ISSUE 6
Edited by Pang Sze Ann, Andrew Susilo, Kenrick Lam, Natalie goh, Riti Bisht, Vandana, Yi Tian
PROSEFallen Angel
by Yi Tian A Rumination On Migration
by Ke Dong Eternal
by Jed finding home
by Wong Zi Ling |
POETRYA Bird's Eye View
by Liya Discovery
by Eunice Flying
by Tai Ran Ghosts of the Past
by Byron Lim Journey Through My Mind
by Riti Bisht |
PROSE
FALLEN ANGEL
|
i: off the beaten path
thieves get used to travelling. being on the run and the pursuit of greed aren’t much different when it means you have to look where you step. birds of a feather flock together, and clipped wings have more in common with metal bones than you think.
Some live in a lap of luxury for the eighteen hours in the air, simulating their victims. some never stop moving, fingers tapping, They start planning their next destination for the fear that the day the hands on their clock stop- someone will catch up. some take the brief moment of airborne suspension to close their eyes. beggars can’t be choosers, and thieves never take limited safety for granted. sure, someone might poison their apple juice, or a weapon might be disguised as a wallet, but at least they’ve checked to see if the person next to them was clear (they checked).
of course, travelling isn’t limited to planes- there are cars to hotwire and hijack, trains bear gadgets and greenbacks, and even footsteps love marks that don’t look back. but planes… planes mean a long distance call of few words, planes mean a voice deep like whisky, cold and unshaken, planes mean a night stirred by a silver spoon.
some thieves never rob the same house twice, some think lightning never strikes the same place twice, and others, still, are once bitten, twice shy. there comes a point in time where jail is the safest place one can be. thieves get used to travelling.
there is no choice.
ii: bad news travels fast
BOSTON (Nov 18, 2017) — A teenage boy trying to record a timelapse of a meteor shower may be the only lead to the Iara Sullivan-Gardner museum heist. Hale, 14, received a telescope for his birthday and was eager to catch a glimpse of the Leonid meteor shower that occured yesterday. Leonid meteor showers are amongst the world’s most spectacular, with an estimate of over a hundred thousand meteors an hour. However, instead of shooting stars, Hale had accidentally filmed an intruder entering the museum, which is opposite his home. The subject of the video is now considered the perpetrator who robbed the Iara Sullivan-Gardner museum.
The video depicts a small, faintly white parachute descending onto the balcony of the third floor of the Iara Sullivan-Gardner museum, where the Titian Room was located. The crook promptly stole a single work of art before vanishing into the night. Unfortunately, that painting was no ordinary painting. The Rape of Europa is the last picture in a series that Titian had painted for the Spanish King Philip II, and depicts Jupiter, god of the skies, in disguise as a bull with the virgin princess Europa on his back. This painting serves as a base to future myths, including the birth of Minos, judge of the Underworld, as well as her brother’s founding of Thebes, where he invents the alphabet. This painting has been called the star of the museum, and yet someone has sought to snuff out that spark.
Officials have managed to retrace half of the thief’s steps as shown:
0501: The museum experiences a blackout that lasts five minutes. Hale’s video records the flight of the small figure, illuminated by a streetlamp. Police officers estimate her to be a girl- a child, in fact, of around eleven years and 140-145 cm in height- and deduce that they parachuted from the roof of the John Hancock tower located in the vicinity.
0503: The figure discards the parachute on the balcony and enters the museum.
0504: The painting’s pressure sensors are neutralised.
0506: The electrical supply of the museum reverts to normal.
0800: Museum staff discover the absence of the painting three hours before the museum’s opening.
The speed at which the con has been carried out leads one to wonder if there are more parties pulling the strings behind the scenes, especially as the perpetrator is of such young age, and must surely have received some form of guidance. However, the motive of the theft is still unclear, as this painting is nearly impossible to sell, given its fame. The F.B.I. estimates that the overall losses from art and cultural property crime run as high as $6 billion each year.
The video that Hale has uploaded onto the internet has since gone viral, with netizens giving her the moniker of a “fallen angel” due to the parachute’s wing-like shape at the timestamp of 1:24. “I didn’t even know if I would have been able to catch the meteor shower,” says Hale, “because I wasn’t sure if the light pollution of the city would be too bright.”
Any informants should report their knowledge immediately to the police.
ii: what goes up must come down
so all things fall apart eventually, not with a blinking indicator, nor a yawning hole, not with a screen slipping into a coma, but with a hopeless voice telling people to hope, and wings that do not fly.
so everything falls apart eventually, not from a bullet fired or a bullet wounded, not from an oath exchanged and refunded, but with a little girl who understands that perception is belief, and who knows her death is a pending fact.
there is a certain irony of having a phobia come true, and there is a strange sarcasm about trusting a promise she knows can’t be kept. still, she had no choice. when pseudonyms run deeper than veins, when “family” are both reins and chains, when you make sure you alone remain- she had been born into this lane. and that was where she stayed.
she was scared of planes because she had to trust a stranger to fly the plane, which meant that she couldn’t lie to gravity, which meant that no one would be there to catch her when she fell. failed. the devil takes the hindmost, and when you’re the lost, the last, or the least, you learn not to check whose hands you’re shaking.
she closed her eyes and wondered if a plummeting plane resembled a falling angel.
thieves get used to travelling. being on the run and the pursuit of greed aren’t much different when it means you have to look where you step. birds of a feather flock together, and clipped wings have more in common with metal bones than you think.
