Self
noh sangeun
I have expressed someone reflecting on their past, present, future selves, each represented by a different colour. These figures reach their hands forward into a space in which all turns white, and this is a representation of the mind, where past, present, and future come together in retrospection, introspection, and prospection.
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Three Women Walk Into A Public Bathroom
er kay lynn
Lights up on a public bathroom. Three sinks against a wall, a long, continuous mirror faces the audience.
Three women walk in, they each stand in front of a sink.
ONE is a young girl. She is wearing a mini skirt and shirt.
TWO is in her mid-20s. She wears a slightly more professional getup than that of ONE.
THREE is in her mid-30s. She wears a blazer and a pencil skirt, a big step-up from the other two.
THREE turns from the mirror
THREE: Three women walk into a public bathroom…
ONE and TWO stare at THREE. ONE looks her up and down before replying.
ONE: Are you talking to me? To us?
THREE: If you like…
TWO: Ok…are you going to finish that sentence?
A beat of awkward silence. Then,
TWO: So…
THREE: Let’s try again.
She finally turns to face them. Sticking her hand out, she says,
THREE: Hello, I’m May.
TWO: Hi, I’m May too.
ONE: So am I…What a…coincidence…
There’s a pregnant pause as they stare at each other in the mirror.
THREE: Your full names?
ALL: May Lim Le Xin.
They stare, wide-eyed into the mirror.
ONE: We…have the same name??
THREE: I wasn’t expecting this when I walked in here.
ONE: But…you were expecting to…start a conversation with a bunch of strangers?
THREE: Yes. I am something of an expert in small talk. (THREE gestures to her outfit.) Anyway, what do you think three people with the same name, are doing in the same bathroom, on the same night?
ONE: I’m just here to watch an Alfian Sa’at satire with my friends, not to spend my night talking to people way older than me…so, I’m going to go now. Enjoy the show.
ONE walks offstage. Then,
ONE: The door’s jammed…
TWO and THREE rush stage left. Sure enough, the door doesn’t budge.
TWO: We’re going to miss the show! And I won’t be able to watch another for at least a year…
THREE: There’s a number here. (She dials it)
ONE slides to the floor dejectedly. Leaning against the sink, she starts texting her friends.
ONE: Well May TWO, May THREE, looks like we’re going to be here for a while.
TWO is pacing from one end of the bathroom to the other.
TWO: This might sound cliché, but this feels like some kind of cosmic joke! The one night I’m supposed to be worry-free, happy, gets ruined! Like everything else in my life I guess. Oh man, I don’t know why I told you that, you’re complete strangers…
THREE: We do share a name…I’d imagine that binds us together in some way…
ONE has been silent for a while. She looks up now, realisation in her eyes. Staring from the faces of TWO to THREE, she says,
ONE: Hey May TWO, what about Broadway?
TWO whips her head round.
TWO: What? How did you…
THREE looks equally shell shocked. TWO and THREE stare at ONE, waiting for her to answer.
ONE: We share the same name, we look similar, we speak the same! May TWO, maybe you’re right, this might be the work of up above…so tell me, what happened to Broadway?
TWO: It didn’t work out.
ONE: But you’re what, 25? I thought I’d be there for at least 10 years before I came trudging home.
TWO: 10 years is a long time to be going hungry. Besides, what’s wrong with coming home?
ONE: Well, you’re not exactly going to be doing Wicked on Channel 5 are you?
TWO looks a little sad as she turns to THREE.
TWO: And you? Why…are you dressed like…that?
THREE: Like what? An adult?
ONE: Yeah, an adult, one stuck in a stuffy 9 to 5, in a stuffy blazer…
TWO: I vowed never to go into corporate so please, explain yourself.
THREE: Again, the rest of your life is a long time to be going hungry…
ONE is quiet again.
TWO: What’s wrong?
ONE stands up. She turns back to the sinks and mirrors. Washing her face, she says,
ONE: I guess…I just didn’t expect to find out that the rest of my life…is…I don’t know…done for?
TWO and THREE listen wordlessly.
ONE: I mean, what happened to the girl who’d be willing to spend her whole life hungry because she’d be satiated just chasing her dreams? What happened to the woman who’d rather be caught dead than working a 9 to 5 job? What happened to me?
THREE: Life happened. Look, reality caught up to me, and I realised, I needed to start thinking about a family, my parents, and really, that was all a pipe dream. I’m sorry, but life doesn’t always work out the way you want it to.
TWO: You back here, I understand, I mean, I’m trying my luck here, but…the corporate life?? Really?
THREE: May TWO, you know this. Theatre doesn’t pay the bills!
A lull. They stew in the silence.
TWO: Are you…happy?
THREE thinks in silence for a while, then she moves back to her mirror.
THREE: Happy enough…But there’ll be time to chase my dreams, later…when I have enough squirrelled away…
TWO: So…your plan is to be miserable…have a mid-life crisis…be happy for a while…then die? Isn’t it better to do what you love now…so you don’t waste the time you have to get it right?
