you can spend a few thousand dollars on a paper monkey but u can't spend more than a hundred on me...

i feel so small.

that stupid ache's been there for weeks

help.

i feel consumed by my fear of mediocrity and poverty. i'm not sure how to shake that constant ache at the back of my mind, constantly reminding me that i am at the wrong place right now, and i have no time.

and i feel like i have a finite number of days in my life, and every day i spend working part-time, doing aimless, repetitive things does me no good. but if i leave, i would also be wasting my time at home, lazing my day away as entertainment jobs don't come by easy.

i have a vision on the life i want to leave, the lifestyle i want to have but everything does not add up. and i see the lives of so many, slogging days and years only to earn some petty cash - but the big bosses reap all the profit from the labour of the workers. e.g. where i work at, the revenue of the outlet is a hundred times my daily rate; and it's the same wherever i go. and how disgusting is that - capitalism -

but the ones at the top never complain - and i bet, if i'm at the top i won't either. but now i'm one of the factory workers and i am extremely humbled by the difficult lives that we have to lead, to earn a fraction of what these bosses can earn, shaking their legs at home and shaking hands with other powerful people.

i am so lost - and so muddled - i have no anchor anymore, and even at my acting - after 10 years of hard work, i am still this part-time, featured extra actor, hardly respected on set and hardly appreciated, with horrible pay and no future in sight for me.

at this moment - if someone can give me an instruction manual on how to be financially free, i would gladly take it. with money comes authority and freedom - i can record my song album, i can commission my own movie, travel the world, do charity work, treat friends to meals and so much more...

but i'm not poor, i just feel so mediocre and ordinary, but that's what most people end up their whole lives, right? if i'm average, at least i'm not homeless on the streets, begging or dying... i should be appreciative, right?

but i am just not happy. it is so difficult to be happy, and i think it's all my own fault so i can't really tell anyone anything.

help.

countdown 2022 at bishan, singapore

 

felt so much love in a sea of strangers. <3 thank u.

good bye 2021

a year has passed and i think i could have been more proud of myself. tried new things, new gigs came my way but somehow i feel this lingering stagnancy. i wish for the life of someone well respected, accomplished and powerful; wealthy with one's own prowess and ability - but i feel inadequate. i wish i did not view my self-worth through my success in life, but i am not sure why this is ingrained in me - and i do feel as if i could have done so much much more.

i should not feel sad. i am more than self-sufficient, capable of surviving within my means, but i want an extra-ordinary life. a life that creates inspiration from others - but how would this happen when even i do not think of myself highly?

for 2022, i wish to treat myself better, to measure myself less by the yardstick of the best in society, but with myself - and to congratulate myself for every little victory i might get with my hard work.

i hope for the best, and for me to be happy :)

1am thoughts

dear me: 

i've always wondered about how everyone's internal voice sounds like. are they happy, bubbly, joyous with encouraging words at every step? or a gentle, calm and collected voice of reason? 

sometimes i feel that mine is a grinch, grumbling about life itself, about how it's so futile to search for a higher purpose - everything i've chased is an illusion, and loneliness is comfortable. 

but how can that be? after all the laughter, the smiles we exchange, the customary fist bumps - isn't all of that but customary? when we get back into our tiny homes, a box in a sea of grey, do we still smile? at how beautiful life can be, or perhaps a text from someone you adore - but more often than not we revert: smiles gone, tension released, but body heavy with wear and tear, and a weary reckoning on another identical day tomorrow.

sometimes i wish i had someone close, someone to call in the middle of the night to talk about absolutely nothing, someone to ask if i was feeling ok, to cheer me on while i hustle -

but perhaps i chose to be lonely. it is difficult to trust - so many of us are self-centered in our ways, the poor lament about their existence and the rich dip their toes into gold filled bathtubs and branded goods from head to toe - while lamenting about how difficult their life is -

and those who approach you: so many either have an agenda that you are done sieving out the rabble. is it a good position to be in: lonely, but powerful? not under the shrewd eye of the fox, waiting for the opportune time to make use of you, but it comes at a great cost - your phone stays silent and you only share your thoughts with no one but yourself.