Some live in a lap of luxury for the eighteen hours in the air, simulating their victims. some never stop moving, fingers tapping, They start planning their next destination for the fear that the day the hands on their clock stop- someone will catch up. some take the brief moment of airborne suspension to close their eyes. beggars can’t be choosers, and thieves never take limited safety for granted. sure, someone might poison their apple juice, or a weapon might be disguised as a wallet, but at least they’ve checked to see if the person next to them was clear (they checked).
of course, travelling isn’t limited to planes- there are cars to hotwire and hijack, trains bear gadgets and greenbacks, and even footsteps love marks that don’t look back. but planes… planes mean a long distance call of few words, planes mean a voice deep like whisky, cold and unshaken, planes mean a night stirred by a silver spoon.
some thieves never rob the same house twice, some think lightning never strikes the same place twice, and others, still, are once bitten, twice shy. there comes a point in time where jail is the safest place one can be. thieves get used to travelling.
there is no choice.
ii: bad news travels fast
BOSTON (Nov 18, 2017) — A teenage boy trying to record a timelapse of a meteor shower may be the only lead to the Iara Sullivan-Gardner museum heist. Hale, 14, received a telescope for his birthday and was eager to catch a glimpse of the Leonid meteor shower that occured yesterday. Leonid meteor showers are amongst the world’s most spectacular, with an estimate of over a hundred thousand meteors an hour. However, instead of shooting stars, Hale had accidentally filmed an intruder entering the museum, which is opposite his home. The subject of the video is now considered the perpetrator who robbed the Iara Sullivan-Gardner museum.
The video depicts a small, faintly white parachute descending onto the balcony of the third floor of the Iara Sullivan-Gardner museum, where the Titian Room was located. The crook promptly stole a single work of art before vanishing into the night. Unfortunately, that painting was no ordinary painting. The Rape of Europa is the last picture in a series that Titian had painted for the Spanish King Philip II, and depicts Jupiter, god of the skies, in disguise as a bull with the virgin princess Europa on his back. This painting serves as a base to future myths, including the birth of Minos, judge of the Underworld, as well as her brother’s founding of Thebes, where he invents the alphabet. This painting has been called the star of the museum, and yet someone has sought to snuff out that spark.
Officials have managed to retrace half of the thief’s steps as shown:
0501: The museum experiences a blackout that lasts five minutes. Hale’s video records the flight of the small figure, illuminated by a streetlamp. Police officers estimate her to be a girl- a child, in fact, of around eleven years and 140-145 cm in height- and deduce that they parachuted from the roof of the John Hancock tower located in the vicinity.
0503: The figure discards the parachute on the balcony and enters the museum.
0504: The painting’s pressure sensors are neutralised.
0506: The electrical supply of the museum reverts to normal.
0800: Museum staff discover the absence of the painting three hours before the museum’s opening.
The speed at which the con has been carried out leads one to wonder if there are more parties pulling the strings behind the scenes, especially as the perpetrator is of such young age, and must surely have received some form of guidance. However, the motive of the theft is still unclear, as this painting is nearly impossible to sell, given its fame. The F.B.I. estimates that the overall losses from art and cultural property crime run as high as $6 billion each year.
The video that Hale has uploaded onto the internet has since gone viral, with netizens giving her the moniker of a “fallen angel” due to the parachute’s wing-like shape at the timestamp of 1:24. “I didn’t even know if I would have been able to catch the meteor shower,” says Hale, “because I wasn’t sure if the light pollution of the city would be too bright.”
Any informants should report their knowledge immediately to the police.
ii: what goes up must come down
so all things fall apart eventually, not with a blinking indicator, nor a yawning hole, not with a screen slipping into a coma, but with a hopeless voice telling people to hope, and wings that do not fly.
so everything falls apart eventually, not from a bullet fired or a bullet wounded, not from an oath exchanged and refunded, but with a little girl who understands that perception is belief, and who knows her death is a pending fact.
there is a certain irony of having a phobia come true, and there is a strange sarcasm about trusting a promise she knows can’t be kept. still, she had no choice. when pseudonyms run deeper than veins, when “family” are both reins and chains, when you make sure you alone remain- she had been born into this lane. and that was where she stayed.
she was scared of planes because she had to trust a stranger to fly the plane, which meant that she couldn’t lie to gravity, which meant that no one would be there to catch her when she fell. failed. the devil takes the hindmost, and when you’re the lost, the last, or the least, you learn not to check whose hands you’re shaking.
she closed her eyes and wondered if a plummeting plane resembled a falling angel.
A rumination on migration
|
Salmon are able to return to the exact place where they had spawned (true fact).
Humans, however, have no such desire. We drift from current to current, awash in the neon light of alien cities, foreign faces, lonely places.
