I sit here all prepared to write. My pen posed in mid-air and I don’t know how to start. The bane of a writer. But then again, I’m not a writer. Not yet.
It’s the perfect environment. I’ve got the Singapore River on my right, Shenton Way behind me, a cool breeze, a rattan chair, an umbrella to shade me from the scorching sun, a fruit tea and a slice of walnut brownie cheesecake and for a split second, I’m conned into believing there’s nothing wrong with my life.
So there
is nothing wrong with my life. There’s something wrong with me. Every once in a while I evaluate myself. Fear. Is everyone afraid of being free? I panic wherever I have free time. Pockets of pure luxury and I hit the panic button frantically. For a brief moment, I hyperventilate as my mind races on about the multitude of things I’m
not doing. I’m frightened that when my hands are idle, I think. Think of the very things that I try so hard to forget.
My mum says I’m angry. I think I’m perpetually angry. By working, I keep my anger away. Apparently. By being busy, I cease to have time to ponder on these issues. By staying on my feet, I run away. How far must I run when enough becomes enough? When will I ever be far away enough?
I have issues. Do I change my job? Is there something else in the big unknown? Am I missing out by not moving? Can I really map out what I want, when I want? I’m stuck in a rut and I don’t fucking know how to get out of it.
People I know will just smack me on the head and tell me to wake up. Smell the roses. See the clear blue sky. Breathe in the fresh air. I have a great job that I love and a pretty decent paycheck. No attachments. I live a charmed life. Have I no idea what contentment is?
I’m starved for knowledge and I hate change. I was in the cab today and it drove past Cathay building. The utter horror. The monstrosity of the building. A concrete slab devoid of feelings. I nearly wept. Where was the peeling paint? The aged walls? The warmth and intimate closeness one feels from a piece of architecture that holds more than mere faded fragments of days gone past?
I’m losing my past, whether I like it or not. They’ve taken away my Plaza Singapura, my National Library, my Cathay building. Heck! They’ve even taken away my primary school. Am I still clinging onto the past because of my fear of the future? Is it inhibiting my ability to see beyond? Does everyone go through the same thing or am I just alone in this?
It drizzled for a short moment just now. Fleeting. And suddenly, the sun didn’t seem all that hot anymore. The scorching heat had retreated to a lazy afternoon warmth. Is life like that? Do the occasional rain spells cool it and make it more bearable? Must life be bearable? Or is it an angst that all must trudge through? I’ll let you know when I reach the end of the tunnel.
Truth is, I think I’ve barely stepped in.