but perhaps you could be your own best friend. sometimes i pat my own back and exclaim, " good job, buddy. it has been a difficult life but you have lived till now - and you are not ready to quit."

it has been a difficult life. sometimes i do feel like an imposter - i am gone through so much, and i am not where i want to be: but people think i am an airhead: floating through life, giggling at lame jokes and having fun clowning around. but do they know the baggage i pack away deep within, the could-haves and the has-beens? 

but the only person i could be lying to, is myself - but it works to keep me going. it's just the little moment where my skeletons peak out, hanging by the arm out of the closet like a dried little corpse: but i am consoled by the fact but my skeletons are dead - the past, memories that can no longer hurt me.

thanks to this little blog for being my little stash-away that no one will ever find. <3

moodtalk

A lingering melancholy

At the back of your mind

Weighs down so heavy 

But hides away for fun time

When you smile

You are an imposter

The lies you speak daily

Are to non other but yourself

Life is fleeting

A long story but a moment in time

Milestones weigh heavy

and living is a mountain climb

But how do you smile

When embraced by fear

Loneliness is a human condition

And entertainment is a lukewarm tear

I dread to sleep, but waking is a momentary cheer

when it smelt of roses

 I look at these dried up rain puddles ahead of me:

Muddy remnants of fun, sprouting little greens (or was it black from the soot)

Iridescent in my eyes, but then - isn't this just all in my head?

Sometimes, we paint dreams that are more beautiful than what we embrace

Sending good vibes over from where it should come from

Youth is wasted on the young, they say

Only for us to grow up loathing those dirty brown pools of gross

Underrated fun, clouded by our own ego and dignity

Such is letting go

Takes forever

Endings are beautiful for it means something new, as you

Vanish from my mouth

Ending at the back of my throat

Never to escape but you have to go.

Promises That Rhyme

Promises so beautiful they drift away in the wind
Carried away by a gentle breeze into the rainbow
While I stand on the ground
Waiting for my heart to grow stone cold
From all these words I found
"Love you always," you said
This - poison my heart chose to drown in
Sometimes better than living in vain ain't it?

Promises so beautiful they set you ablaze
Carried away by the wind, acre by acre
You devour all in sight with haste
Till all that's left to hear are whispers you have forgotten
Echoing incessantly in empty chambers
Empty words are so full of power
The innocence you chose to deflower
The smile on a coward, a pretty face

Promises so beautiful they came from your lips
Cherry red blossoms hiding little black pits
Terms and conditions, the lies that you hid
You'll be leaving tomorrow, and by nightfall you did
And promises you made are the ones I keep
In poetry and angry words are phrases that fit
But what's the point? There's no meaning
Our lives are no longer conjoined.

Just a sour, tiresome feeling.

Promises that rhyme.

When Dreams Speak

My fingers falter while I sort my thoughts out. It is, in a way difficult now to express what I truly feel, in an age of instant gratification and instantaneous distractions all around.

Even as these words roll out in droves, my mind flickers through channels - so many thoughts, so many feelings left unsolved for the longest time.

But through countless pictures posted, videos, feel good moments with an audience predisposed to judge your every move: you don't construct an artificial personality. It is you, molded not by choice other than that first step taken to be an entertainer. It is you, an organic persona crafted through years of careful curation of what to do, what to show the world, and bury all semblance of what is truly you.

But then again, this is all me. My passion, what I dreamt of - standing on the big stage with a song in my head and a story to tell. But dreams don't feed you, don't they? This gypsy living, a day by day existence of videos, photos, songs and smiles has satisfied my calling - but is that all to it?