When we are cut, we bleed a litany of lost names, lost places, lost artefacts. The morgues are brimming with old keys, ripped toys, and broken televisions. When did our agrarian ancestors decide to convert to a life of late-night airports and lonely hotel rooms? They packed their old bronze tools into suitcases, wrapped their fur-lined tents in plastic bags, and applied for a visa.
We are all members of an underwater diaspora. We have all given up the streams and brooks of old, in favour of swimming with the big fish in a bigger pond. In schools, we are alone together. Our teachers breed us for a life of swimming, swimming, swimming. Your desk mate has glazed eyes. The dogma of the day is dichotomies, discipline, and disappeared dialect. "Don't talk back."
Migration is a tricky thing. Passports are easily lost, languages easier still, faces the easiest of all. When in the market, barter the keys to the family shrine for a revolving door of airport passes and subway tickets. Give up your black hair and black eyes for cheap sunglasses and innumerable tubes of blonde hair dye. Die incognito, your ashes buried on the wrong side of the world. Hide our ancestry behind your American accent. Act like you don't know they tell us when you return, how you act like a foreigner even though the most foreign thing in the room seems to be them.
But as all fish do, we are drawn away from our coves and shores. We are lured by the Siren’s song of prosperity and success and meaningless sex, sex, sex. What were we thinking, that these fables of fortune might make our loneliness a little richer? Reality is poorer. In fact, as we squeeze into dormitories the size of shipping containers, we realise that stories of strike-it-rich Asians are only meant to make it rain for the well-endowed.
The well-endowed occasionally take a submarine to the depths of our waters. In speech bubbles they tell us that they only want to help us. They want us to join their Check-Your-Privilege Charity Drives, Break-A-Heart Concerts, and White-Guilt Welfare. They want us to pose with them in photographs, look at the poor fools, their brown skin, and their pitiable faces. They count good karma in CIP hours.
Salmon cannot speak. But when they lie upon the fishmonger’s block, wives whisper that their bodies always point toward their birthplace, as if they could capture home’s warm waters in a fisheye lens.
They say a salmon’s eye tastes like home. Perhaps, if our diet were to consist only of fish eyes, we too will one day be able to envision a home of our own, even if that home has already sunk beneath the waves.
Humans, however, have no such desire. We drift from current to current, awash in the neon light of alien cities, foreign faces, lonely places.
When we are cut, we bleed a litany of lost names, lost places, lost artefacts. The morgues are brimming with old keys, ripped toys, and broken televisions. When did our agrarian ancestors decide to convert to a life of late-night airports and lonely hotel rooms? They packed their old bronze tools into suitcases, wrapped their fur-lined tents in plastic bags, and applied for a visa.
We are all members of an underwater diaspora. We have all given up the streams and brooks of old, in favour of swimming with the big fish in a bigger pond. In schools, we are alone together. Our teachers breed us for a life of swimming, swimming, swimming. Your desk mate has glazed eyes. The dogma of the day is dichotomies, discipline, and disappeared dialect. "Don't talk back."
Migration is a tricky thing. Passports are easily lost, languages easier still, faces the easiest of all. When in the market, barter the keys to the family shrine for a revolving door of airport passes and subway tickets. Give up your black hair and black eyes for cheap sunglasses and innumerable tubes of blonde hair dye. Die incognito, your ashes buried on the wrong side of the world. Hide our ancestry behind your American accent. Act like you don't know they tell us when you return, how you act like a foreigner even though the most foreign thing in the room seems to be them.
But as all fish do, we are drawn away from our coves and shores. We are lured by the Siren’s song of prosperity and success and meaningless sex, sex, sex. What were we thinking, that these fables of fortune might make our loneliness a little richer? Reality is poorer. In fact, as we squeeze into dormitories the size of shipping containers, we realise that stories of strike-it-rich Asians are only meant to make it rain for the well-endowed.
The well-endowed occasionally take a submarine to the depths of our waters. In speech bubbles they tell us that they only want to help us. They want us to join their Check-Your-Privilege Charity Drives, Break-A-Heart Concerts, and White-Guilt Welfare. They want us to pose with them in photographs, look at the poor fools, their brown skin, and their pitiable faces. They count good karma in CIP hours.
Salmon cannot speak. But when they lie upon the fishmonger’s block, wives whisper that their bodies always point toward their birthplace, as if they could capture home’s warm waters in a fisheye lens.
They say a salmon’s eye tastes like home. Perhaps, if our diet were to consist only of fish eyes, we too will one day be able to envision a home of our own, even if that home has already sunk beneath the waves.
eternal
|
He is Eric Tan, the middle child in a family of nine. As is the case with most middle children,
especially one as quiet as Eric, not much is known about him, even to family or to the few close
friends he has. You can't exactly blame them; 18-year- olds do have a lot on their minds, and it
takes a lot out of a mother to look after 8 children besides. That's why no one quite noticed
when Eric disappeared from his own home on his 18th birthday.
Our story starts soon after Eric's 5th birthday, when Eric was still normal; Eric's Father collapsed
in the middle of the living room, a plate of cake still in hand. He later died in the hospital. It was
overwork, they said. It was quick, most likely painless; his body just couldn't take it anymore.
