Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Echoes of silent cries

The hols get more and more fun. Yesterday I had some friends come over for lunch and mahjong, which was really enjoyable, because I haven't had friends over to spend time and play games with ever since Sec Two, partly because my house is so darn ulu and people's eyes widen when I suggest the very idea, and I've rather missed it. Mahjong was enjoyable, though I lost like mad in the first round and was in severe debt at the end of the game (we didn't play money but chips), but then again winning isn't everything; the company was good and I managed to get a little better by the end of the day, I think. Additionally I was very excited because Darryl discovered that my computer has a compartment in front that can be magically opened to reveal USB, earphone and microphone ports, which I had no idea existed despite having this computer for 1+ year, and constantly complaining about having to access the USB and microphone ports from the back of the CPU *facepalm* I am such a dimwit.

Went ktv-ing with George today, second session in a week and I totally strained my voice again, which started to break about two hours into singing. Sigh, I wonder how people can sing for longer and not have their voice decide to go on strike. But anyway, it was a fun session because of all the oldies I decided to select to sing today, which are a breath of fresh air compared to the usual fare of popular Mando hits. There were these girls in the room next door who were practically shouting song lyrics in a monotone, or a very bad impression of tuneful-ness, and no thanks to bad soundproofing we were quite at their mercy. I mean, I really shouldn't be criticising people when I'm no Simon Cowell, but please, they're more off-key than I am when I get locked out of the house (sorry). They should sound-proof the walls better in Suntec KBox.

Speaking of sound there's some major renovation works going on around my flat, which involves breaking up the concrete flooring at the void deck with pneumatic drills and then putting a new layer of cement, which to me is incredibly insipid because I see no problems with the existing flooring, not to mention they just redid the flooring like a few years ago. The work is subjecting us to an intolerable amount of sound pollution, to the point that even with all the windows closed we still have to raise our voices to hear each other, which I can most reliably classify as being a horrendously unhealthy level of noise, despite all my COFM mugging having fled my mind after the exams. I would like to complain about this, but they'd probably disregard it or tell me how important it is to refloor the void deck. If this is meant to persuade us to vote for the gahmen during elections, I'm more tempted to vote against just because of the annoyance.

Got hit by a story idea today, so here it is. Somehow I can't help but feel that my writing is still stuck at secondary school level and hasn't improved. Read it at your leisure, and comment if you feel so inclined, many thanks.

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Windows to the Soul

FALLEN LEAVES SWIRLED in fitful eddies on the pavement, caught in the chilly gusts of wind that swept relentlessly across the narrow street and the people traversing it. The rustling of the leaves, dry whispers that were a far cry from the joyful murmurs of zephyrs through verdant evergreens, told of the cold that would only deepen, and added to the frigid loneliness that permeated the darkening landscape. The few passersby that braved the cold to run errands, or who were on their way home from work, did so hurriedly, heads bent against mischievous bursts of wind that stung the eyes and tugged hair and clothing in every direction imaginable. Aside from the sound of their footsteps, shoes shuffling, heels clacking, boots thumping, and the rustling leaves, the street hung in silence; there was hardly any motor traffic at this time of day.

There was only one person who did not seem to be in a hurry to be back in the comfortable warmth of home, and he walked with a measured gait, heel hitting the cobbled pavement -- worn smooth by the passage of countless feet, with the hardiest weeds peeking out forlornly between the cobblestones in a silent protest against the cold -- with a muffled clack, followed by the rest of the foot, heel rolling onto ball of the foot in a fluid movement that drew the body forward. It was almost as if he savoured the sound of his own footsteps, timed beats in a background symphony of random sounds. He wore a black muffler that hid the lower half of his face, underlining black eyes that shone with amusement amid profound sadness, and his medium-length black hair fell around his face in an untamed fashion when it wasn't being swept up by the wind. His hunched shoulders and hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his dark blue parka were the only hints that he felt the cold; he would otherwise have looked like he was taking a leisurely stroll on a fine day.

No one paid any attention to him, this strange figure that deliberately dallied on the cold street as dark fell, nor wondered at his strange behaviour. He seemed to enjoy this little walk he was taking, ears keenly noting the various sounds of people and nature that filled the air, eyes sweeping in all directions, taking in the blue-gray sky that darkened eastward, dancing with streaks of reddish gold, the streetlamps that stood as silent sentinels, casting cold white light in overlapping puddles bridged by the shadows of people and the lamp-posts themselves, the occasional piece of litter that swept past in the fierce grip of a gust, carried to some unknown destination.

What caught his attention most, though, was the windows he walked past, one after another an array of framed pictures of the people who lived behind them, pictures that threw warm yellow semicircles onto the street, invitations to stop and admire the happiness captured within. He could almost feel the warmth emanating from electric heaters, whose images wavered ever so infinitesimally in their heat, as he watched people preparing for dinner. Little boys pushing toy cars along carpets, up and down armchairs, under coffee tables. Little girls playing with dolls. Children watching cartoons on television. Mothers busy setting tables, bringing steaming hot dishes from the kitchen, rounding their kids up for the evening meal. Fathers helping their wives, reading newspapers, playing with their children, talking merrily to grown up sons and daughters come over to visit. A table set with candles and champagne flutes, a bouquet of roses, a couple wrapped in an embrace, in one of those pictures. Another, streamers and balloons hanging from all corners, a large group of teenagers singing rambunctiously, their voices audible through the glass.

He passed yet another window and glanced in, wondering what other picture of happiness it would present, and saw a face disappearing behind a doorway, a face that tickled his memories. A friend not seen in a long time, perhaps, but he couldn't be sure. He stood, head cocked to the right, lost in thought. A moment later he noticed a wife setting the table, a daughter sitting at the table, who appeared to be talking rather merrily. He wondered if the man would reappear through that doorway. Then, a movement, the girl reaching her hand out towards her mother, petulant mouth framing a protest, eyes looking straight at him. The mother turned to face the window, brows knitted, eyes swimming with what seemed like disgust. A few short strides, a sharp look from the woman that conveyed an unmistakeable warning, and cheery turquoise curtains were whipped across the window, so violent a change that his head snapped back involuntarily.

He shrugged, and continued walking, past window after window. Some showed the same pictures of family bliss, love, and friendship, others were barricaded with curtains that let only the barest sliver of light out, and few the ones that stared blankly, speaking of dark emptiness. At one of these windows, unadorned black steel bars that quartered plain glass, he stopped and could not go on for a long while.

He was home.

Fluorescent tubes clacked into life as he threw the switch, revealing a home with spartan furnishings, no carpet. The heater worked admirably for its age, though it gave off an annoying buzz that was occasionally punctuated with a startling clanging as the contraption shuddered, like a death rattle. The light tubes gave off a hum that was too loud for the silence of the house, and gave the cream-coloured wallpaper, yellowing at the edges, a rather harsh glare that hurt the eyes. He threw his parka and muffler on the threadbare armchair, then walked to the window that looked out upon the street. It looked almost warm out there, as he watched the leaves skip interminably across the pavement. Sighing, he reached out and pulled the heavy curtains closed, before heading for the kitchen to microwave something for dinner.

If there were those who didn't wish to share their happiness, he mused, then he would rather not share his pain.

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Avaris / 3/14/2006 09:52:00 PM

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