De one with Exposed

Haunt of the dignity

What happened to all that's good in me? That very thought sneaked suspiciously into my mind as I stared at the romantic skyline of our small nation and the unique torn-lighten structure of the Esplanade structure before me. The air was warm around where I was. Not with my love, not a date but with a supportive friend who suggested Orgo (a "bar and lab" at the Esplanade rooftop). Tonight was Thursday. The last day of work before I went on leave for exams preparation. Coincidentally, Thursday became a "friends night".

James texted me for dinner just before I decide to wait to leave office later since my appointment with Howie wouldn't be until then. I packed up in a hast, ran through some work my colleague was consulting me and hopped into a cab only to arrive 20 minutes late. Feeling guilty I offered to get the tab for our Akashi restaurant dinner. The food was good. Sadly, if only the service was equally good as the average ambiance as well as its fine ingredients. This girl literally snatched the tea cup from my friend for refill, without asking while we were talking. Oh yes, James was pissed. I bet I saw the steam evaporating from his newly cut hair.

Everything was well, except the good in being punctual and patient seemed to have left without a trace in me. I used to be punctual. Being a minute late was a taboo and it would ache my panicky heart as the adrenaline to arrive earlier would pulsed rapidly through my nerves. Without dignity, I no longer feel as intensely as ever when I am late. Perhaps my conscience was debatingly defeated with reasons for being late. Or excuses I wonder.

Characteristic latter, Patience shadowed its above-mentioned relative, like a loose button which detached itself from the shirt of its owner who hadn't paid attention. The ancient Christian story depicts about how Adam of Eden ate the apple and have evil transcend into mankind. Logic is the every "evil" in my life, well.. in this context of discussion. Discovery and subsequent recognition of consumer sovereignty, a reasoning which diminishes my patience. Patience for service to be delivered, ordering to be placed, the food to be served, bill to come.

Like a siren effect upon a drunken guy as the alcohol flush his cheeks and numbs the brain, goodness traits away...

Lately, I questioned whether I am making use of people or letting people into my life. I ask them for dinner, agree to their invitations. And for what? To really spend quality time? Or just to fill the slightest vacancy in pulse of life so that I wouldn't be reminded of how lonely I could become. Or worse, am I subjecting myself to socialising to assure that I'm not impaired of goodness. And pathetic as it reads, communication was a means of getting goodness back into me again.

Clara says I heap the empty slots in life through material spending on Swarovski crystals, Tiffany and diamonds earrings, colognes and facial products. I tored myself, shred these layers of coolness, smiley faces, glamor and who did I find? Don't think seven-month ghost stories.. Just a naked little boy, tears streaked down his cheeks. He kneels at a corner of a glass-casing. Walls laid with mirrors which are old, shabby and it inflates how you look. Both hands were clenched. After much effort of convincing, the reluctant boy opens his right hand. It was bruised, blistered and battered. Astonishingly, in the middle of the palm lies a heave sack of needles buried in flames. The owner whimpers something. I had to asked again to make out what he faintly whispered.. He repeats clearly that he's waiting for the right moment for an extraordinary light to shine, dissipate the pricking needles to reveal a golden thread and needle.

I still didn't understand.

As though he knew I was curious, he held out his left arm in a cautious manner, as though a boy was asked to surrender his hand for a punishment. His teary eyes never left my face as he did so. There... a delicate flower with its outer layer frosted. It blooms open like a mimosa leaf, some thin ice along its edges defrosted and vaporised - heartaching sight as it unfolds to decipher the streaks of electricity in all fanciful colors anyone could imagine.

The visions before my eyes puzzled me. My mind was as blank as snow-white paper sheet until the reflections in the mirrors pointed me to look at a common point. It was the left chest. Surprisingly, a squarish lid. I reached for it but in vain. He retracted from my reach, trembling..

I was maddening. Frustrated with no help in the truth. I did what I normally do: I back off as though I've gave up trying. The boy saw me back-paddled and finally out into the light, convinced it was safe to do so by my retreating gesture. As though he meant console, he tapped me with his toe to get my attention. The lid opened and.. a picture of a orgami heart, part of it tattered but mend it crumps of $50 Singapore dollar note. The blue-printed Yusof Ishak's face was visible.

It made sense finally.

I trust many are familiar with the Wizard of Oz. If I could relate myself with any of the characters in the magnificent tale, I'd most likely be the Tin Man. A yearner for a living heart. A heart that delivers joys and psychiatric sparks to my life. It is almost impossible to have both arms pressed against each other. The extreme fire and frost would only cause unimaginable pain. The volts and needles would self-destruct themselves and the golden thread to mend the real heart would be lost. I am like an Autobot without the All-spark.

Biology teaches us we cant live without a beating heart cause it avail bloodflow, essential for distributing oxygen. The brain can't survive and courage wouldn't be present.

Love isn't everything. Friends does. And I feel bad because I can't trust myself to even know who I am, and I keep feeling nobody genuinely cares about me. Its like a door shut. Inaccessible to anything. It's highly doubtful bacteria could permeate through. What an irony.

Friends are enough but never enough. This is when found my childhood friend, Mr Loneliness who secretly told me he brought luggage and stay.

I had to react. No, I didn't join Dorothy on her quest to some West witch. My wits tells me Mr Loneliness would avoid other attributes like Fun and Achievements. So I work, pieced my ear twice, got myself drunk and unfortunate part, I didn't seemed to get drunk even having consumed a mango margarita and my favourite strawberry daiquiri. I tell you, $18 for a large cocktail-glass with at least 5 cm tall of blended ice soaked with alcohol. Drinking gives me liver problem. Loo warned I'll get addicted. But I ain't.

But honestly, I never fail to deny. And I confess now, goodness was replaced because of these stupid things I've done. And I never stop hating myself for these. I used to laugh at the famous and "approved" Kumar's joke on his drag-shows. I guess I laughed partly because I was amused with the talent-talker's humour. The other part would involved laughing at myself: I am not a native, I don't speak like a machine-gun.. yet I am freakingly-helplessly looking for a full-stop for all these undesirable misery I'm putting myself through. Dear goodness.