After the surgeon left, Eric’s mother cradled him in her arms, quietly sobbing. Eric just sat still,
hands rubbed raw over his eyelids, tear-swollen eyes closed as if asleep.
Not much is known about the event, except that Eric was never really the same after that.
Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen. As most of you know, we are gathered here to witness the
arrival of the drifter. Thankfully, the sky is quite clear tonight, so it should be quite easy to
witness this magnificent event that only happens once a year, at best. While we wait, I urge
everyone to keep watching the skies, to make sure you won't miss it. Feel free to star-gaze
while you're at it.
Eric was a little different from other children. In school, he tended to talk quietly to himself, or
simply stare straight ahead, face blank and unblinking. He never took notes in class, instead
drawing patterns over the lines, spirals and shapes that seemed to go on forever, but always
terminating in a certain face, or a body. When asked, he simply told others that humans die, and
things end. He never responded when called on, and eventually his teachers stopped calling on
him altogether.
However, there was one history class in which the teacher discussed theories of immortality: the
Yellow Emperor ordering countless voyages to search for the Elixir of Life; humans using
alchemy to transfer life force from animals to themselves; scientists researching ways to
transcend the Hayflick Limit, thus allowing cells to keep replicating forever; people uploading
their consciousness into the cloud, while letting their bodies die.
Quite frankly, the teacher had delivered more interesting lectures, but for once in his life, the
teacher had Eric's attention. It was almost something tangible; for the first time in a while, the
class noticed Eric’s presence -- or, more accurately, the absence of the Eric-shaped void that
had always sort of “been” at the back of the class.
After that lesson, the teacher glanced over at Eric. For the first time in his life, Eric's notebook
was not full of strange patterns and tessellations, but notes and equations; for the first time in
his life, Eric did not seem tired and listless; and for the first time in his life, as he walked out of
the classroom, Eric had smiled.
Scientists have been studying the drifter for a long time. When, and where it passes by Earth is
hard to predict, save for one point through which it has passed twice at around the same time of
year. This “point” seems to be a single house in a relatively urban area, which a cult following
has since established as their base of operations. It is untraceable by any means except sight,
and seems intangible; members of its following describe running their hands through it as it
passes, despite it being completely opaque. Due to these properties, researchers are currently
unable to take any physical samples of the object for testing.
Besides this, the object also appears to move extremely quickly, rushing up into the sky the
moment it appears from the ground. The few attempts made to capture its likeness using high-
speed cameras have only resulted in blurry, indistinct images. How, or why it does so is
unknown.
To this day, the drifter remains one of the great mysteries of modern science.
After that class, Eric always seemed impatient to go home. Once he got back, he'd slam the
door and run down into the basement, shut in for hours on end, only coming out to shuttle notes
from his room and eat microwaved meals set out by the basement door. By now, everyone was
used to it. Eric was different, and it was best to leave him alone, even better to something that
had him motivated for once. Either that, or they were just too tired, too busy to care. After all,
working two jobs hardly left his mother enough time to eat, let alone take care of 8 children
besides; some might say she’d even do better with one less child. But the children managed, of
course, by learning from their mother; the household had long been a place of silence, each
only bothering with their own matters, the way things had always been.
Months, and even years passed before Eric reportedly deviated from his daily routine; he came
back late in the night, completely unresponsive and staggering from sheer fatigue. His mother
happened to be eating at the table, but her microwave dinner had long gone cold and mushy;
she was almost catatonic, her eyes blank and transfixed on the television. Eric strode over to
her, blue shirt and torn jeans hanging off his thin frame. For the first time, his eyes were wild.
His voice was soft as he spoke, almost a whisper, but, for the first time, loud enough for the
words to get through anyway:
"I've done it, mother. I have my masterpiece. Tonight, I will lock myself into my place in the
universe. I will be the anchor, and I will sail past the future. Do you understand, mother? When I
drift forever, tonight, I will be the last thing the universe sees before it dies. I will be the final
marker of humanity's existence. Do you love me now, mother? I will never die. I have done what
father never could."
That night, on his 18th birthday, his mother watched him descend into the basement one last
time. She didn't know why then, but she started to cry. First in slow, quiet sobs, then in long,
streaming tears that burned their way down her face. She didn’t understand what her son had
said, but the words stuck with her: I will never die. I will never die. I will never die.
What was it, that filled her quiet, shut-in child with such passion? Her brain, after years of sleep
deprivation and burnout, struggled to process her sheer confusion. It took her a while, but finally
she stood, the thoughts decidedly crystallizing into a simple action. Wobbling on her old, aching
body, she followed her son down into the basement.
That night, a massive blackout ripped across the neighborhood. When power was restored, the
mother was back in her chair, staring at the television, only the faintest of tear-streaks left on her
face. And on his 18th birthday, Eric Tan had disappeared, inexplicably, from his own home.
In a certain museum, there is a photo that is allegedly a clear, head-on shot of the drifter. The
artist, a member of the cult group surrounding the drifter, claims to simply have taken the shot at
exactly the right moment; of course, critics are severely skeptical of the artwork's veracity, given
the failure of scientists and cutting-edge equipment to do exactly the same. However, none of
the experts can find a single flaw in the photograph, leading many to speculate that this might
be the true appearance of the drifter, though even more still refuse to believe it true.
