bad mornings and bad dreams

Mornings on the bus are ways life could tell you to piss off. Mongering with the inane morning crowd is something else at times. For instance, the auntie who trodded over countless toes in a bid to get to her seat. It is small wonder why we ain’t known as a courteous country. I mean, surely we could do better? We need to know that it is actually alright to take a couple of minutes off to breathe. What is the big deal in being caught up in the great big bloody irate morning express anyway? Let the anger slide.

We have pretty much nothing else to parade(in a cultural sense, and singlish does not count of cause); a look around and you would know that we do borrow heavily from other cultures. The gothic look and slippers, or a french manicure and slippers, or it could be that refreshing japanese look and slippers. Perhaps we could stop being dull and adopt a heightened sense of awareness.


And you wished it could go away like a really bad dream, I supposed. I wished it could all be dismissed, eradicated, and truncated. All the strong notions I’ve had about putting it all behind me is dispelled by waking up to the very thing I’ve been wanting to close a lid on.

I still wake up, remembering you in vivid colours and details.


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