Springbonjo

“Whatever happened to that ice cream seller? He was always here, rain or shine. I would walk past him, and sneak a curious glance, because my mother told me it’s rude to stare. I would study the character of the lines on his face, assume he is poor and lonely, and conjure romantic sad stories of him sleeping in a bench under the open sky. He would shiver on cold windy nights, lose sleep on rainy nights by taking cover at an uncomfortable shade of a tree by squatting, and suffer the mockery of infantile ruthless pranksters disturbing his sleep.

“He is skinny, because he earns barely enough to scrape by. He tries to keep himself clean to improve his keep, but being homeless doesn’t allow a nice hot shower everyday. He takes a bath, only, if the cleaner, a middle aged lady who occasionally works fortnightly make allowances just for him. The other toilet cleaner, an Indian only shoos him away. They speak different mother tongues, and the language barrier mutes his needs.

“He would swallow his saliva as haughty young people stroll past with aromatic food, ranging from fast food to hidden secretive food in packages that seemed to arouse his taste buds by their tantalising smell that overpowers him for the brief moment they fleet past. How lucky were they! Dressed in brand new threads, bags that were not worn beyond repair, and shoes that covered their feet. He had a simple meal of rice with vegetables if business was average, and tap water. Nothing but a growling stomach, on bad days. His bags were biscuit tins salvaged from sidewalks, his slippers were mended so many times the cobbler refused to touch on it anymore, saying they were way beyond repair. He scotched taped them well, it still was on his feet, although the tape were uncomfortable and sticky on hot days.

“Whatever happened to that man on the corner of the street?” Mused the students, as they strewn their half eaten food on the floor and walked away.

A pair of hands reached out from the bushes, desperately grabbing the food in one swoop. The ice cream man smiled. He knew he need not sell ice cream anymore.

A great annoucement befell the City of Deniers as the people of Deniers gathered at the town square. The King of all Denial was to make the ultimate new Life Changing plan. The Deniers were nervous, wasn’t their life so perfect? I mean, to deny all shit and to pretend for every single fucking little thing as they please, as they wish! You can imagine the sculpted life each man could live. To make others a scapegoat and pull wool over their eyes, cover them in lies and let them drown in their ignorance.

The King wept and broke down suddenly at the raised stage he was standing above them all, the Deniers loved and loathed tears. It was crocodiles’ tears! How convincing! Each Denier mentally took note of the precise and exact measurement of emotion the King displayed. Then as it went on, far too long, far too deep, each Denier shifted uneasily. It couldn’t be real… their life was suited for a lifetime of denying. Never to accept the truth.

With not words, but bodies of the royal family carried out as the King gestured to his subjects when the murmurs of the crowd grew louder as to why the reason for his wailings, each body horribly blackened, decomposing with disease as the crowd gasped in horror of sickening realisation.

The King killed for pleasure, and as the shock overwhelmed, all Deniers fell to the ground, simultaneously. It wasn’t the sight that took their last, it was a cold calculated plan.

With the mass of bodies displayed at his feet, the King stood above all once more. He was the lone figure, the survivor.

The King of all Denial, he smiled, and basked in his glory alone.

In a drunken rage, he crushed the can with an odd satisfaction and hurled it against the door. Adding on was the fact it bounced off his target, way off. It didn’t feel good, because much of the force had been converted to the kinetics of the can, and what he saw of the impact was a weak thud as the can hit the door and fell to the ground, rolling away feebly.

It was his first, alcohol as it began. He remembered things were simple- he thought the smile meant he was something special. Oh the foolishness of perceptions which reveal a blinding harsh truth. The smile was a mere twitch of muscle by that party, he happened to be in sight. It wasn’t specially for him, it was him who wanted it to be for him.

Shaking off the blurring feeling, forcing the flat taste down. It was bitter, biting bitter that made all senses scream for something sweet. He swallowed it down, thinking

If I can take the bitterness, maybe it would relieve my agony.

But of course it didn’t, and he wondered with the empty can, as if it could explain to him.

To be continued.

In my mind, images haunt me. The things I don’t want to see- like how the crazy academic would see a red F on a test, the zealous lover catching his partner with another, the demanding parent who realised their child didn’t live up to their expectations, the best friend betraying you or the death of a beloved pet when it meant the world to you. Each of us has a dreaded scenario, we all run away from the “What if-s”, because it is too terrible, even the thought of it shatters us.

But you know when it hits you, when the worst of your nightmares come true, it’s all the same. How you simply do not react at all for the initial shock renders you senseless. It then simply branches into two: Some may be calm, the others go into hysterics. Anger or sadness, but both in hand. Whatever it is, after it hits you, it gets in your blood stream, as much as the initial bliss of feeling numb. You get mad, then sad. Then it starts to hurt like hell- grief.

It may be in the form of bad news- the devoted lover who is worried sick about her boy in the army; the brave patriotic fighting for his country, only to be honoured when he is nothing but a shell, a businessman who recieve news about the stock market crashing, the working mom who got fired who is the sole breadwinner of four children who needed to be fed and schooled. The reactions are all the same, the devastation.

