(Small assignment for voice work in the previous assignment. Thought it would be good for me to revisit and think about this once again. Might have a different version by the end of the year.) 


The FMSR brought faded ghosts to Singapore. 

My skin – the mountain of my being – was Block 422. 

The Singapore river is the blood running through my veins. 

My ancestor has a name too sacred for the undeserving to know. 

Christina – Mother of rain clouds and 

Vincent – Father of soundless rain.

And I.

Dawn – the invisible sun. 


We Are (Still) Together. 

We still are together 

Body to body and heart to heart 

Skin fusing as one; can no longer tell us apart 

Hands clasped together and fingers delicately laced 

Paths traced on palms intersect and interlock; carefully placed 

Lips locked and secrets safe 

Smile bright; we always know how to behave 

But you have already left 

Eyes no longer gazing and have lost their embrace 

Our head and our gut knows that we have lost this race


(Written a while back to a friend after she shared a part of herself with everyone. It’s very simple and thinking about it, it might sound a bit silly. But posting it here is probably mainly for documentation purposes.)

The tiny frail hands tick on 

From lines to a number, From ticking to a song

But who is to say that you took too long 

All of our hearts beat different

From rhythms to orchestra scores, From patterns to blood-lined lace

We are gifts planted – here – to find our place 

Emotions come and go

From spoken words to the unsaid, From love to unearthed fears

Life will always have its laughter and its tears 

Your story is yours to tell 

From memories to current affairs, From thoughts to beautiful dreams 

Only you can coax the voice out of the heart’s unguarded seams 

The tiny frail hands will tick on 

From January to December, From the first day to the last 

But our open arms will always be here; Love will never come to pass. 

Sitting In A Studio. 

The soundtrack of the gamelans would play, or the meditative bowls would ring after a hit, or it would just be voices. 

Sometimes, they all happen at once. 

The gamelans would sing in the background and grow softer, as the mundane conversations drown them out. 

“Eh. I don’t know where are we.” 

“Ehhhhh. Tell me la.” 

“Sigh. Oh. So it is like that? How come? Why? Can you please explain?” 

And you realise that these are not genuine questions since they only occur while the master speaks. But I only speculate. 

“Oh. So interesting. Then what happens after?”

And after these answers have been given like holy water to each individual, but she spilt her share on the ground. 

“These coloured pens look so nice on paper. What kind of colours do you like? Nice right?” 

And the words just crowd out all the thoughts, the concentration and the air in the room. The words fly around like dust that irritates –  useless and insignificant. 


Observations on the self: 

– My vibe changes severely when upset. I might not get fiery but I get ice cold and immediately shift into the “distant” mode. 

– Because I am aware of the change. Sometimes I control it in social settings. Otherwise, I let myself release and give it to my body to take it. Feel it to the maximum and then let it go. 

– I get extremely sarcastic and sassy when annoyed. My brain fires thoughts in the meanest ways possible and goes on non-stop. 

– Usually, I end up crashing because I get so tired. Yes, contrary to popular belief, Dawn does not enjoy getting and staying angry. Or being confrontational. It is all a front or some sort of ego/pride/defence mechanism. 

– Fear of being abandoned by someone I have learnt to rely on would constantly strike my brain and I panic. End up mentally punishing myself for trusting him/her in the first place and shelve it for another day. 

– Empathy and sensitivity levels sky rocket. 

– Tendency to look out a window or into the far distance increases. I derive comfort from looking at other people and looking at the nature all around. 

– Even though angry in one conversation, I carry on as per normal with others. As if nothing’s happened or I have learnt to compartmentalise so well that I am made up of boxes and sections. 

– If I cry, it only happens on a bus, in my bed or in the shower. I cry quietly, as much as I can. I still control myself. So far, I have only cried into the arms of another and sobbed uncontrollably once. It felt surprisingly cathartic and it was as if I have all these little pockets of grief that overflowed.  

– I ask the question “why” more than “how”. Guess I am more interested in perspective and intentions rather than actions. However, in terms of schedule-wise of time, I prefer the “how” over the “why” anytime. 

– Somehow, it always ends up with me telling myself that my flaws fucked things up. And I do not deserve this elusive beautiful thing called “happiness” or “love” with someone else. 

– It is so easy to blame myself than blame someone else. 

– Getting back up in three working days is a lifestyle I have picked up and I never fail this. Life goes on. It must. 

Play A Game?

Fake breaks. 

Calculated mutations. 

Planned ends. 

Just some random words I think of when I recall our long silences apart. Staring at a screen that dulls as the battery reluctantly meets its death. Typing and cancelling – the journey all fingers do before finally clicking send. 

It just becomes so easy to manipulate the conversation to go where I want it to. All I need would be strong, aggressive and nuanced words. 

Hide the emotions and bite back the words that suggest weakness or things that might let you get the upper hand. 

Who knows what you are planning behind your keyboard? 

I will never say I miss you, unless it is late at night and I have to spit it out or sacrifice sleep. I will never say I love you, unless it has to be said or you guilt it out of me. I will never say I hate you, unless the plan is to get you to turn back and walk away for good. 

Texting is simply a strategy game, at its best and at its worst. Nothing but a strategy game.