But poetics don't betray this hunger. This hunger that one day will be satiated when you reach your full potential. This moment, however, seems further and further away, high in a cloud of childhood dreams and more smiles. More claps. More comments - words of encouragement but then again you stay on your bed, with an empty stomach -

And I wonder - what exactly is hunger?

And I see friends who have worked so many years, toiled so long and spent themselves inside out to reach this pipe dream only to be overcome by age and time - this is a game not many can play.

Algorithms, connections, all these additional equations that makes it such a rollercoaster ride, but don't all rides end where they begun?

But how beautiful is a daytime dreaming? How beautiful it is to live for an idea, a calling, where it feeds your soul and leaves you satiated even when there is nothing more to live for

It is truly beautiful, but beauty is just a moment in time - as physicality fades away, so does beautiful dreams - we all live for something, but then again we all die.

Feelings come and go, and romance is beautiful - but all promises are meant to be broken

And now you must go.

Here's my life for you guys to see HAHA

Goodbye, Ben

EXT. Outdoor bench. Midday, overcast.

Jess walks over from a distance. Ben is seated on the table, expecting her.

Jess is seated.

Jess: I’m sorry I’m late.
Ben: It’s alright. Here are your things. I’ve brought it out for you so you don’t have to come over to collect.
Jess: Thanks Ben.
Ben: Ben? Haven’t heard that coming from your lips in a while.
Jess: I’m sorry.
Ben: It’s ok.

BEAT.

Jess: I hope you’re coping?
Ben: You think?
Jess: Well I am also trying to cope.
Ben: You? Cope? I can see you’re coping very well, especially with that man in your -
Jess: What are you trying to say? He’s my friend -
Ben: Yeah right with your hands on his lap, friends indeed -
Jess: I will not allow you to speak of me in this way!

BEAT.

Jess: I’m sorry. I know it was wrong of me to leave like this. I had my difficulties, you know?
Ben: What kind? You left just like that, telling me you were gonna return home to visit family and you never came back -
Jess: I had no choice, my parents wanted me to stay -
Ben: What a bunch of lies, you were bored of this place. You were bored of me -
Jess: No I wasn’t!
Ben: You listen. You left, and then all these photos started appearing - you think I’m stupid?
Jess: He’s just a friend! Stop putting the blame on me. You are in the wrong too, you couldn’t give me the care I needed -
Ben: Yeah you needed a dick in you and I couldn’t be there -
Jess: Are you implying I’m a slut?
Ben: Yes.

Jess slaps Ben. Ben is silent.

Jess: You have no right to speak of me this way. You... followed all those hot babes too on instagram -
Ben: You were the one that promised to love me for a lifetime, and you were the one who left -
Jess: I left, but I had no choice. You can’t provide for me. I can’t survive here, on my own. I need to think for my own future -
Ben: There you said it yourself. Go! Go and find that... rich guy since you like money so much -
Jess: Yes I’m a slut. I’m always wrong, you happy? I’m cheap, I’m desperate, you can’t give me the love I need - what can you do about it?
Ben: Why are we torturing each other like this?

BEAT.

Jess: I don’t know.
Ben: We used to love each other so much.
Jess: Times have changed. We... Are no longer compatible.
Ben: I gave my heart to you, sold by all your promises, and you have to treat me like this?
Jess: I’m sorry.

BEAT.

Ben: That’s all you can say?
Jess: I have to go. Good bye.

Jess stands up and leaves with her things. Ben watches.

