On Voices

On any given day, random people share a bit of their lives with you. Sitting in the MRT, you hear snatches of conversation, spy a woman looking at a magazine page entitled "young mothers", watching a little Malay girl reading a muslim book, all these things without them realising that for just a moment, they've made you an intimate part themselves.

The same applies to you too, of course.

When you go jogging you feel eyes on you as the cars go by, someone on the bus reads over your shoulder as you scan the tabloids, a waiter at lunch takes your order or when you ask for directions, at that instant you're assimilated into their little bubbles, neither of you quite realising it.

On Quizzes

How much of a cynic am I? I look into the eyes of life and see only tears.

On Cherries

Somewhere in a lonely part of my abdomen, a little cherry seed has taken root, soon to grow into a tree.

On Kerchiefs

I find people who carry handkerchiefs in their pockets very odd. How can they stand it, quite honestly?

Apart from the fact that I have never been able to blow my nose into anything other than the bathroom sink. Having mucus bunched up in tissue or cloth around your nose seems a disgusting practice. After which you calmly place the handkerchief back into your pocket where the liquid part of the mucus is free to seep all over the place, before drying up into crusty flakes.

Then, you take it out again at some other time to mop your sweaty brow, which in itself is bad enough. Naturally the sweat dissolves the hardened mucus once more, and after a while you're left wondering why your face feels so stuck.

Icky.

On Sighs

Strange, isn't it, how we are bound to this earth, by an invisible nigh-indestructible strand of life. To the which we are further bound, by a multiplicity of other strands; our thoughts, our actions, our friends, our beliefs. Even odder that we can be bonded without realising it, or without wishing it.

So what binds them all? A love.

What binds me to them? A name.

Three years hence, my vorpal blade will go snicker-snack, and the ties that bind shall rent with pleasure. That will leave me with one less thread on life itself. Chilling, isn't it?

And you, crab-girl, you should learn your lesson.

On Serials

Like milk through a cow, so too the days of our lives...

On Librarians

The librarian peered over her thick glasses at the young man standing before her.

"I'd like to borrow this book please," he said in a voice a little too loud. It hung a while in the dead air, before being chased away by hushes.

The librarian took the book and stamped the return date on it, sliding it through the machine that de-activated the alarm sensor. Staring at him, she said, "Make sure you don't return this late."

"What happens if I do?" he asked cheekily.

"Then I'll enter your name," she said, gesturing at an enormous open ledger on the counter. It was opened to the last page, with the name of the previous overdue offender scrawled in large letters.

Crazy old bat, thought the young man as he left. He stopped short as a thought struck him. The ledger was of the variety that could have new pages inserted. And the pages were made of vellum.

On Bunnies

You know how bunnies squeal when you pick them up by their ears? Or how they scream when you kick them?

Well, I do.

On Tibet

One day a Tibetan lama and a yak got into an argument involving a patch of Himalayan moss. The yak in his shaggy fur coat had wandered the steppes and wanted the moss. The lama had been charged by his temple to protect the sacred moss, blessed by Buddha.

"Ngoooorrrhhh!" went the yak.

"Ohhhhhhmmm," went the lama.

Back and forth the verbal sparring went, until finally the yak went "Nnooorgh!"

"Haha!" exclaimed the lama in triumph, "that's where you're wrong! The answer was Nnnooorgh! You lose!"

The yak was understandably annoyed, so it knocked the lama down and sat on him till the shaggy fur caused the lama to die of heat exhaustion.

Unfortunately for the lama, he had not led a very virtuous life, so as his soul took a spin on the Wheel of Life, he was reborn as a scraggly patch of moss.

"Nnnooorgh!" went a yak.

On Babes

Watching a baby take his first steps is quite an ineffable experience. You watch as he starts of crawling on the floor, before hoisting himself up onto little cottoned legs, toddling about with much concentration, oblivious to the held breaths around him. Toddle toddle.

He grins, aware of his audience.

A rosy flush infuses his cheeks as he experiences a new sensation: standing. Gurgles of glee escape his little mouth; he basks in the moment.

Then the truck ploughs into him.

On Watches

God has a disgusting sense of irony. I finally get myself a pocket watch, and there are so many things wrong with it I'd be better off buying my own.

On Reptiles

I wish I were a spitting cobra.