ONE: Well you’re one to talk…you ran from New York at the first sign of trouble…and now you’re back here. I know you’re miserable, I can see it…
TWO: May…again, not everything works out all the time! And there’s nothing wrong with working here! Yes, it’s my back-up plan, but not everybody can afford to do Plan A all the time! I know…I know you don’t think what I’m doing is good for me, but I know, from experience, that there are multiple ways to get somewhere! So maybe, stop wasting your time judging me, and go think of some other options for yourself!
ONE falls silent.
ONE: Ok fine. Fine.
THREE: Look, I know you’re disappointed.
ONE: Yep, no better place to face reality than a public bathroom!
TWO: Sorry.
ONE: It’s fine.
TWO: But back to you, THREE. Leave that job. Please.
THREE: I wish I could. But I’ve backed myself into a corner. I mean, the only way I could get out is if I somehow managed to change my past or something. Besides, TWO, why don’t you give Broadway another go? You’ve got to be a bit braver than this…
TWO clearly thought the battle was over. She sighs,
TWO: Again? Look, maybe…just maybe…I’m scared. Ok? Maybe I don’t want to go back there again, just to come home with my tail tucked between my legs. Also, I’m YOU! Why’re you coming after me? I mean, you made the same choices when you were younger…
THREE: I know that…honestly…Why do you think I’m here, huh? How many corporate women have you seen around here? And by the way, I don’t just happen to start conversations with everyone I meet in bathrooms…so why’d I pick you two? Why’d I be here, questioning your choices, tolerating your scepticism, why?
ONE and TWO are silent for a while.
TWO: Because you want us to change our paths, so you can change yours. Because you’re desperate. You…brought us here?
THREE: And I jammed the door. Sorry about the Alfian Sa’at satire.
ONE: But…the timelines, the time travel…how?
THREE: There aren’t enough words for me to tell you that, but…it was a logistical nightmare.
ONE: So what do you want? You want me to…diversify my options?
TWO: Mm yeah…and you want me to…give Broadway another shot?
THREE: Yes.
TWO stares at THREE.
TWO: Ok, well thanks for the help? But how about you?
THREE: Me? Well, um, I kind of figured your future’s my past? And so…your decisions affect my present?
ONE: But what if they don’t? I mean, in the name of diversifying options…shouldn’t you change your own path too?
THREE: Well yeah…but I don’t know how…
TWO: How about this, we want you to quit your job.
THREE looks up uneasily.
ONE: And join the theatre.
TWO: In the pursuit of happiness.
The door opens, they look in unison towards it.
THREE: And so, three women walk out of a public bathroom, resolute.
END
Three women walk in, they each stand in front of a sink.
ONE is a young girl. She is wearing a mini skirt and shirt.
TWO is in her mid-20s. She wears a slightly more professional getup than that of ONE.
THREE is in her mid-30s. She wears a blazer and a pencil skirt, a big step-up from the other two.
THREE turns from the mirror
THREE: Three women walk into a public bathroom…
ONE and TWO stare at THREE. ONE looks her up and down before replying.
ONE: Are you talking to me? To us?
THREE: If you like…
TWO: Ok…are you going to finish that sentence?
A beat of awkward silence. Then,
TWO: So…
THREE: Let’s try again.
She finally turns to face them. Sticking her hand out, she says,
THREE: Hello, I’m May.
TWO: Hi, I’m May too.
ONE: So am I…What a…coincidence…
There’s a pregnant pause as they stare at each other in the mirror.
THREE: Your full names?
ALL: May Lim Le Xin.
They stare, wide-eyed into the mirror.
ONE: We…have the same name??
THREE: I wasn’t expecting this when I walked in here.
ONE: But…you were expecting to…start a conversation with a bunch of strangers?
THREE: Yes. I am something of an expert in small talk. (THREE gestures to her outfit.) Anyway, what do you think three people with the same name, are doing in the same bathroom, on the same night?
ONE: I’m just here to watch an Alfian Sa’at satire with my friends, not to spend my night talking to people way older than me…so, I’m going to go now. Enjoy the show.
ONE walks offstage. Then,
ONE: The door’s jammed…
TWO and THREE rush stage left. Sure enough, the door doesn’t budge.
TWO: We’re going to miss the show! And I won’t be able to watch another for at least a year…
THREE: There’s a number here. (She dials it)
ONE slides to the floor dejectedly. Leaning against the sink, she starts texting her friends.
ONE: Well May TWO, May THREE, looks like we’re going to be here for a while.
TWO is pacing from one end of the bathroom to the other.
TWO: This might sound cliché, but this feels like some kind of cosmic joke! The one night I’m supposed to be worry-free, happy, gets ruined! Like everything else in my life I guess. Oh man, I don’t know why I told you that, you’re complete strangers…
THREE: We do share a name…I’d imagine that binds us together in some way…
ONE has been silent for a while. She looks up now, realisation in her eyes. Staring from the faces of TWO to THREE, she says,
ONE: Hey May TWO, what about Broadway?
