Bugis MRT. 

A foreign worker lifts a ladder and walks across the station. 

His colleague, a Filipino, goes to ask for permission to start work. 

A Chinese man in orange pants collects a Today newspaper, leans on a pillar and starts reading. 

A Chinese woman drags her slippers across the station, only to stop in the middle of the crowd and go the other way. 

A young Malay woman wears her hot pink curls proudly as she is waiting outside Guardian; eyes never leaving her phone screen. 

An old Indian man with vertigo shuffles quietly across the station once the crowd has gone; a forlorn look across his face. 

An English lady comes to ask the Citibank officer for directions to Bugis Street, before politely saying thank you and leaving. 

A crying baby on a stroller hollering and wailing as the Chinese mother speeds up the pushing in embarrassment. 

An elderly man sits on his wheelchair patiently, trying to make his living by selling tissue packets to anyone not rushing for time and willing to stop for a minute. 

And then the crowd comes

And goes. 

And they all vanish into different 

People. 

Advertisements

Reminder: 

I am my own sunrise and my own sunset. My hands are the only pair that will shape my days, hold my dreams and reach my needs. My legs will stop, walk, run and fly as far as my mind asks. My person will keep living through the dark and light, for my heart will never give up on me. 

So I shall never give up on myself, even if the world stops spinning and everyone walks away. 

An Answer. Perhaps. 

I have always felt that I have grown up. It is a long process and we all grow a bit every day. For better or for worse, we are who we are and there is no other way to be. 

But recently, I have rediscovered the older parts of myself that have stayed hidden. I found the little girl that has always been inside but I have never truly spoken to. Just tried to shut her up and drown her underneath my now. Unsuccessfully. I just simply don’t like her and how I used to be, as a person. 

Old habits die hard. Seems like old insecurities stay for longer than people tell you they would, too. 

Ever since young, I never felt like I have gotten much attention. Be it in school or at home, I always felt very left out. Maybe there was enough paid to me and I just wanted more, but those feelings grew on me. 

So I started trying out ways to get attention, to make people like me and to fit in. 

I told my first lie when I was four. Then lied again and again and again. My most ridiculous and outrageous lie was when I turned seven. Lied my primary school had a molestation case, complete with the perpetrator being an outsider and entered school grounds secretly. I witnessed it, I said, and went on to fill up all the gaps. My dad brought me to school, confronted my school principal… only to realise that it was all a figment of my imagination. 

Received a huge beating. I deserved it, but hell, it hurt. 

The lying went on for a while before I set my foot down to kick the habit. It would have destroyed me and all that I have started to stand for. 

By then, I was also in the rebellious phase of my life and discovered art. Thank goodness. 

While all that lying business was happening at home and with myself, I was constantly trying to make friends in school. 

My best friends left my primary school for elsewhere. I was frightened, all shy and really wasn’t good at making new ones. 

As always, desperation is always never a good element in any scenario. I was giving away jewellery that weren’t mine, telling classmates personal stories I had and would buy them sweets during recess. They were nice to me for a while, but of course that was just silly me being used. 

I asked for it – being all meek and simply nodding my head too quick for everything. 

Got bullied, rumours about me spread like the plague and I was still mostly on my own. I witnessed, at the age of eight and nine, how quick words become weapons and how cruel they can be at drawing blood. I saw how one bully became ten and one day the whole class would just not speak to me. Be it fear, or the common sheep mentality, I lost. 

I still cannot really talk about it without changing the topic. It is scary how those things are still incredibly relevant now – to children and adults everywhere. 

Anyway, I am going to stop talking about that now. Don’t like speaking about myself very much. 

– 

I found it hard to love myself. I still do, really. But I am proud to say that those days occur way less than how often it used to be. 

Until now though, it is hard to say it, but I think I still want to make everyone like me. In some way. I want to form myself so well and be so professional that nobody can dislike me to the point of spreading untrue words. 

But this is life, and with everything that has happened, I really have to stop letting the uncontrollable control me. 

Others will say what they want, feel how they feel and I have no power over that. Why panic? Why fear? Why doubt? 

The fear is still there. But I think now that I have said it out loud, and finally come to terms with it again, I can finally let it go. 

I just have to do the best I can, and let my life I live to prove itself. Let my life be a statement of who I am and all I stand for. x

Okay. Just breathe. 

16th April. 

Once again, feel like abandoning this space. 

My words have left me, or perhaps I let them free. In a protest for my mind to be quiet. 

But I know it is all wishful thinking. 

– 

Been trying to write more but in my sadness, I get so introspective and shield myself from inspiration. So I get stuck, subconsciously voluntarily, and then the cycle repeats. 

I always have my imagination though. And in this little headspace of mine, I am free. Always free. 

Being alone through a process is tiring. But vulnerability is what I want, for this. And I can only hope it will pay off in the end. x

Storm. 

Waking in morning 

Shadowed view of room in blue 

Melancholic blinds 

– 

Walking down the street

Nobody in sight, just rain 

Dying on stained floors 

Wild hair in the winds

Suffocate and blind the face 

A kind death; if only 

Radio play in car 

Driver trudging in silence 

I sigh with relief 

Hardworking wipers 

Breaking their backs side to side 

Purposeful living 

Roadside trees stand strong 

Moving ever so slightly 

Resolute beauties 

My eyes are red-rimmed 

Lips sealed, fingers shake, breath short 

Looking for meaning 

2nd March 2017.

I never knew how much I put up with in my life, until I started breaking down and I see all the colours under my skin. Bleeding out of me in the form of bruises and tears. 

Usually I appreciate my personal ability to detach and remain stoic, almost, in situations deemed uncomfortable. I just don’t let them hit me as hard and as fast. 

Walk away. Breathe deep and keep my hands in tight fists. Stand further. Look on and don’t blink. Shrug a shoulder. Give a non-committal answer. Turn the cheek. 

Be alone. Be quiet. Be resolute. 

For how long can I hold on? I have been told that dying is selfish. You have no idea how bad I want it on some days. But okay, I give in. I keep breathing and find myself in darkness day after day. 

Even my name sheds no light. 

So I cry. Constantly guilty of shedding tears on public transport and making strangers uncomfortable. Now I even cry while walking. I cry after hearing his voice. I cry after watching the trees. I cry after listening to a song. My body cries after a long day. I cry for no reason at all, and everything at once. 

I just cry. 

Then I get told off for crying. Childish and filled with shame. 

But just leave me. Let me grief for this unknown my body keeps reminding me that I know nothing of. Let me grief for things I still can’t speak about. 

Leave me be.

It is the only release I have, besides thinking of premature death.