felt as if I grew up was a mystery, and it has yet to be solved.

There were lots of holidays; a lot of travelling, and breaks. From Bangkok with my friends to spending a night in a chalet all by myself, Malacca, to visiting Bangkok with my mum when my dad first relocated (with all the promise, yet again, of strengthening old relationships, putting water under the bridge, etc), to Hong Kong, that wonderful place I will always love. During summer holidays, I went out unafraid into the sun for the first time, in a long time, without getting burnt, or any side effects that come with usually being in the sun. For those who have never had this problem, you cannot imagine how liberating it was, or how frustrating it must have been, all those years when I was never allowed to do anything for prolonged periods under the sun (effectively putting an end to whatever burgeoning sports career I had). The beach was there, and so was the sun. With the sun, came the food writing, and somehow I spent all those suntanning days reading about food; Anthony Bourdain, Jeffrey Steingarten, Ruth Reichl. Dealing with Law Camp in between. Crashing my car on the way to Ian’s house. And then, the drunken parties, the heart-to-heart talks, seeing how social dynamics changed from semester to semester, and all the histrionics that the aftermath of being in clubs brings. Seeing relationships get ruined, slowly but surely, with all the force of an oncoming train but being powerless to stop it, too much alcohol, a wayward hand, and strangely enough, struggles for power. When you think you can do anything, you really will.

Then there was the most difficult part; dealing with the aftermath of last year. When you think it is all over, it starts again. There was summer, when everyone came back, and there was MAF. Where I renewed old friendships and was glad for them, knowing nothing could replace them, and yet, feeling so far away. With each year comes the renewed feelings of clutching at straws. But no, some things are only as big as what you make of it, and I will take it as it comes, drunken spontaneous forays into Zouk after drinking like delinquents outside Cineleisure, and all.

This was the year I bared the most of myself, and had the most heartfelt conversations with people. Some regarding love, or life, relationships, family. There was lots of alcohol involved, or I would not have said anything most of the time. Circles of trust, in the dead of night with a dozen shots down, smiling drunkenly at each other. I wonder now if I really knew the impact of what I was saying, but no matter now. And a random day of skipping school, going to Far East, just hanging out and talking. We were supposed to have lunch, but we ended up talking for three hours. I was scared, most of the time: of disappointing myself, loved ones, hearing doors close, phones slammed, messages deleted. Communication being cut off. Things that didn’t appear to matter suddenly did, and became bigger than they were. When family to me was still a belated, distant concept. Maybe it still is now. Maybe my feelings are an intellectual construct. Who knows? And I thought to myself, maybe things would change, but they didn’t. Was it regret? Nobody knows. But I think not. Somehow this year I found out, and perhaps admitted to myself, what I knew all along, which is that people don’t change, or change irrevocably.

Am I too old to dwell on my pain? Maybe, and maybe I need to get over myself, or anything that stands in my way. We always have these conversations about people without realizing they are equally applicable to ourselves. Strangely enough, the best thing that may have happened to me was probably getting banned from Bogglific, without which I would have wasted my entire life away. And those days were dark. In April I huddled in classrooms, shivering from the cold on weekdays and sweating like a pig on Sundays, when the aircon was off. Waking up obscenely early, and going home at obscene times. Killing myself over moots with Patrick, determined that I should do a good job, practising again and again in front of people, getting shot down by questions again and again in front of a full classroom, going up in court, delivering my argument. I was damn bloody scared, but who wasn’t? Then, in second year, all those trial/advocacy tutorials, which we never put in effort for, till the last minute, where I decided that even if it wasn’t really graded, I would do this properly. In November, I left school at 4am on a regular basis, going home only to bathe and change, then come back, and start again. Getting intimately acquainted with the numerous delivery services across the island, bringing our own exam wellness pack, staying in the study room where the same old same old people came in everyday, sending each other nostalgic Chinese songs from our childhood and beyond. I went to Starbucks almost every other day, having some version of coffee or another. While I listened to Wu Bai on repeat I looked through mortgages again and again, trying to remember the rights of a mortgagee, arguing with others over the duties of a director, and what happens with a legal or equitable lease, making stupid and utterly lame lawyer jokes. Chomping on wasabi peas to keep me awake, constantly hounding the co-op auntie to bring new stocks in. Sitting outside on the canteen chairs way after closing, so that mine was the only chair left outside when the night ended. Seeing the number of cars along the front of the school dwindle to just mine, and whoever was in the study room. Honestly, I have never taken so much pride in my work.

And then, after all of it, I must let it go. All those notes, thrown in some random corner, while DVDs and Japanese dramas and random history books take centrestage. Then I went to Starbucks again and again, this time doing nothing but lazing around, reading and having a coffee, just like I dreamed of during the exams. And I took pleasure in the rain, the cool weather, pretended it was winter and it was freezing, though January is coming and it is no longer all rain and clouds. Tonight I saw the most stars in a year, and I thought of the time I was 15 in OBS looking at Orion’s Belt on Pulau Ubin, and that black, black sky in Mongolia where I stared up with no lights on for miles and miles, my legs up in the air. It reminded me of Christmas Day, with familiar and comforting rituals, which I know are about to end, because now all the boys will be going overseas, and nobody will come back anymore. Then I remembered that overwhelming disturbance I felt that day, whether it was due to family or new information or not, I will never know. As I drove home that night at 4am, it felt a little melancholy. It seems every Christmas there is some little saga, some revelation, and whether for better or for worse, at least some things remain constant.

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I felt as if I should mention you, but I didn’t know where to put it. But you are everywhere, so maybe there is no need after all.