TWO whips her head round.
TWO: What? How did you…
THREE looks equally shell shocked. TWO and THREE stare at ONE, waiting for her to answer.
ONE: We share the same name, we look similar, we speak the same! May TWO, maybe you’re right, this might be the work of up above…so tell me, what happened to Broadway?
TWO: It didn’t work out.
ONE: But you’re what, 25? I thought I’d be there for at least 10 years before I came trudging home.
TWO: 10 years is a long time to be going hungry. Besides, what’s wrong with coming home?
ONE: Well, you’re not exactly going to be doing Wicked on Channel 5 are you?
TWO looks a little sad as she turns to THREE.
TWO: And you? Why…are you dressed like…that?
THREE: Like what? An adult?
ONE: Yeah, an adult, one stuck in a stuffy 9 to 5, in a stuffy blazer…
TWO: I vowed never to go into corporate so please, explain yourself.
THREE: Again, the rest of your life is a long time to be going hungry…
ONE is quiet again.
TWO: What’s wrong?
ONE stands up. She turns back to the sinks and mirrors. Washing her face, she says,
ONE: I guess…I just didn’t expect to find out that the rest of my life…is…I don’t know…done for?
TWO and THREE listen wordlessly.
ONE: I mean, what happened to the girl who’d be willing to spend her whole life hungry because she’d be satiated just chasing her dreams? What happened to the woman who’d rather be caught dead than working a 9 to 5 job? What happened to me?
THREE: Life happened. Look, reality caught up to me, and I realised, I needed to start thinking about a family, my parents, and really, that was all a pipe dream. I’m sorry, but life doesn’t always work out the way you want it to.
TWO: You back here, I understand, I mean, I’m trying my luck here, but…the corporate life?? Really?
THREE: May TWO, you know this. Theatre doesn’t pay the bills!
A lull. They stew in the silence.
TWO: Are you…happy?
THREE thinks in silence for a while, then she moves back to her mirror.
THREE: Happy enough…But there’ll be time to chase my dreams, later…when I have enough squirrelled away…
TWO: So…your plan is to be miserable…have a mid-life crisis…be happy for a while…then die? Isn’t it better to do what you love now…so you don’t waste the time you have to get it right?
ONE: Well you’re one to talk…you ran from New York at the first sign of trouble…and now you’re back here. I know you’re miserable, I can see it…
TWO: May…again, not everything works out all the time! And there’s nothing wrong with working here! Yes, it’s my back-up plan, but not everybody can afford to do Plan A all the time! I know…I know you don’t think what I’m doing is good for me, but I know, from experience, that there are multiple ways to get somewhere! So maybe, stop wasting your time judging me, and go think of some other options for yourself!
ONE falls silent.
ONE: Ok fine. Fine.
THREE: Look, I know you’re disappointed.
ONE: Yep, no better place to face reality than a public bathroom!
TWO: Sorry.
ONE: It’s fine.
TWO: But back to you, THREE. Leave that job. Please.
THREE: I wish I could. But I’ve backed myself into a corner. I mean, the only way I could get out is if I somehow managed to change my past or something. Besides, TWO, why don’t you give Broadway another go? You’ve got to be a bit braver than this…
TWO clearly thought the battle was over. She sighs,
TWO: Again? Look, maybe…just maybe…I’m scared. Ok? Maybe I don’t want to go back there again, just to come home with my tail tucked between my legs. Also, I’m YOU! Why’re you coming after me? I mean, you made the same choices when you were younger…
THREE: I know that…honestly…Why do you think I’m here, huh? How many corporate women have you seen around here? And by the way, I don’t just happen to start conversations with everyone I meet in bathrooms…so why’d I pick you two? Why’d I be here, questioning your choices, tolerating your scepticism, why?
ONE and TWO are silent for a while.
TWO: Because you want us to change our paths, so you can change yours. Because you’re desperate. You…brought us here?
THREE: And I jammed the door. Sorry about the Alfian Sa’at satire.
ONE: But…the timelines, the time travel…how?
THREE: There aren’t enough words for me to tell you that, but…it was a logistical nightmare.
ONE: So what do you want? You want me to…diversify my options?
TWO: Mm yeah…and you want me to…give Broadway another shot?
THREE: Yes.
TWO stares at THREE.
TWO: Ok, well thanks for the help? But how about you?
THREE: Me? Well, um, I kind of figured your future’s my past? And so…your decisions affect my present?
ONE: But what if they don’t? I mean, in the name of diversifying options…shouldn’t you change your own path too?
THREE: Well yeah…but I don’t know how…
TWO: How about this, we want you to quit your job.
THREE looks up uneasily.
ONE: And join the theatre.
TWO: In the pursuit of happiness.
The door opens, they look in unison towards it.
THREE: And so, three women walk out of a public bathroom, resolute.
