While we are still impulsive-

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to "glorify God and enjoy him forever."

A friend shared that with me. And another one, on going to bed, asked me "Why do we have to sleep?"

"Because we have to start dreaming again at some point."

In transition

Today, I accidentally boarded the train in the opposite direction of my destination. I was caught off-guard, the same feeling I get when I see a familiar face in a sea of not-so-familiar and quickly conjure a smile and a little wave. I heard a different station name, looked out abruptly, and saw a different station sign. That’s what happens-when you have your head in the clouds-I am dreaming too much for my own good really. It’s been ten days since I have returned and I am spending most of the time alone, thinking, and reading. I have not arranged to meet up with anyone because I am enjoying this solitude:-I shop, talking to nobody; I walk into a bookstore without looking for any book, just to smell the place, pick up a book and flip through its pages. I buy a snack and travel along the underpass, I hear a basker singing and playing Peng You and between where I am and where he is at, those memories zip back and I stop to give, without telling anyone that I have stopped, wait a moment for me.

But this private, individualized respite has lasted longer than it should have and has crossed over the boundaries to become Unhealthy. So, it is a good thing that I have found a job today. It is as if I am in an Orange jumper, carrying a banner, shouting “I’m refreshed and ready to enter society again!”

What do I want to do in society in the future anyway? In the future is just an easy way of making three years sound distant and less daunting. I am entirely clueless, I sent out applications of internships to so many places, all of bizarrely different natures. And when they all reply to say they want final year students, I thought fine then, I’ll work at a café, something I would not do in the future anyway. But, this could very well be something I would want to do.

When I was in primary school, I wanted to be a Longan Seller, a stationery shop owner, a sticker shop lady because Longans was my favourite fruit, and because I wanted free fancy pens and stickers. And over the years, I thought of being a lawyer, a teacher, and now, now I want to be so many things at once, I am overwhelmed by Now What.

Growing up is such a pain sometimes to the point that youth is wasted on the young. There is the urgency to consume as much as you can. Yet, there is age acting like a buoyant keeping you afloat, each time you push yourself to the bottom of the pool, wanting to absorb everything, you spring up. Youth limits your learning because it just leaves you confused most of the time and in the heart of the darkness of confusions, can one see anything? Oh right, everyone grows up. And we are all in this together.

Yet, there is a perpetual thought that ten years down the road, I would still wake up everyday, making instantaneous decisions on what breakfast shall be today, and planning for today with no great, grand plans of the tomorrows that I can speak of.

I picked up a brick.

Then I wondered what I would do next.

Hanging by moments

My Days are numbered from 1 to 15.
Every journal page is a resistance to reach 15-
But 15 came and my days have names again;
Everyday is a day to resist thoughts about those 15.
Today is Thursday, I think I am ready.

Day 1

Conversations on the plane, on the bus, glazed doughnuts and rain, red walls of Dragon Lodge, first Angels, first Mortals, dinner spread on the long dining table, two paintings staring, I stare back at the one with a man, back-faced, relaxed, perhaps looking into the distance.

Day 2

Checking the school grounds, feigned illness, wet grounds on the market, flies, fruits, darkness in a circle, light on some faces, you share, I listen, all walls are broken, rain pattering at 2:29am, my roommate is asleep, I am awake, shaking-with warmth.

Day 3

Sweeping whirlpools of dust, face-masked, their eyes follow us, they smile, wave, names exchanged, sweets placed shyly in my hands, fizzy drinks in their hands, running away, in a huddled blanket, you share, you bare, I listen, colossal thoughts in bed.

Day 4

Voices with eagerness overflowing, there is no fan, no frustration, there are smiles, Simon Says, packet lunches, swarms of children, I cut strings, you weave, you laugh, I am beaming, there is laughter before my turn, I am immensely scared, I speak, my heart thuds, I do not censor, in a circle, lights on nobody’s face, we hold hands, I am trembling.

Day 5

Toasts with marmalade, jazzy songs, glances exchanged, I smile, it is a beautiful day, encouraging notes in my mailbox, chopping in the kitchen, teases and jokes flying, five people and a new dimension, my sides hurt from laughing too hard.

Day 6

Chatting and sandpapering, intense bonding, talk of tight butts and muffins, around the corner friendship bands tied around my wrist, glorious food, guitar strumming, a birthday cake falling apart, secret meetings and letter writing, I am afraid that I cannot undo the knots of the bands when I return.

Day 7
A painting with three monks in orange robes against a backdrop of grey, chewing and munching, polite laughter, delicate and careful, toilet adventures, sinking into the sofa, cold toes, old Chinese songs given a contemporary twist, a new hotel in an old Laos, frustration over micros and macros, honesty along the stairway.