End scene

Friends

Maybe,
Even friends hold stars higher than broken hearts
In tears
Kept in warm eyes
Eyes that cry together
Eyes that laugh together

She Killed You In My Sleep

Swiping through profiles, all but a familiar whirl of the old times
Through weightless words exchanged again and again, remembering
Even as you smile at the unknown:

Valentines with an empty seat
Ends a beautiful memory of the dead -
Never will I leave you was her promise

Silent prayers at the altar with
All the love I have but with
No one to give

Just dreams of what we had
And what could be, for
Yesterday was just moments ago

And tomorrow will never be, so
Rest in peace, my dear
On a bed filled with sweet dreams, and

Hope, from an innocent face, and
All the empty promises she gave
Never to be heard of again

It was an unfortunate situation, she said, as
I listened, as much as I listened to those
Sweet lies

As I peer at her grave,
Lost in grief,
I smile at the death of her soul

All the innocence was mine to keep
Rest in peace
:)

Isn't Real

How does it feel to no longer have words to describe love?
When the promises she made was nothing but childlike pander
The walks with her just memories replayed on a broken recorder
Love is a smog - I see nothing
But the footsteps she left behind - leading to the seashore
I breathe - and the smell of the sea stings my eyes
When her shadows lurk in corners
Dark, yet empty

How does it feel to no longer have words to describe love?
When her hands fade away from your grasp
And every fairytale dreaming has a moment of wakefulness
Love is a drug - I eat rainbows
Of her lies, in each photo I see what we could have been
I see - and the truth blinds me again into ignorance
When her scent fades away from memory
It's nothing I hold on to

But who I knew has passed on
It's nothing left to hold on to
When she decided to live
She brought my heart along with her

Away she went
To a life without me

Away she went
But she forgot her conscience

Away she went
I find her, but I find myself in hell

But hell is beautiful -
because love

Because love

The most tiring ball game of all is when the ball is never on your court.
For you play alone.

The Mickey Mouse Man - a Short Story by Chia De Zhong

The Mickey Mouse Man

By Chia De Zhong

But why must I remember?

*

I was 8. I attended a convent school a few blocks away from home, and every evening, I would walk through a dark road home. Then one faithful night, as I walked through a void deck, I saw him. Dressed in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and shorts, slippers dragging through concrete, he looked friendly. Almost welcoming. With glasses perched gently on his nose, and an awkward grin on his teenage face, he reminded me of my piano teacher my mother used to hire.

And so I smiled back.

I remember him making small, measured steps towards me. A lollipop in his hand - an innocent gift to a young child. I licked my lips. I was always quite a gregarious young lady, making friends with the coffee shop auntie, the condo janitor. A blossoming flower.

And so I smiled back, and reached out my hand in anticipation.

What happened next was an unspeakable evil. With a swoop, the lollipop disappeared into his pocket, but out came two outstretched hands, which dug into my skirt with a desperate longing. I struggled but no sound came out of my throat.

The smile had long faded from my face, now shining with sweat. And red with fear.

I, the damsel in distress, had no fairy-tale prince to save me from the clutches of the Mickey Mouse Man. All I had left was my voice. Weak. Trembling. I pleaded but my words were buried within the folds of his jacket, heard by no one else in the dead of night.

I struggled to no avail, and when we reached a desolate area of my estate, he dropped me on the floor, brushing off imaginary cobwebs from strands of runaway hair, now in a dishevelled mess. And then I felt him, a dagger digging deep within my loins. Nothing could stop him from defiling me. As he achieved release, I opened my eyes and there I saw him, eyes closed, lips parted. In his hand was a tattoo. It said, “I believe in Freedom” in a messy scrawl.

Those were the hands that forever imprisoned me in my nightmare. I was found in the morning by the newspaper man. My eyes still open, vacant. Soulless. My parents took me home and made a police report, but when questioned for the perpetrator, my young mind had only one reply.

“He believes in freedom. He believes in freedom.”

I never ate that lollipop.

*

That was 22 years ago. I have since then created the illusion: Busty Girl 88. Hot. Horny. Big tits. Double DD, always yearning for that D. My online profile was always swamped with requests from hungry men. But within that illusion was a ravaged soul. Always looking. Always searching. Always in memory of the child who was taken away, and then returned, broken.

Once broken, considered sold -

That should never have been a child’s destiny.

But at least I’ll never be lonely, for I have the bodies of men by my side. Never mind their hearts, for I too have lost mine to –

Did I say that I charge by the hour?

