Today I eavesdropped on a conversation over lunch. Eavesdropped because I did not contribute. It got me thinking.
A fragile bunch we are, tethering on the edges of multiple personalities, troubling ourselves and the people around us with the idiosyncrasies of our attention-seeking persona.
I remember the Animal Planet documentaries from television and how they depict animal newborns as feeble and helpless, but within hours of having their placentas licked off their still wet furs or scales, they're running around escaping from seasoned predators or snapping frogs off leaves for food.
Teenagers in Singapore are still feeding off their parents at the age of 18. Just because we can operate a microwave doesn't mean we're apex hunters at the top of the food chain.
Back to the main stream thought - the frailty of creation. In such a complex spider mind-map of blueprints, it is hard to ignore those who came off short of a few nails, or missed the software upgrade on the way out of the womb.
To the fortunate few, they appear to be stories and myths of a less-fortunate reality, a tale told through coffee and used to widen the audiences' scopes of the cruel world in which we live. In the end it's like watching an end-of-the-world film and then robbing old women after that.
To those near the epicenter of the tragic tales, the frailty of creation means more than a short story or a simple reminder. These creatures lose the fragmentation so enjoyed by memory and personify into a child or person once possessing the same hope-granting quality of a toto-ticket during Chinese New Year.
Human nature bid us help, but in doing so are we throwing them a buoy made of lead? And have we also confirmed the fact that they're swimming in a sea of wet cement?
Besides, all ya gotta do is put a crocodile into a room of daisies to make it all a cute picture.
Echo
Light fills the room as the heavy doors creak open. A single long shadow stretches down the aisle as Vincent Grey enters the hall.
He is a small man, but the solemn air shrinks him down to a pea as he follows his shadow down the rows of chairs and into the confession booth at the end.
The door slides open easily, and Vincent takes it as a sign of acceptance. The silent hall amplifies the guilt within him as he relates his confession in his head once more. He looks down on the chains at his feet, shambling his knobby ankles - these are but part of his consequence.
Sound settles and fades into a calm tranquil drone of still air. He opens his mouth to speak, asking for validation:
"Father, do you hear me?"
A firm voice answers, easing the shackles at his feet:
"I am here, my son. And so is He."
Vincent stumbles. All this time he’s been in prison he’s never felt so helpless, stepping into a cubicle and into the mercy of a faceless man sitting next to him; watching him through the veiled window; listening to his deepest regrets; depending on him to ease the torment he has been through.
Not long now, he tells himself. Not long before he pays for his crime.
“I have a confession to make.”
“I am here, my son. And so is He.”
Images run through his head – the same few that keeps him awake at night.
“Five years ago, I took the life of a little girl. She was witness to my crime and paid for her misfortune with her life. Everything happened to quick, I didn’t know what to do – the police were closing in on me, the bag suddenly felt so heavy, my debtors were waiting for me in the next street...”
The big man cries, burying his face in his hands.
“What made you kill her, my son?”
Vincent’s voice was muffled as he spoke through his tears.
“I don’t know! She was just there, and the next thing I know the gun fired and I was running away again.”
He breaks down, sobbing uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry Father! I will hang but I do not wish to go without knowing that I - ”
“It’s ok my son, we all make mistakes.”
“Please forgive me, Father.”
The sobbing of a pitiful soul echoes down the hall - a soul begging for forgiveness as he prepares himself for his final release on the electric chair. All he needs is forgiveness.
As his head hits the floor, he remembers how it all played out that day – he was running down the alleyway and she was on her way to school, coming out of a corner. He knocked into her and they both fell. In his haste to collect the bag of money he got impatient and shot the girl to stop her from crying. As he ran off again he caught sight of a man running towards the girl, a man he knew was her father.
That man now sits next to him, gun in hand, face hidden behind a veil – watching him, listening to him, waiting for the final moment when he would be released from his torment.
“Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned.”
He is a small man, but the solemn air shrinks him down to a pea as he follows his shadow down the rows of chairs and into the confession booth at the end.
The door slides open easily, and Vincent takes it as a sign of acceptance. The silent hall amplifies the guilt within him as he relates his confession in his head once more. He looks down on the chains at his feet, shambling his knobby ankles - these are but part of his consequence.
Sound settles and fades into a calm tranquil drone of still air. He opens his mouth to speak, asking for validation:
"Father, do you hear me?"
A firm voice answers, easing the shackles at his feet:
"I am here, my son. And so is He."
Vincent stumbles. All this time he’s been in prison he’s never felt so helpless, stepping into a cubicle and into the mercy of a faceless man sitting next to him; watching him through the veiled window; listening to his deepest regrets; depending on him to ease the torment he has been through.
Not long now, he tells himself. Not long before he pays for his crime.
“I have a confession to make.”
“I am here, my son. And so is He.”
Images run through his head – the same few that keeps him awake at night.
“Five years ago, I took the life of a little girl. She was witness to my crime and paid for her misfortune with her life. Everything happened to quick, I didn’t know what to do – the police were closing in on me, the bag suddenly felt so heavy, my debtors were waiting for me in the next street...”
The big man cries, burying his face in his hands.
“What made you kill her, my son?”
Vincent’s voice was muffled as he spoke through his tears.
“I don’t know! She was just there, and the next thing I know the gun fired and I was running away again.”
He breaks down, sobbing uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry Father! I will hang but I do not wish to go without knowing that I - ”
“It’s ok my son, we all make mistakes.”
“Please forgive me, Father.”
The sobbing of a pitiful soul echoes down the hall - a soul begging for forgiveness as he prepares himself for his final release on the electric chair. All he needs is forgiveness.
As his head hits the floor, he remembers how it all played out that day – he was running down the alleyway and she was on her way to school, coming out of a corner. He knocked into her and they both fell. In his haste to collect the bag of money he got impatient and shot the girl to stop her from crying. As he ran off again he caught sight of a man running towards the girl, a man he knew was her father.
That man now sits next to him, gun in hand, face hidden behind a veil – watching him, listening to him, waiting for the final moment when he would be released from his torment.
“Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned.”
Skimming the surface of wanderlust: memoirs of a bus ride addict
You might say this entry is of a provoked nature - one instigated by the need to express myself after a night’s out with a friend. That, and several more reasons whose motives are praiseworthy and results immensely satisfying.
First off, I am on a road - one that may either seem to be a waste of time or of great reward. We managed to draw the shape of a carrot in a meeting earlier (nothing beats self motivation huh), and the sail’s hoisted with the sound of two milo cups hitting the crudely varnished tabletop at Casuarina in Thompson.
Then it occurred to me that vitality is of much importance. In this tedious journey we are about to undertake we see ourselves pushing forward through the disabling clouds of uncertainty, no option of turning back.
Thank god I, like most overly-hopeful ignoramus, have a far too panoramic view of a perfect picture - one that stares me in the eye very often with a sweet smile and a slight tilt of the head.
Does wonders for the soul, I tell you.
And while we’re on the topic of travel, I will let you know that it has been a fair month since I took a long bus ride home, opting the fragrance of a jam-packed Mass Rapid Transit. Reason being my driving lessons at the SSDC in Yio Chu Kang.
I was told I like praise, but who doesn’t right?
On a seperate note, those who value their lives may want to steer away from the roads near Yio Chu Kang and Ang Mo Kio lest an mal-vigilant trainee comes roaring down the lane (yes, I lack clutch control).
But no worries, the long bus rides will make their comeback soon, as I tire slowly of standing in a train full of after-work odor.
Three things - get cracking; get nice nails; and get myself on a bus.
