Of Singing and Being
i didn't expect this, my friend. people say change is like the hands of time, seemingly gradual and deceivingly nonchalent. and so we expect it to be like a slow green poison, for we fear change and deplore its coming. but what do we when it comes like a slap of a wave, evident in its white froth and nothing else?
the old saying where pigs ain't able to fly is going to be challenged duely by a friend in a couple of weeks. and it was this same friend who sparked such sentiments which i can't deny. the change is apparent, in the most explicit matters of the hair on both our legs and scalp, to the least lucid issues on people, relationships, conversations and smiles. true, we may never be able to walk down a nice-sounding street with a breath of lavender in the air, hands clasped in friendship and song. but i see no reason why we can't sit at fort canning one day, with a breath of lalang grass in the air, hands still clasped in an old friendship.
you say what we shared had been lost to the flakes of time, and the more the pity as things worked so hard to get together been shattered in a fury of events. but i think not and hold faith to the core of our friendship, things will always turn out fine eventually and it is in such complexities that we must hold dearly to our lingering memories, and perhaps. just perhaps, we would all look back and laugh over all this over a cup of refreshing SOLO, our balls wrinkled and your chests sagged.
i dreamt a dream that night. it somewhat possessed a sepulchral aura, but no nightmare it was, for i walked a street haunted by my own memories. left and right, little places of great significance and great places of little things emerge. the absence of our presence strikes me like an absurd present, coming alongside like a package as we morph into university freshies and greenbrown soldiers, but the street in my dream never ceases to bend. or end.
i didn't expect this, my friend. but hold fast to the little times as the big ones seem to slip away, and you will realise its the little ones that matter after all.
little, indeed. is beautiful
the voices in my head-
the voices in my head-
the voices in my head-
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