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<--latest post-- some other day maybe--oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy--it almost worked--live range distractions--a little past his bedtime maybe--sometimes i regret introducing boon to rock music--please don't kill me--songs to get misty-eyed to--"why you so ___ing heavy?"--visit to the rock gym, in pictures-- --last post--> |
| by comrade commissar | Thomas | @ Friday, December 02, 2005, 2:10:00 AM | permalink |
 Next stop is Ang Mo Kio. I heard that and 2 seconds later a random passing skirt caught my attention. Staring at the fleeting scenery outside for a moment, I return to my novel, constant rumbling of wheel on rail in the background, trying to kill time by reading on MRT ride home. Damn. Lost my train of thought, have to flip back to the previous page.Frustrating really, this sort of thing. My attention span is always a handicap when it comes to books that are more challenging. With furled eyebrows I observed my surroundings. The white collar man with tie that barely got on the train also barely sat down before he broke into a million pieces of slumped deep sobs and hard tears, papers scattered from his suitcase as he let it fall to the ground for all he cares. Eyebrows raised by this point. A polite sterile voice says the next stop is Ang Mo Kio.The mad flickering light of the control box just above my head caught my eye. All indicators are in red, blinking fast and angry. Weird. Shifted my interest and thought I saw the same scenery outside the glass windows go by a while back. The rumbling slowly stops, the doors open, and new passengers come aboard, the next stop is Ang Mo Kio.  Standing by the door is this girl looking at her feet. Occasionally, she takes out this skirt which was in the shopping bag she had in her hand, held it high enough that she could see both herself and her purchase in the door's glass reflection. (Sorry madam, the largest size we have in this store is 'L') She seemed to have held that pose forever, then slowly placed her merchandise back in the empty bag. She neither smiles or frowns, as she looks at her feet again, lips a straight line across her face, repeating this circle ad infinitum. She got off at the next stop in slow long steps. The stop after that is Ang Mo Kio. The person that sat beside me and took up 1½ times of the seat allocated per passenger got up and went to the next carriage. My lungs refilled with oxygen and I'm revitalised enough to note soft approaching steps on top of the constant transportational rumblings. My breath got taken away again almost immediately. "What are you reading?"I had almost forgot the book in my hand. I said a couple of words about it having an IQ level requirement somewhere just beyond mine and quickly went to the most important point of contention. When did you come back? I thought I won't even get to catch a glimpse of you at all during your short stay. The days are simpler far too long, way too short and too many have already been crossed out in between. She said ... something, but my line of sight had shifted to the recurring scenery outside, her words drowned out by the announcement that Ang Mo Kio is next. If a dialogue is an act of communication whereby interaction is established between two active individuals, why do I always break off the connection and find it so hard to maintain eye contact? I kept on talking, but I might as well be having a monologue, or write secret letters that are sent off without an address written, eternally unseen by any eyes. Hold on, where did she go? Why did the train stop? Every other commuter in the silent carriage seemed to be giving me sneak glances, I tried to say something but couldn't. People acted like they're oblivious to everything, bums firmly planted on seats while suddenly the heavily pregnant and a myriad of other less privileged groups bursted into the carriage in a single line, eyes full of meaning looking right through your body mind and soul, almost marching in equal steps. A fashion show carnival parade of the hardly walking and bent over filing past everyone, design theme for this season - Nobody cares really. We never actually stopped at Ang Mo Kio, the doors only opened again at Bishan. When the train started again and grinded inch by inch right past the station accelerating painfully slow, I could only watch as a single person stood outside, wait. How did she get off? Between us two a barrier of steel, and a cloud of unfeeling. She moved on and left me behind. I didn't have a choice with my destination really. |
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recent entries (in order) |
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<--latest post-- some other day maybe--oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy--it almost worked--live range distractions--a little past his bedtime maybe--sometimes i regret introducing boon to rock music--please don't kill me--songs to get misty-eyed to--"why you so ___ing heavy?"--visit to the rock gym, in pictures-- --last post--> |
