Finale
dear readers,
Sometimes being alone, at home, for a week, is a boon; and sometimes it is a bane – and sometimes, being neither, it never fails to confuse, and to inspire.
Filled with new experiences – or more accurately, everyday experiences that this largely pampered self of mine failed to notice before, the week has given me much to think about. From wandering amidst the often unfathomable instructions obtained at Streetdirectory.com to finding an undisturbed haven for sit-down study in the most crowded of places, even a bus ride can bring new insight. Wind whistling through hair has a strangely buoyant effect, and taking public transport with your violin clamped between your legs and a notebook open for poetry in your hand is actually possible.
And so through the week I’ve learnt the difference between studying at home, studying in school, and studying outside with friends (and the distractions thereof), the importance of a trusty alarm clock, the pressure of an exam schedule, and the possibility of writing while on the road. Walking home, in itself, has its singular surprises – the sunset has never been so perfectly golden, laced with drops of clouds – while meeting old friends on the way home from piano lesson, or even after printing Geography projects, has awoken me to hitherto-unnoticed coincidence.
Observing how people behave in our melting-pot that is and will be added spice to the experience, and the simple faith of the primary-one boy who boards the bus and promptly falls asleep, awaking just before his stop could not have been more touching. Neither could the narcotic effect of the welcome MRT chill that sweeps the trainful of individuals under the blanket of a common slumber, dissolving passengers into seats, behind books, and into each others’ arms; yet the MRT is also a drug that ceases its effect at the opportune moment, gently tapping each faceless individual on the shoulder, refreshed for his stop.
Thus in this way, the week has been productive both in terms of the revision in the wake of exams, and in terms of learning – if I shall be allowed to use this clichéd phrase – more about the world around me. Outside the home, where distractions of the bed, the internet and the bars of Merci Dark Cream in the refrigerator are amply cut off, one like me who is rarely affected by ambient music or atmosphere finds the perfect place to study. It is also outside the home that I can be moved by events which occur outside the boundaries of four homely yet concrete walls.
This is not to say that the absence of my dearest guardians is in any way rejoiced over. The house is quiet, and the air suddenly stale and humid, without the smells of freshly-baked banana-chocolate wafting up to me. Music that I play echoes numbly around me. The stairwell reflects a queer loneliness; I can finally understand the heart of that blind busker at Junction 8 who makes music to the unknown every day of his life, and always smiling besides.
Facing the computer every night to pen my poems, reflections and email for the day, a sense of calm and fulfillment creeps over me – I have learnt something new today. Indeed, the things of the world appear new, even if these are but new eyes that see them. But it is a sense of fulfillment that does not fully equate the tugging sensations of missing somebody.
Typing this now on my last night, home alone, I would gladly say that my parents’ return in three hours’ time is heartily anticipated. And what a new world it is that I am to show them!
A national exhaustion
There is a certain tiredness
That wraps the train,
Seducing men to sleep
Even as their feet
Grapple with the rage of
A thousand bumpy tracks. It is
This queer exhaustion
Spread, perhaps, by
The monotonous underfoot rumbling,
The stale, many-scented wind
Or even the
Supreme lack of landscape,
That has the power to
Flip the pages of daily
Tabloids gently shut, increase
The volume of innumerable
Invisible gadgets and dissolve
Already-vulnerable lovers
Into each other.
In this city where everything speeds,
Do we only find time for rest
On the road?
Fingerprints on the glass
Enveloped by the
Leathery scent of taxi-seats,
The reminders of past travelers
Overmasked with air-freshener;
These are strange windows through
Which I view the world.
Somehow, the glass
Laces perception
With fingerprinted fiction
And looking through it
I am absorbed by the
Countless marks of inquisitive hands.
A sign on the Perspex
Reminds me that I might, possibly,
Earn a 1% rebate on every taxi-ride.
Identity
Dropping my violin,
Leaning against the wall and
Flipping open my notebook,
Sense is suddenly distorted
By nondescript faces that
Waft pass me, each leaving
An impression of the unique,
But none revealing any more
Than a blank look in the eyes
When I question further. Still,
I melt in, disappearing as it seems
Among the masks of many,
Who, like, me, cannot bear
To stand alone. Such is
The copyrighted identity that
City-dwellers have branded as their own.
The tourist on the MRT
I wonder what it’s like
up there, Head and shoulders
Above the rest of us;
Gazing down at us yellow-skinned
mortals like the gods of the
Pantheon.
Sandwiched where you are,
between rare gasps of fresh
air/con and the odors
of a nation’s rush-hour workforce,
It must be pretty tough
keeping balance.
But as I watch, you
sway with the train,
Not having to resort to
the metronomical scrabbling
of a population of driftwood
that has learnt
to stick to the shore.
Unperturbed, you stand
like a totem, in the centre of the carriage,
glancing towards what is
left of heaven and blithely
ignoring that crowd that
keeps near the doors and faces outwards;
(a self-defensive gesture perhaps?)
You think,
what strange creatures we are
to be able to bond
unbreakably with a
dozen anonymous races
and believe that
there is no danger
from within.
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