What Is There
by Chua Han Au
When you forgo a nights’ sleep and brave through the treacherous phase of staying awake, you lose the inherent compass of day and night. The pale blue light indicative of dawn seems utterly bewitching, where its soft grandeur ironically scalds the wearied spirit. The day just seems to be a treadmill of soulless passing. The movement of the exhausted train is synonymous to that of being afloat on clouds, where the destination of travel does not bother, but what matters is sheer revitalisation.
In thoughts, you resembled a diabolic figure, digging graves upon graves, as if bones were not the only piece of evidence you were looking for. You hear the lamentations of the dead, but advanced your excavation, relentlessly. The scene was bereft of blood, the smell of it was likened to rafflesias. It was absolutely grotesque, and if given a chance to escape, I’d be more than glad.
I gave myself a chance to fathom the seeming complexities of your very being and your philosophies. Yet, in attempting to associate meanings to your enigmatic self, I am repeatedly interrupted with dramatisations exuded by the media.
But they were all wrong. We had it all wrong. We’re confused with definitions and are giving wrong signal beams to each other. We never truly understood the sentiments of another, inherently magnetised to our own beliefs, pushing our way forward like bulldozers attempting to crush what we deem foreign and threatening.
Strained, like the wrung towel, my ultimate decision is to let the bridges break.