This is because the photograph depicts the drifter to be a young man. In the background, the
cult following can be seen, but in the foreground, the young man is captured mid-flight, a few
inches above the floor. The young man wears a tattered, navy-blue t-shirt, and torn, dirty jeans;
his exposed skin is grimy and slightly oily, but otherwise in perfect condition. He is an image of
serenity; his eyes are simply closed, and his body is relaxed, arms limp by his sides, as if he is
asleep. On his face, a light smile pushes the corners of his lips up just enough to be noticeable,
but not enough to leave a wrinkle on the unblemished face.
By all accounts, he looks like an ordinary boy; experts estimate him to be around 18 years of
age. Given the sheer lack of scientific evidence into the drifter's identity, this could be the first
major breakthrough in the mystery of the drifter. Now, the question on everyone's minds is, just
who exactly is this young man?
He is Eric Tan, the middle child in a family of nine. As is the case with most middle children,
especially one as quiet as Eric, not much is known about him, even to family or to the few close
friends he has. That was what his mother was left with, when a man in a business suit asked to
buy her property right off her hands, and offered to relocate her, and her eight other children,
someplace else, away from Eric's bedroom and his basement.
It was abrupt, and the built-up nostalgia screamed at her not to accept, but it was as if her
eyebags alone pulled her head down in a small, silent nod. After that night, she wanted nothing
more than to forget; of course, she inevitably would. It happened the same way a wave might
wash over a sandcastle, haphazardly built too close to the sea; almost all traces of Eric
disappeared from her memory, save for the one stick in the sand, a single burning question that
would never be answered:
Why?
Professor, welcome to News 8 tonight. Now, you’re one of the head researchers into the
strange phenomenon of the drifter, which took the world by storm just a few months ago. Given
your team’s recent breakthroughs into the drifter’s origin, what can you tell us about him?
Thank you, yes, thank you for inviting me. Well, as you know, he seemed like an ordinary
enough boy at first, but we eventually discovered that he spent a lot of his time in the basement
of his old house. So we asked the owners of the house, and took a quick peek down there.
What we saw, though, amazed us. There were machines everywhere, ranging from things like
simple life support machines to complex mechanics that even our brightest researchers are still
baffled by. It really doesn’t seem like the work of an 18 year old like him; we could have used a
talent like that, what a shame.
Wow. So, Professor, can you tell us about how the machines work?
Well, to be frank, we don’t know much at the moment. What we do know, though, is that -- how
should I put it -- Eric didn’t disappear from Earth. To put it simply, he appears to have locked
himself into a point in space and time, so that every few years, when Earth’s orbit puts it in just
the right position, it just so happens to collide head-on with Eric, not the other way around. So
that means, every so often, Earth phases through Eric, and lets the boy back up through his
basement, and for a split second right in his bed in his old home, before phasing back into the
empty cosmos. We’re still not quite sure how he did it, but if we can decipher the tech he used,
we could eventually perfect it, and who knows what we could do then?
Of course, Professor, Eric’s achievement is truly amazing. We look forward to the great leaps
science will make with your team’s good work! But still, one question still begs to be asked: we
can’t exactly interview the drifter, but why did he do it?
It is his way of visiting the people he once knew, but would never know again. It is his way of
letting go of his old home, and becoming a testament to his home having existed in the cruel
face of entropy. It is his way of becoming immortal, eternal, his final push to transcend death.
And through it all, the boy drifts through the cosmos in an endless sleep, silent yet extant for all
eternity, until the moment when the last star dies, the universe takes its final breath and closes
its eyes along with him.
finding home
|
Where is home? It would be too simple to say that “home is where the heart is” without further explanation — A cliched quote that has perhaps been used more as an excuse for bad decisions than a serious answer. For where, exactly, does the heart belong? Physically, it’s nestled between my lungs, trapped in a ribcage that seems to be more of a cage than a home. Saying that it then, belongs in the apartment I live in, doesn’t seem to fit right either, for how can a heart be contained in a physical compound that ends right when I step out of my door?
Like the fool I was, I let this question remain, unanswered, in the back of my mind. It was an avalanche waiting to happen, blanketing every conceivable thought in my mind under its ferocious and determined conquest to dominate. The aftermath of which created an icy stillness so unnaturally overwhelming that even the warm tropical sun has been unable to thaw it, no matter how much my feet have blistered from chasing after its heat.
For you see, this question is a seed that, when nurtured with time and contemplation, sprouts into a small yet stubborn little shoot. Seemingly inconsequential at first glance, its branches reach up and ensnare whatever you hold dear — the first snowfall, a warm fire for cold hands — and as you carry about your life unaware, these memories are woven into brilliantly coloured flowers. The plant itself growing more succulent, rich with the memories you’ve unknowingly nourished it with. Its roots anchoring themselves deep into your heart, entangling themselves with your core until it is impossible to separate veins from roots, blood from sap. It is at that alarming moment when you realise that your core, can no longer function without its new addition, that panic sets in — panic to turn things back to what it once was, or panic to answer the question that has been on your mind for days, weeks — finally evolving to desperation. Attempts to pry the roots away from the heart are made but not without sacrifice. For how does one plan to keep those precious flowers yet kill their source of life?
