Past Midnight

The times when I seek comfort from the softness of the pillow, the times when all that I feel are the creases on the bedspread, the times when I choose to shut my eyes because it is an easier option than staying awake are  the times which are not palatable to the world of glamour and perfection. Those that are welcome on the buffet spread of emotions are the confident grins, unwavering smiles and shiny eyes. But still, there are times when the greatest comfort comes in the form of the aged old familarity of the smell of the bedspread and knowing that tomorrow will come, but tonight will give me enough rest for tomorrow.  

I love Boey Kim Cheng's Past Midnight

I turn the light on to see if I am still there.
The bulb creeps to life, resentful
at being roused to work. The dreary repertoire
which a discordant band went through a dozen times
during a neighbour's funeral are marching
in my head. I hum a classical tune, summon
the words of a sentimenal song
to expel the stubborn band. The blaring trumpets
cut them with a single blow.

Life is a perpetual unrest
in the housing estates. The endless knockings,
the stempeding feet, the hurricanes of bad temper,
the eternal television, the thrashing bodies,
the endless rituals of life and death.
Where is the point of stillness
art directs us to?
My mind veers crazily.
I turn the light off.
The bulb goes on burning inside.