*

Today, one of the men come knocking at my door, just like with many other nights. I look at the clock. It was 9pm. Their wives must be at home, waiting. He, like many other men, are entertaining clients till late.

“Work is important,” She would chime.

I could almost see her enigmatic smile, reflected on the red of my lips.

I check myself in the mirror, chuckling. There was a faint love bite left by a previous customer. Rash, unrequited love. I feel my breasts, tingling with sensitivity from the night before. He was too aggressive, I thought; but the money was worth it.

The fruit of my labour.

I then clasped my bra on, a classy red piece. Throwing on a thin, almost translucent nightdress, I went to the door.

In that peephole stood a man, just like many days before. I heaved a heavy breath of anticipation, tilted my hip, and opened the door.

“I’ve been waiting for you my love,” I quipped in a high whisper.

Some men liked it slow. They would bring with them a wine bottle, and sit me down gently by the sofa table, breathing slowly into my hair. The fruits on my table were never cut, never bitten into. The conversation was always boring.

“You’re really sexy by the way.”

“It’s my first time actually.”

I always liked the play-pretend. And then I would shyly beckon to the bedroom, and with a hand - feel the bristles on his face. This hand would then travel gently down, from his neck, to his shirt, to his belly, to where the fire burns so passionately below.

Today was different.

He came through the door like a wild bull, taking me into his arms. Slamming the door behind him, he pushed me onto the sofa, kissing me passionately. He was in his late thirties, weathered but well-built. I nodded with approval, beautiful was him, and beautiful would be the money that enters my pocket after that session.

My words came out as a gentle caress, travelling down his neck and into his psyche. “I need you baby.”

Breathing into my neck, making small nibbles at every corner, he turned into a ferocious beast at my invitation. I cry out: half in excitement, half in fear. He claws vigorously at my dress. I am mildly annoyed: the nightdress was from Victoria’s Secret.

But then it was off.

He grappled at my breasts, heaving them together like new dough. I was a new girl all over again, passionate and in love. He was not young, but in his mind was a young beast out to play.

A faint treasure trailed down to where secrets lie, and I was now ready to collect my dues.

His briefs were still on, but it was wet, dripping with lust. He was big, and I was ready. Taking off my panties, I wrapped myself around his hips, still with briefs on, hot with passion and dripping with longing. He smelled of heaven. We kiss, and our tongues reach deep into the shadows. I feel his arms, hairy and veined.

And then on his hand I noticed a tattoo.

That tattoo shimmered in the dim light, but on my mind, it read as bright as day. It was green, faded from years in the Sun. A scar crossed out a letter haphazardly. The words scrambled and unscrambled themselves as I read what was on his hand again, and again.

I        Believe        In                    Freedom

I                   Believe                  In                          Freedom

I                          Believe                        In                                    Freedom

I                                  Believe                                In                                           Freedom.

And there he was, that very man, digging into my skirt. Hands outstretched. A grin on his face. Glasses perched gently on that nose. And a small child looked back once again, in absolute terror.

That lollipop was one I never wanted in me.

The monster hiding within the cobwebs of my broken psyche all these years.

It was him, the Mickey Mouse Man.

He looked friendly. Almost welcoming.

And today here he was, the monster I now welcome into my home.

But this time, I am ready. With a fiery passion, I rip off his briefs. We kiss passionately, and then I take him in. It isn’t enough for me. We gyrate on the sofa and there, at the corner of my eye, I see the fruits get knocked over.

Apples.

Peaches.

Pears.

And at that moment I knew what to do, to make him truly mine.

With a quick shove, I knock him off my hips. With a swift hand, I then pick up the fruit knife from the table. With a swift turn of my wrist, he buckles onto the sofa like a dead sack of potatoes, neck lolling to one side, forever.

Hunched back in silence, he seems almost like a baby in his cot, peaceful and with nary a movement. I can see no blood, for all I see is the fiery passion in me.