END
the abscission
shreya Singh
never once was it mused in the past
something irrevocable, incomprehensible would leave her in a trance
gorgeous tints, dancing leaves, typical of her
naturally vivacious distinct hues soon became a blur
it’s just happenstance this was the time of blooming
but even enchanting fragrances tend to become cloying
an unchanging emptiness fills her soul
mind is befogged, an enigma of some sort
a gaze sustains in this magnificent expanse of
wildflowers and leaves
she wilts softly as her petals crackle in a frigid breeze
she sits forgotten, delicate, limping, browning
none of it’s ephemeral, forlorn feelings are lasting
blushes that once adorned now feel a vulnerability
worthless hues remain paling
amidst the finality
curling petals, stiff leaves
if only she could hide
stifling on the exterior made
things happen inside
molten shafts of despair engulf
what was once perfect
and yet, this unprecedented
paleness manifests itself as solace
tints are still tints no
matter what their balance
supple fresh to curled red
soft delicate becomes rough black
who’d defined what
she could be
perfection was merely
a monotonous wheel
and so she danced
with the gale
what was now had
once been
a tale
a moment
Shannen lim
A bubble. A bubble encapsulates a timeframe, a single second in history, capturing what happens and reflecting it back. It holds a moment. In a time of uncertainty and loneliness, all we can hope for is a moment. The bubble, with its luminscence glow, reflects what we are going through with light and colour. It gives us a moment, coloured and filled with love. It gives us the prospect of a better time, of the moment, as we social distance and wear masks. The moment where the light in the bubble will be the light in our eyes.
stairway to heaven
audrey lee
Warm streaks of light creep through the tall glass panels of the terminal, the government’s latest project. This one has no lush butterfly gardens for those waiting to board planes or smiling flight attendants donning tasteful sarong kebayas. Instead, in the centre of the dome stands a towering flight of stairs, a cool glistening structure of white polished marble stretching and climbing into the clouds.
Pressed against the doors of the terminal, Chan stands amongst a sea of workers, all waiting for it to open. He’s dressed in his best outfit: a pair of used jeans and a dress shirt reserved for important occasions. It’s a nice change from the usual neon green vest and telltale yellow safety helmet. He feels fancier already, carrying himself with a newfound confidence and purpose. It’s his first taste of what life on The Top might be like, leaving his blood rushing and skin itching with a desperate craving for more.
Chan fixes his gaze heavenwards, a determined glint in his eyes. He inhales shakily, tugging anxiously at his collar in an adrenaline induced haze. This is it, the most important day of his life. His one shot of making it to The Top.
The government had heard it’s people’s cries, those lamenting the hardships of life on The Bottom.
Rent is too high, subsidies not enough!
I can’t afford to fall sick, my finances are too tight!
Typical Singaporeans, always complaining. But what is the government, if not benevolent and caring? So they had had this terminal built, a bridge between The Top and The Bottom, the final centrepiece to make Singapore the perfect metropolis, with opportunities equal for all. Chan knows he is lucky to be Singaporean. Even if his life is hard, it could have been much much worse.
The sound of locks opening. Chan is steered towards the stairs, a leaf caught in a riptide. Then begins the endless climb. Elbows start to fly and curses are spat as the workers bump and shove one another, clamouring to reach the front of the pack. It’s every man for themself, an unspoken competition to make it up first. He supposes that the locals’ love of queuing only extends so far.
Step after step after step.
Ignore the sweat pooling in his shirt.
Chan recalls the hours spent fantasizing about life on The Top: walks down some obscure road called ‘Shenton Way’ rumoured to be paved in gold; taking in the sights of beautiful glass towers, manifestations of unimaginable sophistication; the sweet saccharine smell of fresh orchids said to linger in the air. He wonders if this is it, if he’ll finally get to experience that.
Step after step after step.
Ignore the growing ache in his feet. Don’t think about how long it’s been.
Down at The Bottom, in a two-room rental HDB, his wife and son anxiously await news of his success. He can envision her perched at their small rickety dining table, absentmindedly chewing on a pen while desperately calculating ways to stretch his latest paycheck to the cent. He has to make it, needs to.
Step after step after step.
Ignore the tremble of his calves. Have things always looked this blurry?
There’s something in the sky ahead, a moving blob of colour. Birds? No, people! Faces peer down at the workers, inhabitants of The Top forming a strange chorus of angels welcoming them into the fold. Chan eyes the crowd in amazement.
He spies an atas family dressed to the nines, clothing sure to cost double his yearly income. Fresh faced with glowing smiles, the perfect happy family. He can’t help picturing himself in their place, exuding wealth and elegance. Can that truly be his reality? Working in a fancy air-conditioned office, sending his son to the best tuition centres - the sheer absurdity of it is intoxicating and Chan finds himself giddy with excitement.
Surely some of those waiting had once been where he is now, pushing through the pain of exhausted muscles for the prospect of a better life. He imagines that their smiles are warm and encouraging, whispering “Come on, you’re almost here! You can be a part of this too!”.
