the man with the bomb

the man with bomb
does not scream
nononono
like those who died would
if they knew

the man with the bomb
whispers
great is my god

Anomaly

as I gazed out through the open balcony doors, i was
amazed at how still the view was, i saw
the sky so beautiful, so striking
with intense grey-streaked clouds, sleeping
behind the UC building in a green suit, not a crane
or worker dared move - and everything,
everything was so quiet - not quite serene
but unmoving (save the whispering breeze)
like a painting

but then the ignorant trucks roar past
and the fan whirs impatiently, challenging the crows
that nag at the frozen scene

and suddenly, all too soon
it is like life, once more

/hm royce. i see

keeping a safe distance

is when i draw a straight line
that marks what is good to say
and what might offend you

for your own safety,
please do not cross the yellow line

polite smalltalk
congenial headnodding
and smiling -

seldom it is that the train comes
where i can cross that yellow line
safely.

but of course there's always the bus.

A Late Afternoon

I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips
It throbs oh-so-slowly -
in tempo with the lazy midday
If feels mellowed, like rays from the sordid sun -
Weakened, weary;

Thump

-------Thump

---------------Thump

Like rays from the sordid sun

when eyes meet

when our eyes meet, it's as if
i avoid looking.

you see, once that smile lights up
your face, i can't help but
fall inside.

colours & memories

After all, what were memories? These mere intricate entities that result entirely from man’s senses; memories so detailed they require such specifically similar circumstances to allow for total recall – a mere hint of a memory would scarcely conjure the faintest déjà vu.

But colours. Ah, yes, colours. Were they not the very visual essence of memories? Even the memories lacking in sound are alive in colour; even the dreariest, most monochrome images are, in themselves, black and white. Colours, he mused, were by no means carceral – they imprison nothing, hold no-one in bondage – instead they fill the world in which he lived, the memories that he made of it.

//had some musings for commonwealth essay :) couldn't be bothered to put it up on my blog. but thou shalt not steal. though, of course, you wouldn't get anywhere with text like that. writing has since moved on to more modern, xue-yang-amanda-chong style. not that i care, cos i'll prob use this lil excerpt here anyway.

One Of My Loveliest Moments Of Solitude

I remember
One of the loveliest moments of solitude I had:
at the Yoshinoya outlet near my school where, I,
having ordered a Beef Bowl (Student’s Meal, please…
Upsize??? Uh, yes) sat at the end of an empty row and
thought it weird for two girls (next to me, my age or so)
to be giggling so unabashedly as though
they owned the restaurant - but that was their solitude;
mine was less unrestrained: I told myself, first,
get the veggies out of the way. My teeth went to work
kneading carrot, cauliflower, broccoli, …
(don’t touch the onions because the beef tastes horrid without it)
so did my mind, digesting my book – “Art Now”- apt title
solitude so boundless yet personal it must have
been art. That was the lovely moment, actually,
after which a glare nailed into me by one of three students
(one female two male) sitting opposite curtailed my freedom.
Then, they laughed, almost selfishly, among themselves,
at me, I would presume? Surely solitude
wasn’t this – an uneasy, paranoid experience?
Not being caught up in a conversation of one’s own left one vulnerable.
The situation felt as sticky as the rice. I shortly got up to leave,
though a second glare caught up with my footsteps. Solitude
leaves the job of conversation to the eyes.