Musings

To Where Does This Road Lead?

It’s a question that I’ve been asking myself a lot lately. Perhaps because I’d be 30 in a couple of months. That in itself is not a scary thing — age probably doesn’t scare me as much as it does most people, and certainly not the more cosmetic aspects of it… the not-as-supple-as-before skin, the low metabolism, the other saggy bits. But it does bother me that at almost 30, I still don’t know what I want to do with my life. And the problem is I don’t know if I really want to know. Perhaps it doesn’t matter afterall, to have a concrete goal, to have a job, to “know” what it is one is supposed to make of one’s life. Who says you need to be anything, anyway?

The thing is, I know I should really be telling myself “fuck it”, but there’s just this nagging feeling picking at my mind, saying that “you have to know”, “you have to know your worth”, “don’t waste your potential”. I tell others I’m a writer, but I hardly write because I’m too afraid to write a crappy piece of work or something that somehow adds rubbish to a world full of rubbish. As a person, I’m an absurd figure of contradictions. I’m a writer who doesn’t write. I’m a student who hates studying. I’m a wife who’s not much of a wife. What the hell am I doing here?

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Places, Singapore

Get These Thoughts Out of Me!

I literally have too many things trapped in my mind that they often seep out of my gatekeeping mouth. I figure, if I don’t let all these often-imploding thoughts out somewhere, I might end up like one of those losers I see so often — especially in socially, sexually, mentally (the list goes on… it’s a wonder not more people implode) repressed Singaporeans — so hypersensitive to a stranger’s touch, so unhappy, so stoned and yet so scared to say anything that will do some justice in the world. So, here I am… hoping to see to fruition at least one thing in my life.

The truth is, I’m just so angry with my life in Singapore — I’m angry that people are so complacent, I’m angry that the government treats people like they are 10-year-olds, I’m angry that when I’m at the door of the MRT waiting to get out, a storm of people barges in without any regard for the people who want to get out. I figured that rather than complain about it in some stupid, useless forum page in the local newspapers, or worse, suffer in silence and walk around like I have a rough-skin, bark-type stick up my arsehole (not pleasurable as it would to some of you who like a smooth cock or dildo up your forbidden, illegal, can-get-you-straight-to-jail sexual-cum-excretory exit). Nope, I’d rather die than lump myself with the 30 or so losers who regularly write in to newspapers complaining about their neighbours, about public transport, immigrants or God-forbid, property prices or the fact that their lives are so fucking empty that they have nothing to do but to complain about the petty, ridiculously absurd things about life. As if life in Singapore is not made convenient enough that you don’t even need to think for yourself.

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