But in his eyes, I almost saw myself running away, free, an 8-year-old child shaking herself free from the grasp of the Mickey Mouse Man.

It was an 8-year-old child who would never be.

And then with another swift twist of my knife I claim his sword. He will never be able to imprison another child, ever again.

I rearrange the fruits on the table and place his sword in the midst of the colours. A shining artifice worthy of worship in a holy temple that was my home. I then went to my drawer and took out a small lollipop. His hand was open, still warm, as if it would move any moment. I clasp his hand over the lollipop.

It’s a pity he’ll never get to eat it, too.

There was something sweeter than that lollipop, and I could feel it growing, a sugar lump expanding at the back of my tongue. That lump was justice, and I swirled it in my mouth, savouring the almost sickly-sweet goodness blending with the scent of blood in the air.

I gaze into the shiny red sheen that slowly envelops the pastel greens and pinks of the uneaten fruits. The house is silent, save for the constant ticking of the clock in the living room. After what seems like an eternity, I pick the phone up, fingers dancing furtively in the air, before my hand came to a decisive rest over the keypad.

9. 9. 9.

As the call connects, all I can hear now is the sound of my own voice, in a proud proclamation:

“I believe in freedom! I believe in freedom!”

But in his eyes was a deep black, staring into the distance, with no glimmer of recognition in sight. In his eyes now reflected my own, now shimmering with a release.

In a while the police will come, and I can almost hear the faint blare of police sirens in the distance, increasing in volume with each second passing. But nothing can take away the freedom that is now mine.

Nothing.

Not even the Mickey Mouse Man. //

The Invisible Man - A Short Story by Chia De Zhong

The Invisible Man

By Chia De Zhong

He never knew when he became invisible, for he was already invisible to even himself.

Dressed in suit and tie, hair done in a subdued waff and a pleasant smile lurking behind a stony exterior, he was ready to impress. Leaving at exactly 7.45 as with all weekdays, he waved a silent farewell to his mother and father still stoically consuming their breakfast in the dining hall. He left his breakfast uneaten that day. Walking past grandmothers watering plants on pale yellow corridors, and the occasional schoolchild late for school, he grasped at his chest, an old pain: surfacing more those days with the ravage of pressure. A slow lift carried him down 9 floors with one or two other unsmiling faces before he began his fast trot toward the train station, 3 blocks away.

As he quickened his pace to catch the 8.15 train, he walked past tissue sellers crouched on soiled floors, chanting their daily mantras; past scores of wrinkly faces and wrinkly clothes pulling rusted trollies; past well-dressed marketers with plastic faces, an obstacle in an otherwise perfectly orderly routine. He never saw their faces. The station glowed in the morning Sun, as always, and within was a cold white uniformity which permeated through dimpled skin and sweat stains on freshly ironed shirts. But he felt something different that day. Was it a certain longing for release?

“Next station. Next station. Next station.” A composed voice of unknown origin recited his daily dose of positivity, as he inched closer to the silver castle; and an occasional mutter from a faraway phone broke the constant drone of an old engine. That was not welcome, he thought to himself, as he tried to get a little shut-eye. Such was his life, where he only lived when his eyes were closed off from reality.

Collared shirts and dark pants dotted the station as he alighted, a morning just like the other mornings, as he noticed the other corporates shuffling around with Styrofoam cups of brown and white. A straight line he walked, oblivious, up the grey escalator, past shopfronts displaying fancy dresses with colours unsuitable for work, past stone images of men and children from another time. And then he heard the bells toll. From a distant place they sounded, gentle wind chimes from the beckoning sea. Where were these bells, and why did they sound? Was it the church from down the street? Or the bell on top of the old city hall? But he was never curious for answers. As with the call of his own heart, it was all but white noise. He had work to do.