Up there, it won’t matter that Chan hadn’t been smarter in his youth, hadn’t worked hard enough. It won’t matter that his family had started off at The Bottom, another thing he was to be blamed for. Once he crosses that threshold, none of that will define him. Chan will finally be just like them, a proper, respectable Singaporean!
Step after step after-
Chan’s knees buckle, then he’s on the ground. A searing pain is burning through his body, hot and unrelenting. No, he’s so close! His breath comes out in short pants, hands clawing for the next step agonizingly slow.
He thinks of the government, a steady voice promising “Work hard, you can go anywhere you want! Everybody here is equal!” He wants to scream that he’s doing his best. Is that not enough? If he can’t make it to The Top, does that make him undeserving? Chan isn’t sure he can handle another tally in his growing list of inadequacies.
Helplessly, he turns towards the angels in the sky. His chapped lips move in a silent plea, a breathless prayer for a miracle. Their faces come into focus, features morphing to reveal razor sharp smiles and eyes full of mirth.
Why are they laughing?
Can’t they see his pain?
Why won’t they help him?
A numbing cold sinks in, enshrouding Chan in a heavy silence. Were they ever smiling with him or had they always been laughing at him? The foolish little man, hopelessly clinging to a pathetic fantasy. Lying there in his sweat soaked shirt, he feels too big yet too small; a naive child playing dress up; an ugly stain to be gawked at on the otherwise perfect stairwell. He wonders why he ever thought he could make it, why he believed he was good enough to ever belong.
Pressed against the doors of the terminal, Chan stands amongst a sea of workers, all waiting for it to open. He’s dressed in his best outfit: a pair of used jeans and a dress shirt reserved for important occasions. It’s a nice change from the usual neon green vest and telltale yellow safety helmet. He feels fancier already, carrying himself with a newfound confidence and purpose. It’s his first taste of what life on The Top might be like, leaving his blood rushing and skin itching with a desperate craving for more.
Chan fixes his gaze heavenwards, a determined glint in his eyes. He inhales shakily, tugging anxiously at his collar in an adrenaline induced haze. This is it, the most important day of his life. His one shot of making it to The Top.
The government had heard it’s people’s cries, those lamenting the hardships of life on The Bottom.
Rent is too high, subsidies not enough!
I can’t afford to fall sick, my finances are too tight!
Typical Singaporeans, always complaining. But what is the government, if not benevolent and caring? So they had had this terminal built, a bridge between The Top and The Bottom, the final centrepiece to make Singapore the perfect metropolis, with opportunities equal for all. Chan knows he is lucky to be Singaporean. Even if his life is hard, it could have been much much worse.
The sound of locks opening. Chan is steered towards the stairs, a leaf caught in a riptide. Then begins the endless climb. Elbows start to fly and curses are spat as the workers bump and shove one another, clamouring to reach the front of the pack. It’s every man for themself, an unspoken competition to make it up first. He supposes that the locals’ love of queuing only extends so far.
Step after step after step.
Ignore the sweat pooling in his shirt.
Chan recalls the hours spent fantasizing about life on The Top: walks down some obscure road called ‘Shenton Way’ rumoured to be paved in gold; taking in the sights of beautiful glass towers, manifestations of unimaginable sophistication; the sweet saccharine smell of fresh orchids said to linger in the air. He wonders if this is it, if he’ll finally get to experience that.
Step after step after step.
Ignore the growing ache in his feet. Don’t think about how long it’s been.
Down at The Bottom, in a two-room rental HDB, his wife and son anxiously await news of his success. He can envision her perched at their small rickety dining table, absentmindedly chewing on a pen while desperately calculating ways to stretch his latest paycheck to the cent. He has to make it, needs to.
Step after step after step.
Ignore the tremble of his calves. Have things always looked this blurry?
There’s something in the sky ahead, a moving blob of colour. Birds? No, people! Faces peer down at the workers, inhabitants of The Top forming a strange chorus of angels welcoming them into the fold. Chan eyes the crowd in amazement.
He spies an atas family dressed to the nines, clothing sure to cost double his yearly income. Fresh faced with glowing smiles, the perfect happy family. He can’t help picturing himself in their place, exuding wealth and elegance. Can that truly be his reality? Working in a fancy air-conditioned office, sending his son to the best tuition centres - the sheer absurdity of it is intoxicating and Chan finds himself giddy with excitement.
Surely some of those waiting had once been where he is now, pushing through the pain of exhausted muscles for the prospect of a better life. He imagines that their smiles are warm and encouraging, whispering “Come on, you’re almost here! You can be a part of this too!”.
Up there, it won’t matter that Chan hadn’t been smarter in his youth, hadn’t worked hard enough. It won’t matter that his family had started off at The Bottom, another thing he was to be blamed for. Once he crosses that threshold, none of that will define him. Chan will finally be just like them, a proper, respectable Singaporean!
Step after step after-
Chan’s knees buckle, then he’s on the ground. A searing pain is burning through his body, hot and unrelenting. No, he’s so close! His breath comes out in short pants, hands clawing for the next step agonizingly slow.