Psychedelic in both appearance and effect, these flowers induce euphoria, producing hallucinations that are almost unnoticeable, almost. The pants of small dogs as they walk under the humid heat morphs into the pants of huskies as their paws sink into the snow. Those dried leaves crunching under slippers turns into a sled slicing through snow. A rush of cold air in your face and you find yourself facing a harsh and biting winter wind as you stand half covered in snow, hands in your pockets and face burrowed in a thick scarf. One blink and you’re back at the entrance of a shopping mall, with nothing on but a loose tank top, holding a cup of ice cold drink in a desperate attempt to escape the relentless heat.
In those moments, ’home’ is no longer a tropical island where seasons are split into ‘hot and humid’ or ‘torrential downpours’. Home has instead traversed physical boundaries and somehow nestled itself — in a place that is both here and simultaneously an airplane ride away, has both slippers and winter boots, warm hands on ice cold drinks and cool hands near fires — like a heart between its lungs.
In a place where blazing sunsets fade into muted sunrises, home ceases to become a place at all.
Like the fool I was, I let this question remain, unanswered, in the back of my mind. It was an avalanche waiting to happen, blanketing every conceivable thought in my mind under its ferocious and determined conquest to dominate. The aftermath of which created an icy stillness so unnaturally overwhelming that even the warm tropical sun has been unable to thaw it, no matter how much my feet have blistered from chasing after its heat.
For you see, this question is a seed that, when nurtured with time and contemplation, sprouts into a small yet stubborn little shoot. Seemingly inconsequential at first glance, its branches reach up and ensnare whatever you hold dear — the first snowfall, a warm fire for cold hands — and as you carry about your life unaware, these memories are woven into brilliantly coloured flowers. The plant itself growing more succulent, rich with the memories you’ve unknowingly nourished it with. Its roots anchoring themselves deep into your heart, entangling themselves with your core until it is impossible to separate veins from roots, blood from sap. It is at that alarming moment when you realise that your core, can no longer function without its new addition, that panic sets in — panic to turn things back to what it once was, or panic to answer the question that has been on your mind for days, weeks — finally evolving to desperation. Attempts to pry the roots away from the heart are made but not without sacrifice. For how does one plan to keep those precious flowers yet kill their source of life?
Psychedelic in both appearance and effect, these flowers induce euphoria, producing hallucinations that are almost unnoticeable, almost. The pants of small dogs as they walk under the humid heat morphs into the pants of huskies as their paws sink into the snow. Those dried leaves crunching under slippers turns into a sled slicing through snow. A rush of cold air in your face and you find yourself facing a harsh and biting winter wind as you stand half covered in snow, hands in your pockets and face burrowed in a thick scarf. One blink and you’re back at the entrance of a shopping mall, with nothing on but a loose tank top, holding a cup of ice cold drink in a desperate attempt to escape the relentless heat.
In those moments, ’home’ is no longer a tropical island where seasons are split into ‘hot and humid’ or ‘torrential downpours’. Home has instead traversed physical boundaries and somehow nestled itself — in a place that is both here and simultaneously an airplane ride away, has both slippers and winter boots, warm hands on ice cold drinks and cool hands near fires — like a heart between its lungs.
In a place where blazing sunsets fade into muted sunrises, home ceases to become a place at all.
Poetry
a bird's eye view of longing
|
in a tokyo state of mind, all
my dreams look like big black crows.
the beautiful kind. the ones with sleek,
shiny wings, ink-black eyes, clandestine secrets.
in a tokyo state of mind, my hands are tied
behind my back but my heart is elsewhere
—walking down a sidewalk that my eyes have never
known, crossing a road my feet have never met.
in a tokyo state of mind i
am probably the crow, or maybe the
untamed monster with sad eyes, or maybe both, snapping
streetlamps like soft necks while crying: please
save something. anything. the ticket stub from
the train you took across the city. the dried leaf
you found at the top of the mountain. the smell
of six a.m., sunlight creeping across the blankets,
the chill cradling your bones like a lover. i want
to be cradled like a lover. i want to be loved.
i want to be a crow, sleek and dark and furious
and home, above all, i want to be home.
because a state of mind is not a state
of being, and darling, my hands are rooted
in graveyard soil. daydreams do not have wings.
sidewalks are not made of memory foam. monsters
are not always monsters, sometimes they
are just specters with too much sadness,
sometimes they just want to take a train
across the city, and what a spectacular city
this is, what a miracle it is that we exist
at the same time, i want to take this city home
and keep it like a secret in my bedroom drawer,
i want to cradle this city like a lover.
there's a snow-white pigeon with sad eyes outside
my bedroom window so i'm sorry you're not
the airplane ticket i wanted, i'm sorry all my dreams
still smell like sakura blossoms and sugar,
i'm sorry it's been three weeks and i'm still
in a tokyo state of mind.