As he entered the large glass doors into his safe abode, he stopped, heaving, short of breath and short on rest. A vacation in a faraway place would suffice for his wellbeing. 7 days out should be fine. But then he pictured the long queues of employees with stacks of files outside his office, awaiting his approval. He then pictured the long faces of his superiors as they measured his very being, each turn of the page a possible negative appraisal on his work. It was a long war, but victory was imminent, a promotion probably due. There will be no vacation.

It could have been different if he slept in one of the days. He could rest for longer, finally, and avoid his heavy dependency on the awful black coffee which he consumed every day to keep his mind focussed. Perhaps, the bitter taste in his mouth could be switched with a nice glass of champagne, bubbling on the top, as he looked out upon a vast blue ocean. Then he would be free. Should he get a day off? No one would notice. But he had a heavy responsibility. Looking out of the window, he clutched at his chest and felt its constant beat, it’s thump quickening with the thought of a free life out of those glass windows. Then he looked at his desk. A lone laptop stared back at him through a large, glossy eye, lines of text dictating what had to be done. There was much to be done.

It could have been different. His parents had always commented on his slender hands, seemingly suitable for a future in music. He could have learnt more of his scales, he thought. As he thought of that alternative reality, the palpitations within his chest increased in intensity. There was so much longing, but he had a long day to go, here, within the grey walls of this silver castle. He was a knight in shining armour, protecting not an honourable damsel, but the dollars and cents so dear to his organisation. Looking at his hands, he thought of what could be. He was interested in music from the time he heard the gentle tinkle of notes on the piano in the restaurant he was brought to frequently at a young age. It was a long time ago, but its image was ingrained in his mind like a vivid painting. The piano was mahogany, and it had oily keys, from the countless patrons who pressed tentatively at the keys, as if in indecision of whether a certain tune should be played. Black and white, black and white – it was a monotone instrument which gave off an intriguing and invisible colour. As he listened, he always noticed patterns of call and feedback in those classical pieces, akin to a mother calling her child. It was mesmerizing when the occasional maestro visited and delivered a beautiful tune free of imperfections. The quick fingers would run through beaten keys, a chorus of angels singing without words. It was a wakeful dreaming, he recalled, but he was the tune that he would never play.

It could have been different. He had met the girl of his dreams during his exchange in university, in faraway America. She was from Eastern Europe, a damsel with luscious curls of red and brown enveloping her soft face. She whispered sweet nothings, a heavy accent promising a life of new beginnings. He listened, intoxicated by what could be. They held hands on the Californian beach, the summer air consuming all the fears they ever had. They could be married in Las Vegas. Starting a life there may not have been easy, but it was the American dream. But with all dreams, it was over. 6 months passed, and they returned to their homes. But with all dreams, there remains but a beautiful memory, and this memory was play like a tape on loop on difficult days. On many days.

However, it was better now. He was safe, in this cold white uniformity which was his home. Where he sat, he looked in and saw bishops like him on a concrete chessboard, religiously completing their duties. Their faces were polished marble, and they were ready to win every battle.  He saw the endless white blossoming into seas of green, the incessant ringing of office phones a call to new possibilities. To new money, they proclaimed in unison at every occasion.

But today was a novel experience. With his heart racing, the possibilities rushed in like locusts to a grain field. Maybe he would take a day off. It was easy. His immediate superior was in the oval office, tucked away in a lush corner of the office. He only had to tell his superior, and the deed would be done. He had 28 days of leave, and this work could wait.

He measured the words to say. Would it be long drawn, with a lengthy explanation on how he would be up to task despite taking that holiday? Or would it be a sweet affair, a smile signifying his superior’s generosity? His superior had always been somewhat of an enigma. They barely even exchanged pleasantries in person, but sent emails which ricocheted through thin plaster walls, to the many secretaries down below. What would his superior even think of him then? Would he think of him as lazy? He had worked hard, and he deserved this rest.

He measured the words to say. The words grew in his mind, and he gritted his teeth. His words could wait, he thought, as he massaged his forehead, a heavy throbbing emitting through vessels in his brain.