He thinks of the government, a steady voice promising “Work hard, you can go anywhere you want! Everybody here is equal!” He wants to scream that he’s doing his best. Is that not enough? If he can’t make it to The Top, does that make him undeserving? Chan isn’t sure he can handle another tally in his growing list of inadequacies.
Helplessly, he turns towards the angels in the sky. His chapped lips move in a silent plea, a breathless prayer for a miracle. Their faces come into focus, features morphing to reveal razor sharp smiles and eyes full of mirth.
Why are they laughing?
Can’t they see his pain?
Why won’t they help him?
A numbing cold sinks in, enshrouding Chan in a heavy silence. Were they ever smiling with him or had they always been laughing at him? The foolish little man, hopelessly clinging to a pathetic fantasy. Lying there in his sweat soaked shirt, he feels too big yet too small; a naive child playing dress up; an ugly stain to be gawked at on the otherwise perfect stairwell. He wonders why he ever thought he could make it, why he believed he was good enough to ever belong.
possibilities
CHLOE FONG JIN TONG
Due to covid-19, our lifestyles have completely transformed. During these uncertain times, we may feel lost and life gets blurry. This is represented in my picture as it conveys a feeling of haziness and describes the feeling of unpredictability when we face many difficulties and obstacles. Yet, this picture also represents my hope for the future, as when adjusting the focus in life we can see a clearer picture. It also represents my anticipation for future possibilities.
all of it
Abigail Oon
Everything- all of it-
from the twin moons that encircle mars, deimos and phobos,
to the chirps of crickets auguring the dawn-
every word and action detailed in our history textbooks,
all fragmented remnants of power gone wrong-
all powerful and beautiful minds in complex symmetry
Whose lives weave and intercept each other like lines on a many-splendoured diagram-
Constantly entangling, crossing, charting new concepts,
as easily as ink flows on paper,
as quickly as blood from a cut artery…
Observe once more outside, the fluorescent lights,
Slicing through the hot darkness;
every watercolour painting on the sky’s canvas that
radiates every new morning-
every tear shed over lost marks
and every cynical eye watching the mourners-
every footstep left and immediately washed
away on sand by tide, centuries ago, by our founders-
every hand ever held, and every laugh ever heard,
every sound wave that compressed and arranged
itself to form speech and song-
every verse of sappho’s poems, complete and incomplete
every ray of brilliance seeping through muddy ignorance-
every volcano that has ever erupted and every particle of ash that has drifted
across the globe. Every stranger I see next to me, in my class - or on the train
(what is the difference?) - every glint of every pair of glasses that arises as light streaks past their faces.
Every now and then I am struck by all this. All this beauty. Ultimately there is no sentimentality in our finite serenade to the cosmos, yes,
and one day I will die, you will die, and we will all be returned to shoreless seeds and stardust,
but this notion seems to ache in me less every night
when I see the very same moon that had loved Shakespeare and Keats,
and I love her all the more as she overturns ocean tides and ripples the fabric of our tiny blue dot.
Everything- all of it- matters so much more.
Future
Marisa Binte Raizal
We rarely look behind and realise how our past mistakes and experiences helped us to grow beautifully like the trees. We tend to forget our roots. Our future has no limits and we have the power to shape it. The future is amazing and yet to be discovered. We just need to look up to the trees and remember who we truly want to be, and make sure that we don't forget where we came from.
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interlude
toh xue qi
The sky is still dark outside the MRT station. The cityscape just begins to stir to life, the lights in the underpass flickering and bathing the vivid, muralled walls in a fluorescent white. Weary commuters, sparse and silent, filter through the wide tunnel as a woman shuffles towards a spot against the wall.
There, she sets down a few belongings: a foldable stool, a black stand and a thin wooden case. Breathing evenly, she takes her time, laying sheets of paper on the stand and adjusting the position of the stool. Finally, with a grunt, she sits down and draws from the case a bamboo flute.
She wipes it gently, rubbing the cloth along its smooth surface. Her flute is the Xiao, an elegant Chinese wind instrument that has accompanied her across land and sea, through many years of quiet nights after toiling days at the field. Once, she would have gotten the instrument out and ready in seconds. Now, with hands are creased by time, she lifts the flute stiffly to her lips- but with a practised grace.
The notes resound in the tunnel, turning some heads among the steadily increasing flow of people. She is playing an old folk tune, of which the melody brings back soothing memories. When she presses her fingers languidly over the holes, she breathes reminiscence into the music.
Most do not recognise this song, and they saunter on briskly with a passing glance. It matters little, for this first is meant for her alone. For these few minutes, she is back in her home village, harmonising with the rustle of coconut trees, and performing her Xiao for the stars to witness.
So she plays.
By the time the last few notes ring to a close, the morning rush has commenced. She sifts through her sheets as she rests. Crinkled eyes sweep over the familiar titles, then settle on one. Like most of the other songs she has in her repertoire, this is a well-known modern pop song.
