They always leave without saying goodbye

When opened white-chamomile ventriloquist envelopes go: “We REGRET to inform you…”, do they really mean it? Do they pain, agonize, visit their therapists, and truly contemplate the ongoing agendas of informing you, yes you, the most terrible recipient of information, about something as mundane as a failed collage application, a bounced check, or a seating change? They do not. They lie. They say things which are untrue, because perhaps, it is all a matter of diplomacy.

It kills me, this ceaseless abuse of words.

Regret, lords and ladies, is the most terrible affliction any human being can cause unto himself. We may mourn in melancholy, we may be engulfed in remorse, we may even be sorry. But regret. That’s a different story isn’t it? We regret the things we wished we had done before. We regret our dreams unfulfilled, our hopes diminished, our past ebbing and flowing into the distance of hues and grays. And in our vivid imaginations, regret, woe regret, manifests as a multitude of the things unsaid, undone, incomplete, and forever unchanging. It is the missing puzzle piece you can never find at the bottom of the box, that chance of a lifetime that whizzes past in a millisecond, that jack-o-pot of things that could have been different. Regret me not – our monotone voice of reason reminds us at every opportunity, every step, every fork in the road we take,

we pause,

we leap.

Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we fly. And behind us, regret lies, waiting in the darkness, for a sudden failing of weakness, for a single moment of hesitation, of contemplation, and then. It comes. Fleeting, jabs to your spine, splinters to your toes, swords to your stomach, poison to your guts, it comes. Regret informs you, and burdens your heart. It thickens the smog of doubt, and some people (for indeed there are many), they may never escape its shadows, their spirits broken, their hopes dashed, their dreams crushed to smithereens. And then, silence.

Fuck.

It is a hard thing to do. Perhaps the hardest. To never allow regret into your house of houses. Regret has a million knock-knock jokes to tell, and wallows in solitude, and in company. But ladies and lords, it is a thing we all must try – we must, never give in. We are human, and we are very much alive. We are breathing, and we are living. And as long as that stands true, then perhaps, we have a chance of fighting regret, for it is a most formidable foe.

Hope.

Dream.

And then,

leap.

Again. And again.

And once you’ve a hang of it, once you figure out that you’re faster than regret, than perhaps, he’ll go away for awhile, and maybe, just maybe, he won’t come a-knocking any more…

The thirsty space travelers drop by for a cup of coffee and complain loudly about the weather

The first thing that hits me, when I open my eyes, is the noise. The noise encapsulates you. It forms a tardy little bubble that engulfs you into that familiar cocoon of coffee shop chatter, construction work contrivances, and the distant critter-clattering of Singaporeans clamoring on their daily cylindrical courses from here, to there. From there to here, the noise, hits me.

Hard.

Ouch.

I’m home, and I know it.

Singapore is a disastrously noisy place. You’d never know it, until you spend 3 months in a place which runs on fuel efficient electric trams, where people prefer walking and bicycling as opposed to sitting on cars and buses, and where cute itsy bitsy squirrels pop up from nowhere and do a sing and dance routine just for you, and you alone. Ignore that last point. The thing is: you’d never know.

Moving back to my room was one of those out-of-body experiences that you wish could happen to someone else. Intellectual demanding questions like “Where the heck is this?” or “What happened to all the old furniture?” are hinted at you when you first enter a place that’s been out-of-your-mind for so bloody long.

It’s been an adventure assuming my Singaporean social identity this past week. I’ve realized how ridiculous Singlish sounds to non-natives, how seriously unhealthy carrot cakes are, and how much weight I’ve managed to lose in Seattle. I had a mobilization notification when I landed, and found out Ananda Rajah, whose class I was about to take this semester, had passed on in the midst of someone’s honest thesis consultation. What a shocker that was.

And now here I am, typing out in credible language what seems mildly incomprehensible to my already tired mushy pulped brain: I’m home. It’s an outlandish proclamation of the brave and lonely, but I whisper it, again. Just to make sure. I’m here. I’m home. And I know it.