I wish you well if you had hard news-

I gaze out of the window by my seat on the train to the foreign landscape, my stomach empty but not hungry. The scenery that sped me by- it’s really me speeding by since I’m on the train, but still- it is oddly comforting; things change too quickly for it to capture a place in your heart. Flash, you blink and the momentary vision of what you see in sight is gone. You blink and you’re not sure if it was true, that whether you had indeed seen it or it was just a figment of your imagination.

Thoughts flood my mind. My spirit is cowering- I thought I knew you, how wrong and self-assuming I was. A commuter walks past my seat and I glower with displeasure. Out of the corner of my eye, I knew he was looking at me. It should be a crime to even look, what an invasion of privacy. I hated him there and then although I didn’t know him at all- because I never know what he would be thinking as he judged me, and that itself is enough a reason to give a scowl to a total stranger who may have just casted a harmless gaze while passing by.

I return back to my thoughts, thoughts that taunt me as vivid memories, recounting events as clearly as they happened to affirm your assumptions, or to prove you wrong entirely.

I had been living in a world of my own, to assume and be selfish. I thought I was important enough to you- my words carried enough weight, but evidently not. I didn’t mean to stress you, I just wanted you to tell me, whatever I was upset about I was the one who meant alot more then that girl who just knew you. I have no right to keep repeating the subject you tried your best to explain to me it wasn’t what it seemed- but it made me uncontrollably jealous, and I could only convey my suffocating hurt like that. I wanted to be the one whose words carried weight, but then again you kept reiterating it wasn’t your choice. Still, the picture is frustratingly vivid and detailed- things that provoke your emotions stay painfully clear.

With a sudden jerk of my head, to try to look back at the scenery that passed me by. Its for a split second of frentic looking back, desperate clingling on to the moment, before the train travels onward as always, and the scenery you tried so hard to remember is now what you left behind.

Looking back to remember what I saw- but nothing stays and nothing remains, but just resentfully knowing nothing lasted for you, nothing stayed for you.

Picked up some great books, here are my reviews.

The Art of Walt Disney from Mickey Mouse to Magic Kingdom- concise edition by Christopher Finch is a complete and illustrated compiled history of the Walt Disney Company, of how Walt Disney built his company and created the most famous mouse in the world, Mickey Mouse with pioneering innovations from theme parks to break through techniques in animation.

The book has illustrations and pictures, from Mickey’s 1928 debut in Steamboat Willie to live action movies like the box office hit, The Lion King, Beauty and the Beast and more. It also offers an insight into what kind of man Walt Disney was like to create the Happiest Place on Earth, and his struggles to build an empire recognised and loved globally.

Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser investigates how the fast food business was born, the marketing ploys and gimmicks fast food companies employ; the sinister schemes from targetting children as customers to political weightage. It also covers the horrifying conditions of meatpackers, the most dangerous job in US. Discover how scheming corporations depoly elaborate systems to employ a large number of unskilled people for low wages and to evade paying overtime to food chemistry to worldwide obesity- everything you need to know about what’s behind the golden arches and smiling facades of good ol’ colonial sanders and other fast food companies that makes fast food a phenomenon you cannot deny.

The chimes, if there is one fine grandfather clock, would strike the ominous sound. Sleepless souls would freeze for a moment, their irrational self would overtake logical thinking; they would wonder and hearts stop at a mystery shadow in the dark from their beds they hadn’t seen before. A girl is alive- she lives for the night. Of insomnia which made her grow to enjoy the long nights. It is awfully quiet, sounds are magnified. The ticking of the clock; alarm clocks, the cheap plastic clock on walls, even sometimes the beating of her heart, loud as they can be while drowned out in the daytime. Sometimes she reads- the old flame of books masking a wonderful alternate world or simply fascinating facts, sometimes she watches television- oh the wonders of cable television repeating prime time shows and loved sitcoms or live soccer matches which first introduced her to this unexplored part of the day and familiarised her with it-, sometimes she goes online to marvel at the superficial yet much voyeured lives of celebrities and bloggers who create colourful online personalities. No music, preferably, the tiniest of noises are to be savoured at this time for a reason.

She is hungry- she wakes from mid noon and there is still tea and dinner to go, if that is appropriately named. Sometimes her peace is disrupted by others; sometimes she resents the loneliness of it when she needs a holding hand, a comforting touch; just a shoulder to lean on. But getting used to the solitary ways, it’s okay, she has gotten through worst nights when she badly needed someone and survived by herself.

There is something about the dead still of the night that makes one severely depressed- 4.30am is a common time people kill themselves, 3am is the most supernatural hour, in inverse of the most holy hour of 3pm, laughing at comedies to find no one to share the laugh with. And yet the sudden rush of glee and freedom of isolation, dreams and passions come alive, impulses fill your head and urges to travel and run away surge through every single nerve in the body.

Oh bother, tomorrow she has to wake up in the morning. Mornings are dull, there is no magic. It doesn’t play, like the midnight melody. It stops at the break of dawn, and she knows the tune well, she is a member of the melody every night after all.