The pop songs she chooses are slow, so they go sufficiently well with the traditional instrument. This one draws more attention when she plays, and soon jangling coins begin dropping into her wooden case.
Some older people despise music produced by the younger generations, saying it is “too fast”, “too repetitive”, “too loud” and the like. They lament, with a sigh, about the dwindling of true talent in the music industry and how music will never be as good as it used to be.
However, when she spies smiles among the crowd, or when some begin to walk with a spring in their step, she feels a warmth spreading through her heart, and her fingers dance on the flute. She may not share the same taste in music as the youth, but she knows how a song she likes makes her feel, and she wants to share that emotion with others. To her, at least, the purpose of music is not its measurable quality, but how much the audience enjoys it.
So- backdropped by the amateurish murals painted by children, which overflow not with skill, but with startlingly bold passion- she plays.
Midday arrives. Four hours have passed since her arrival in the morning, and her fingers are growing sore. She pauses to catch her breath after a song more off-rhythm than the last. Pursing her lips, now even drier than usual, she decides that her time is up.
She gathers up her things: the sheets, the stand, the foldable stool. The wooden case is heaped with mostly coins and some notes scattered here and there. Smiling softly, she scoops the tokens of appreciation into her wallet, cleans her Xiao, then slides it back into the empty case. As she strolls, baggage in hand, toward the end of the tunnel, she hears an acoustic strum reverberate in the corridor.
She glimpses, further down, a young man with a guitar. The chords are infectious and his voice, clear and confident, bounces off the walls. Around him are gaudy set props: top hats, flowers and a hulking backpack plastered with colourful country badges.
He looks like he’s having the time of his life. She smiles, then the escalator she’s on ascends and blocks him from view.
The escalator brings her out of the tunnel. The afternoon sun burns a fierce gold, compared to the mellow light of morning. The sun’s energy fills her, revitalises her, and calms her. Her path has been a long and harsh one, twisted by decisions and crafted by fate. It is a path whose inevitable end is on the horizon, but when she remembers the numerous other paths hers has crossed, and sees the new ones that have sprung, she is not afraid.
The sky is brilliant above her, and she believes- oh she believes- that the future is just as bright as this.
For her song is just another movement, in the never-ending symphony of life.
There, she sets down a few belongings: a foldable stool, a black stand and a thin wooden case. Breathing evenly, she takes her time, laying sheets of paper on the stand and adjusting the position of the stool. Finally, with a grunt, she sits down and draws from the case a bamboo flute.
She wipes it gently, rubbing the cloth along its smooth surface. Her flute is the Xiao, an elegant Chinese wind instrument that has accompanied her across land and sea, through many years of quiet nights after toiling days at the field. Once, she would have gotten the instrument out and ready in seconds. Now, with hands are creased by time, she lifts the flute stiffly to her lips- but with a practised grace.
The notes resound in the tunnel, turning some heads among the steadily increasing flow of people. She is playing an old folk tune, of which the melody brings back soothing memories. When she presses her fingers languidly over the holes, she breathes reminiscence into the music.
Most do not recognise this song, and they saunter on briskly with a passing glance. It matters little, for this first is meant for her alone. For these few minutes, she is back in her home village, harmonising with the rustle of coconut trees, and performing her Xiao for the stars to witness.
So she plays.
By the time the last few notes ring to a close, the morning rush has commenced. She sifts through her sheets as she rests. Crinkled eyes sweep over the familiar titles, then settle on one. Like most of the other songs she has in her repertoire, this is a well-known modern pop song.
The pop songs she chooses are slow, so they go sufficiently well with the traditional instrument. This one draws more attention when she plays, and soon jangling coins begin dropping into her wooden case.
Some older people despise music produced by the younger generations, saying it is “too fast”, “too repetitive”, “too loud” and the like. They lament, with a sigh, about the dwindling of true talent in the music industry and how music will never be as good as it used to be.
However, when she spies smiles among the crowd, or when some begin to walk with a spring in their step, she feels a warmth spreading through her heart, and her fingers dance on the flute. She may not share the same taste in music as the youth, but she knows how a song she likes makes her feel, and she wants to share that emotion with others. To her, at least, the purpose of music is not its measurable quality, but how much the audience enjoys it.
So- backdropped by the amateurish murals painted by children, which overflow not with skill, but with startlingly bold passion- she plays.
Midday arrives. Four hours have passed since her arrival in the morning, and her fingers are growing sore. She pauses to catch her breath after a song more off-rhythm than the last. Pursing her lips, now even drier than usual, she decides that her time is up.
She gathers up her things: the sheets, the stand, the foldable stool. The wooden case is heaped with mostly coins and some notes scattered here and there. Smiling softly, she scoops the tokens of appreciation into her wallet, cleans her Xiao, then slides it back into the empty case. As she strolls, baggage in hand, toward the end of the tunnel, she hears an acoustic strum reverberate in the corridor.