—but we climbed a mountain, you know. we
climbed a mountain. i stood on top of that mountain,
surrounded by a blur of heartache and helium balloons,
and for a moment there were no monsters,
for a moment there weren't even any crows.
my dreams look like big black crows.
the beautiful kind. the ones with sleek,
shiny wings, ink-black eyes, clandestine secrets.
in a tokyo state of mind, my hands are tied
behind my back but my heart is elsewhere
—walking down a sidewalk that my eyes have never
known, crossing a road my feet have never met.
in a tokyo state of mind i
am probably the crow, or maybe the
untamed monster with sad eyes, or maybe both, snapping
streetlamps like soft necks while crying: please
save something. anything. the ticket stub from
the train you took across the city. the dried leaf
you found at the top of the mountain. the smell
of six a.m., sunlight creeping across the blankets,
the chill cradling your bones like a lover. i want
to be cradled like a lover. i want to be loved.
i want to be a crow, sleek and dark and furious
and home, above all, i want to be home.
because a state of mind is not a state
of being, and darling, my hands are rooted
in graveyard soil. daydreams do not have wings.
sidewalks are not made of memory foam. monsters
are not always monsters, sometimes they
are just specters with too much sadness,
sometimes they just want to take a train
across the city, and what a spectacular city
this is, what a miracle it is that we exist
at the same time, i want to take this city home
and keep it like a secret in my bedroom drawer,
i want to cradle this city like a lover.
there's a snow-white pigeon with sad eyes outside
my bedroom window so i'm sorry you're not
the airplane ticket i wanted, i'm sorry all my dreams
still smell like sakura blossoms and sugar,
i'm sorry it's been three weeks and i'm still
in a tokyo state of mind.
—but we climbed a mountain, you know. we
climbed a mountain. i stood on top of that mountain,
surrounded by a blur of heartache and helium balloons,
and for a moment there were no monsters,
for a moment there weren't even any crows.
discovery
|
Bustling streets,
i see the bright neon lights of the city.
Loud cries,
i hear the employees of shops shout out discounts in joy.
Blowing wind,
i feel the cool crisp air of winter on my skin.
Lavish atmosphere,
i make my judgment of this city
from its sky high towers to the
blooming tourist attractions
as if I know everything.
Bustling streets,
i see the beggars at the side of the streets.
Loud cries,
i hear the desperate pleas of charity volunteers.
Blowing wind,
i feel the disheartening nonchalance of the locals.
Lavish atmosphere,
i realize how the sky high towers are still
glued to the ground, glued to their roots
hiding those who have been
abandoned
by a flourishing society
blinding
those who think have seen everything.
i see the bright neon lights of the city.
Loud cries,
i hear the employees of shops shout out discounts in joy.
Blowing wind,
i feel the cool crisp air of winter on my skin.
Lavish atmosphere,
i make my judgment of this city
from its sky high towers to the
blooming tourist attractions
as if I know everything.
Bustling streets,
i see the beggars at the side of the streets.
Loud cries,
i hear the desperate pleas of charity volunteers.
Blowing wind,
i feel the disheartening nonchalance of the locals.
Lavish atmosphere,
i realize how the sky high towers are still
glued to the ground, glued to their roots
hiding those who have been
abandoned
by a flourishing society
blinding
those who think have seen everything.
flying
|
The sense of time distorts upon
Vague attempts to
Wrap her head around time zones and hours lost
What remains after futile counting is this:
The seat number is 78K, a window seat
A toilet trip of muttering apologies
The unforgettable deep pain knotted in her limbs
The countless apologies
The repeated flushing, cringing, cupping her ears
The fascinating lock mechanism of the toilet door
Anything
For more time to stretch her limbs
Perhaps
Only turning the plane around
Could ease the pain
Cabin crew announces
Prepare for landing
Few weeks ago it was much celebrated
But this time
Things were left unaccomplished
She had no snapshot, she realized, with
The red phone booth from Yesterdayland
This trip was like none other so you better
Remember, till old and grey
A child dragged a white crayon
Across the blue sky, unraveling,
And already she is forgetting
Already she has forgotten the last meal she had
The plane, steadfastly homebound, crashing
Towards the inevitable
And she closes her eyes, praying, time will freeze in aerial suspension
And maybe she will remember this trip
Outside of the plane is a little box of blue sky darkening.
Vague attempts to
Wrap her head around time zones and hours lost
What remains after futile counting is this:
The seat number is 78K, a window seat
A toilet trip of muttering apologies
The unforgettable deep pain knotted in her limbs
The countless apologies
The repeated flushing, cringing, cupping her ears
The fascinating lock mechanism of the toilet door
Anything
For more time to stretch her limbs
Perhaps
Only turning the plane around
Could ease the pain
Cabin crew announces
Prepare for landing
Few weeks ago it was much celebrated
But this time
Things were left unaccomplished
She had no snapshot, she realized, with
The red phone booth from Yesterdayland
This trip was like none other so you better
Remember, till old and grey
A child dragged a white crayon
Across the blue sky, unraveling,
And already she is forgetting
Already she has forgotten the last meal she had
The plane, steadfastly homebound, crashing
Towards the inevitable
And she closes her eyes, praying, time will freeze in aerial suspension
And maybe she will remember this trip
Outside of the plane is a little box of blue sky darkening.
ghosts of the past
|
When I walked through foreign streets
Bedazzled with lights and roadside stalls
I fondly thought back to those neat
Rows of shophouses, now replaced by mega-malls
That litter the roads through which we travel
Cold, blocks of ice do our eyes marvel.