Day 8

Bus Journeys, a thought that we are all linked by colonialism, unsettling feelings amidst serenity in the boat, giving thought to what real community needs are for the first time, blasting music, happy dances, the smell of beer, we leap high, the bus is standing on the water, the sunlight falls on me, a child splashes water on her face, hands in water, water on face, looking at your country in semi-darkness, waking from naps, fried rice that never tasted so fragrant before.

Day 9

Discussion under a tree, animals roaming around, a pale blue above a lush green, us in multi-coloured shirts, Polaroid shots, Walls ice cream tune, toasts that transcend cultures, rockets shooting up, the sun, the heat, the happy drunkards, Prata with condensed milk, condensing us together as we walk back to the lodge, the wind in our faces, sleepy faces playing card games in a room, saying Good Nights.

Day 10

Good Mornings to familiar faces, today is my last teaching day, learning not to fight transience, will deal with it, English lessons at 5/2, tongue twisters, arms linked, singing songs, camping in Room 204, gossips amongst fun fair preparations, imitations of “Morning!”, laughing about Singapore T-shirts, the guys leaving, lights off, there is Fam beside me, there is a happiness radiating within the four walls.

Day 11

Squatting, hammer in hand, hacking bits of the wall, tuk tuk journeying to the market, I am quiet, I am taking in the dust, the brown bumpy gravel roads, sign boards that I may never see again, briefings, meetings in our room, pats on backs, snipping paper, howling with laughter over multi-coloured sunglasses, panties hidden in handkerchiefs, smiling sleeping.

Day 12

Waking up to knocks on the door, scissors on the floor, early tribe breakfast, enthusiasm that floats around 300 children, a posed photograph of us, arms akimbo, sitting around a table, writing, talking, remembering for life that “of” does not follow consist, spontaneous sharing over soy bean milk, thoughts that belong to a world of silent articulation.

Day 13

Josh Groban music playing, soothing companion on a windy night, the aroma of Teh Tarik lingers, conversation with Mrs. Chan Sook, suppressed giggles, Camel lurking in the backdrop, posed Piggy faces, I am left alone in the depths of the night, my green journal and I, I am falling asleep, I carry myself upstairs, tonight is the second last night.

Day 14

Tourist attractions on possibly the hottest day, pizzas, reminiscence creeping in, everyone looking lovely in purple shirts, cream puffs in the embassy, it is drizzling, names read aloud, ceremonial mood, cheers, songs, dances, durian feast, notes to thirteen other people, last-minute packing, scrambling down, henna painting on ankles, on hands.

Day 15

Singing all the way on the plane, scribbling reflections on a paper, touching down, embraces, photographs, fighting back tears, knowing that Metta means love is reassuring.

Pre-departure high

I have abandoned my packing to piece together a photo album that I can bring along.

Today is wonderful. It’s nice to wait for something to happen and all throughout the day, you’re smiling to yourself, packing your bag, lifting through old photos, and catching yourself in an unconscious grin. It is the same feeling I used to carry before going for birthday parties. For the entire day, I have been looking through photos taken in sc, all in soft copies, all in colourful, younger smiles. The huge deuter bag I am carrying has a lingering, musty odac smell. And of vj photos, a random assortment sent by ah pek of olc looks that everyone appears absolutely cui in.

In and out of time

Sometimes, I wake up in the morning and remember it is a Wednesday and between brushing my teeth, I think about what I did last Wednesday or the Wednesday before that. I remember that last Sunday I watched a play or last Monday I was out having dinner and there is an inevitable juxtaposition that goes on. I have a habit of placing days alongside their past selves. During this period of late nights, early mornings, waking from the guilt of a twelve-hour sleep, I am thinking of the same period last year and all that comes to my mind is a woman I met, shook hands with, and have completely forgotten until now.

I think she was twenty-eight or thirty-one and I was eighteen. She was on the brink of going to jail and it offered me a change from my stamp licking, book binding days. I have to remind myself to subdue the excitement that arises from visiting her in Changi’s Women Prison or the flurry that takes place inside me when I took my place beside her lawyer in court. There is an unabashed happiness that lies unconcealed in my note-taking, the happiness that arises from first experiences, first times. I am thinking of her now because one year has passed and that translates to one more year left for her to serve. When she went to court that day, she had glasses on because her lawyer told her to look remorseful and to colour her hair black. But all that does not really matter to me, I am only realizing that one year has passed, in the snap of hair growing longer, I am again comprehending that time is fast.

It is not enough to say time flies because time is a concept I cannot understand. When I peel parking coupons, the first option stumbles me already-should I jab 07 off or is it 06 now and is 07 actually next year? It is strange to be alarmed by the days running by because so many Christmases, New Years, end of school terms have passed, one should get used to it by now. But time is a scary idea altogether because it allows me to compare with the past times and the awareness of how things have changed or have remained renders a bite of the lower lip.