He measured the words to say. But he had long forgotten how to speak.

He thought to himself: he would follow his heart this time. His heart rang a heavy thump day by day, calling out in yearning for a tomorrow not like all other tomorrows, and today it rang too like a solemn bell, every beat a loud toll, reminding him that he, too, had a life to live. Getting up from his desk, he walked slowly to his superior’s office. It loomed closer like a dungeon with every step. His heart raced, seemingly against the force of his body, its inertia pressed in earnest against his internal organs, an imaginary escape from the confines of who he was. He will follow his heart for now. The din from within was unbearable this time.

And so, he reached the doors of his superior’s office. But there were no heads turned, no triumphant sounds of victory, no garlands of flowers. His superior’s head remained bowed, as he typed furiously at the keys.  

“May I get the week off?” The words hung from his tongue at that moment. It was barely a whisper.

The toll of bells was too much of a burden to carry. But the pain was now gone. He looked around and could almost see a beautiful beach in the horizon, awaiting his footprints on the fine sand that encompassed the entire locality. He was ready. The beach he saw was a beautiful place to be, the endearing silence reflecting a peace desperately needed; granted.

And so, he went on his way. It was evening, and he noticed the cry of young birds in the distance, their mothers swooping in with crumbs for their young. He noticed hints of red and purple creeping through the sky like drapery in an elegant home. Lights from the nearby shopping malls lit up in colours too much to take in, a strain on eyes used to only the glow of new money. He passed vague shapes of workers sitting on benches, consuming cold sandwiches, a foot out, ready to begin their brisk walks back to their offices for overdue work. They faded away, as if in a looking glass. He saw the smiles hidden behind weary faces, wallets full, and hearts empty. He saw children in tow, parents gently pushing the strollers, smiles on weary faces, hearts alight with love. He saw what could now be.

And then he was home. He looked at the white door, an anomaly in the pale-yellow vicinity. There was a large, vintage sign on it, and it read “Welcome to our home”. Those words were always inviting, a gentle prod into another world within. A world where there would only be love.

He heard his parents murmuring from within, and without pause, he opened the door.

The bells sounded again. It now rang brightly, each toll sending a current through his being. It was evening, and each toll took dreams from the sleeping into the sky above. Was that how dreams were answered? He had never known what it really was, but he had always dismissed those hallucinations as mere distractions from his work. He was at where he really belonged, and nothing would stop him from being so.

The bells were louder this time. It was coming to him, a new world beckoning. Maybe he should become a musician. It wasn’t too late to switch careers. He was nearing 30, but some become masters at 50. He had some experience learning the piano, stopping at Grade 6 when his studies got affected. He had enough money now, perhaps to start taking lessons again. Maybe he could become a gig musician. He had a nice voice, people used to say, before he fell silent.

But the bells were louder this time. Was it an old injury he sustained years back, falling from a bicycle and hitting his head? Or was it the many rock concerts he used to go to before life begun? Perhaps he should see a doctor. It had been a while since he visited the doctor. He had no time to be sick, working days and days to no end. Perhaps he had to rest. But ever since he began his stint, work found him before rest begun, resulting in sleepless nights and darkened eyes, where life had left him. But now he is free, and he will now dream.

He entered the living room. His mother was in the kitchen, cooking. A delicious aroma filled the air, though he remained oblivious, eyes fixated on the strands of hair falling gently on his mother’s weathered face. He entered the kitchen and greeted his mother. But she had nary a turn.

Then the phone rang, and she answered the call.

He could barely make out the callous words his mother exchanged with the caller, and the heated discussions which bounced off the walls of his house, shrill cries entering the homes of his neighbours like steam escaping from a kettle. He could barely register his parents leaving their home, door left ajar. He could barely see now, for the bells now rang as loud as day, each toll a deafening revelation for him: that he will no longer dream.

He never knew when he became invisible, for he was already invisible to even himself.

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