Their names held tales that were true
Something unique, unusual, unimaginable
It was its identity, and its identity was ours too;
Now we go by these abominable
Throw-ups of acronyms that nobody will follow:
JEM, IMM, J8 all ring hollow.
Foreign street feels warm, though,
And my diasporic home street now foreign
Here, I see tradition’s sprites soar through nostalgia’s rust
Ghosts of the past should remain in the past.
(Fools!) They do not know that in progress’ reign,
Only the ghosts of the past can be the spirit of tomorrow.
Bedazzled with lights and roadside stalls
I fondly thought back to those neat
Rows of shophouses, now replaced by mega-malls
That litter the roads through which we travel
Cold, blocks of ice do our eyes marvel.
Their names held tales that were true
Something unique, unusual, unimaginable
It was its identity, and its identity was ours too;
Now we go by these abominable
Throw-ups of acronyms that nobody will follow:
JEM, IMM, J8 all ring hollow.
Foreign street feels warm, though,
And my diasporic home street now foreign
Here, I see tradition’s sprites soar through nostalgia’s rust
Ghosts of the past should remain in the past.
(Fools!) They do not know that in progress’ reign,
Only the ghosts of the past can be the spirit of tomorrow.
journey through my mind
|
a journey through my head
will show you places you have
never seen.
you will see the things
beyond Man’s imagination
like the reunion of the sky
and the earth
you will hear sounds
that seem unfathomable
like a roar from the lips
of a cow
you will smell scents
that are so rare
like the smell of rain
with a pinch of happiness
a journey through my head
and you will know the things
that no one else knows.
while others see ordinary clouds ,
you will see puffs of fluffy pink cotton candy
while others hear birds chirping,
you will hear the conversations they have
while others smell food put on their tables,
you will smell the love and care put into the making
a journey through my head
will show you that the world
is different through my lens.
will show you places you have
never seen.
you will see the things
beyond Man’s imagination
like the reunion of the sky
and the earth
you will hear sounds
that seem unfathomable
like a roar from the lips
of a cow
you will smell scents
that are so rare
like the smell of rain
with a pinch of happiness
a journey through my head
and you will know the things
that no one else knows.
while others see ordinary clouds ,
you will see puffs of fluffy pink cotton candy
while others hear birds chirping,
you will hear the conversations they have
while others smell food put on their tables,
you will smell the love and care put into the making
a journey through my head
will show you that the world
is different through my lens.
train ride on a rainy day
|
one day, i took a train
for the sake of taking a train.
pink hands trembled,
a baby kitten burrowed deep into the
soft wool of my coat. it
was too large for me to live up to
and too warm for me to breathe.
it was a gift from you,
and i wilted in it.
it wasn't long before i hit the
end of the line, and i
thought that this concluded
my journey. my world was small,
after all, and i never knew any
other. i stood by myself
on the platform and
the kitten was crying.
poor thing poor poor lonely child.
half of us were on the train back,
but suddenly
the beautiful sun rays
on the train track,
dancing to the song of silver
and bold. and when the train went
it left half of us behind.
i stood on the tracks, still swaying to
the purring of the engine
and for the first time, i
didn't go home.
time and i stood there forever.
for the sake of taking a train.
pink hands trembled,
a baby kitten burrowed deep into the
soft wool of my coat. it
was too large for me to live up to
and too warm for me to breathe.
it was a gift from you,
and i wilted in it.
it wasn't long before i hit the
end of the line, and i
thought that this concluded
my journey. my world was small,
after all, and i never knew any
other. i stood by myself
on the platform and
the kitten was crying.
poor thing poor poor lonely child.
half of us were on the train back,
but suddenly
the beautiful sun rays
on the train track,
dancing to the song of silver
and bold. and when the train went
it left half of us behind.
i stood on the tracks, still swaying to
the purring of the engine
and for the first time, i
didn't go home.
time and i stood there forever.
TRAVELLING 101
|
exile
defines a euphemism
for our escapades into the
foreign, soothing our
cabin fever dressed as
unsurpassable urbanity --
as heat dissipates,
dissolves, so does our daunting
desire to promote our modern
greenhouse insulating us
from harsh winters of
criticism,
instead, we indulge:
panting of huskies,
sled slicing through snow and sunsets;
yet discontent,
we take back mosaics
of the landscape, to mend the
smithereens of our hearts.
defines a euphemism
for our escapades into the
foreign, soothing our
cabin fever dressed as
unsurpassable urbanity --
as heat dissipates,
dissolves, so does our daunting
desire to promote our modern
greenhouse insulating us
from harsh winters of
criticism,
instead, we indulge:
panting of huskies,
sled slicing through snow and sunsets;
yet discontent,
we take back mosaics
of the landscape, to mend the
smithereens of our hearts.