quayside
Saturday, November 12, 2005
I take in the air Quayside. It is fresh. A tinge of chamomile, perhaps. It is just past noon on a Monday. Strangely, the office people few around here. Normally, this would be a cause for concern, for no one can afford a dwindling business. However, I savour this opportunity to come out from behind the stoves at the cafe, to soak in the life that goes by only too quickly. A ray of sunshine breaks through the the juxtaposition of white clouds, meeting the lapping water of the Singapore River, stretching out flowing strands of blue to embrace its warmth. A single eagle soars overhead. The sight is almost majestic as it glides sensuously across the unrelenting expanse of blue skies. The bumboats' engines whir as eager tourists traverse the narrow banks.
I have missed so much. Sometimes, it takes moments like these to remind me that life goes on outside work. Moments of silence and tranquility to appease my stirring soul. Too often have I brushed aside requests from friends and family to relax, to let work take a back seat just once. I persistently reject, stubborn heart unwilling to let go of my life's passion. Yet once in awhile it does not hurt to indulge in the unparelleled beauty of landscape. Manmade though it may be in Singapore, theres is much to be marvelled at the way the charm of the 19th century is captured in the architecture of downtown Clarke Quay. I feel the wind streaking through my long black hair. Snap back to reality. The first few customers stream in. I have to go now.
Posted by jon at 5:56 AM
four walls
Four walls. He was alone, or so he thought. But I was there watching, an omniscient observer unknown to his senses. The windows were tightly shut but it was not stifling. Rather, the air was light and the tranquillity that hung in the air seemed to lift his spirits. He picked a pencil up from the dusty vinyl flooring and sat upright on the rickety old chair. He began to write furiously and the table creaked as his weight began to lean upon it. My heart swelled with pride as I looked on in secret. He wanted to do this alone. But I couldn’t restrain myself. He told me that he had to do this. He said, “I shall write about the rays of the sun, of how it warms me in winter. I shall write about the ocean’s hand, so blue against the white grains of sand. I’ll write of the leaves of green, and the dewdrops and the morning mist.” I wept at his confident proclamation five long years ago, out of pity, but today, I wept for joy for him. He lifted his head and looked straight ahead, out of the window, right at the setting sun. It glowed a warm hue of red and orange. But he couldn’t see that. He relaxed his shoulders and set his pencil down. You see, my son was born blind.
Posted by jon at 5:54 AM
driftwood
I am nothing of great importance, a mere dull slab of driftwood, flowing ever downstream and it never stops. The current pulls me along. I am too weak to resist. Where do I belong? I see the world on either sides of me. It is deeply rooted inthe banks of rigidity. I see the people live their lives. It seems to be a single mundane routine, their movements so meticulous and predictable, they are almost robotic. Yet once in awhile, I see a flash of expression. Sorrow, anger, contentment. There is a spectrum of emotion unique to mankind. It makes them feel and maybe, just maybe, someone along these banks will sense my loneliness and take me in.
Where in this place do I fit in? I, an insignificant piece of driftwood. Perhaps someday, I will find comfort in some small niche deep in the warm, inviting riverbank. This journey must come to an end for I cannot drift forever. The river opens out in the big blue oceans of freedom. Suddenly, the banks seem to be but a soft option. I can only dream to reach the river's end to attain a new beginning. I know that obstacles stand in my way, and the sea of opportunities are nothing but a fantasy. I am trapped, trapped with a dream. For now, I drift along with fading hope.
They are waiting for me to slip into their arms to caress me, eager to make me one of them. But I want to be different, not complacent. I want to go places and maybe I do not really want to fit in afterall. I want to drift away, into the open arms of new life. The path ahead is daunting, and I have no control over it. I am powerless to shap my destiny but the nudging current is encouraging. I am ready to stand out from uniformity and step out of reality. It is all too overwhelming, the temptation to be taken in by the banks but I long to go places. I will try, though I may not succeed. A tiny piece of driftwood can go places, if it will only try.
Posted by jon at 5:43 AM
