The Narrator

There's something about the buildings, not newly painted nor shiny, even a little torn but there's a lot of grit. Character. Of entrepreneurship, of hard work. Businesses from nowhere, a fruit stall, a food stall. Sometimes there are kids rolling around playing in the sand, kids who have never touched an electronic gaming device, but they seem satisfied and really really happy. The people here living in the moment. I don't know if it's the fact that they don't have things to compare themselves to, while Singapore itself is, dare I say, one of the most modern and advance cities in the world. The contrast is so steep. We're constantly aspiring trying to save for a bigger house, a bigger car, with both eyes set on career progression. These people live from day to day. Then there's the concept of space... Which I think crowds hamper the mind's ability to be at ease and to relax.

So we escaped, the group of us, and found peace in fireworks, dinner, mahjong, literature, and most importantly, each other's company.









































It's dark. It's humid. The air is still, it feels like I can't breathe. My chest is tight. it's dark, not dark enough that I can't see, but dark enough to make it uncomfortable to read. The lights, painful white fluorescent, not harsh, but hurts to look at. The tiny tv is in the corner playing some generic science fiction movie, with men and big muscles, like these two muscle men sitting in a corner, with their ipad out and watching shows. Just that they were dressed in beach wear and the men on tv were dressed for war. I'm sitting beside the aisle, with music playing in my ears, just enough to distract me from the slightly unpleasant rumbling of e motor of the boat. I hope to reach land soon but I've no idea where we are. It's dark outside and the only way I could judge our speed was by the sound of the waves crashing against the ferry's body.

The engine came to a stop. The crashing of waves diminished. We arrive. Finally. Back home.