She glimpses, further down, a young man with a guitar. The chords are infectious and his voice, clear and confident, bounces off the walls. Around him are gaudy set props: top hats, flowers and a hulking backpack plastered with colourful country badges.
He looks like he’s having the time of his life. She smiles, then the escalator she’s on ascends and blocks him from view.
The escalator brings her out of the tunnel. The afternoon sun burns a fierce gold, compared to the mellow light of morning. The sun’s energy fills her, revitalises her, and calms her. Her path has been a long and harsh one, twisted by decisions and crafted by fate. It is a path whose inevitable end is on the horizon, but when she remembers the numerous other paths hers has crossed, and sees the new ones that have sprung, she is not afraid.
The sky is brilliant above her, and she believes- oh she believes- that the future is just as bright as this.
For her song is just another movement, in the never-ending symphony of life.
Hope
archita ravisankar, farhanah
During this Covid-19 period, we’ve faced many challenges such as adapting to a whole new lifestyle, but we still need to be hopeful for our future. In the second photo, the background is blurred, just like how the COVID-19 situation may seem chaotic or like a blur to us. However, the clear, sharp yellow flower in the middle represents hope. We should all focus on the positives of these trying times so we can emerge stronger as a nation. The sunflower in the first picture also shows hope for the future to get better as sunflowers usually face the sun. Similarly, we should look on the bright side of things and remain hopeful for the future. Both of these represent “prospect”. The third photo of a sunset represents “introspect” as sunsets indicate the end of the day, a good time to reflect on ourselves and evaluate our actions and emotions so that we can become better people.
Blind Sight
Eashaa Pillai
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
hope.
hope is something humankind has clung to for as long as time can tell. from the fervent beliefs of drought-wrecked farmers that rain will come to kiss their lands, to the impassioned faith of poverty-stricken peoples that gold will fall from their skies, hope is a line interwrought in the play of every human’s stage. for centuries, it has been the light in blind darkness, the shivering fire under white waters, the piercing lullaby in harrowing silence. some could go as far as to say that it is the basis of human survival. it is manna in the way of the starved, and ambrosia in the way of the parched. the proverb goes that “faith can move mountains”, but no, it’s not pure faith that moves mountains. blind devotion without reason or belief in its truth will always be futile. it is hope, that what we want to claim can be claimed, and shall be claimed with a triumphant cry of victory. it is hope that shows us mountains can be moved, before we even attempt to lay a finger on them. we may not speak the languages of the world, but we all understand the amber glint in stormy eyes. hope is a universal tongue; one that conveys conviction, trust, and the very essence of the human spirit - and it sings, croons a song more mellifluous than anyone has dreamed of hearing.
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
this storm has indeed come close to wrecking it all. every day, we hear tragic tales: people stampeding, stealing, abusing, abandoning, disregarding, discriminating. people turning against their own will and turning against their own kind. life is unpredictable, and at worst, unbearable. many have morphed into heartless monsters, ready and willing to resort to unthinkables if it means an extended promise of making it out alive. humanity has - for the most part - been lost; stranded in a wood with no way out, and with no paths to choose from. but we forget. we cover our ears. in the dark fog hanging heavy over the midnight wood, we deafen ourselves with hopeless hysterics. we forget to hear the soft song in the moonlight beyond the smoke. because even when all is lost, hope never is. although we may not have heard its dulcet trill, it has always been there - not dead, just dormant. we must remember this now more than ever, in this volatile time where disillusionment has become our new reality, and dashed hopes our new sanity. the little bird of hope sits just a little farther beyond the blackened horizon, and it still sings. in the midst of all this chaos, the bird flutters alive and free in the hearts of some. we hear of people sacrificing their comfort to keep others safe, people separating themselves from all they love to keep others protected, people valiantly taking charge at the battlefield to keep others alive. they are not gods or immortals, no. they are but humans, infected with the contagious spark to help the world survive. for hope stirs inside a kind of passionate turmoil that must only be fleshed out to its fullest, never to be ignored.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
we have hoped, and prayed, and cried, and lived through the worst of things. wars, epidemics, riots, plagues: the world has been through all this before. we have seen worse. we have ploughed through mortal fires, and we have made it out alive - together. this situation is no different. we do not need to put our lives on the line or submit ourselves to martyrdom. playing our part in this crisis is not something that requires us to bend backwards. all we need to do is have a little hope. plant a little seed in our hearts, a childlike, starry-eyed belief that this will one day get better. that our world will fight through this, and that we will push through till the end. we have inside us the full capability to take every curveball with grace and determination, and emerge from this war a people more loving, understanding, and grateful. if this pandemic is what it took to reform us, so be it. let us at least swear to never let fade the things that this harsh teacher has taught us. all is never lost, as long as we nurture the little bird inside the blue-green of our veins and constantly feed it ballads of promise. the bird will not fail us. all we need to do is believe, and keep our ears peeled.
the bird yet sings.
featured poem: “Hope” is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson