Skip to main content

glass

(originally posted on 5/26/11)

Three years ago, one night back from Orchard on an MRT where I sat on a reserved seat next to the doors, I got lost in my thoughts and unintentionally placed my hands on the glass frame right next to me. Through the transparent wall between my hand and the people on the other side, I saw how close, yet how far, I am to a stranger. What if, I thought, there was another hand placed right there next to mine, so it seems like we were touching, yet separated by a cold and solid material.

So when I placed my hand on the window glass to say goodbye to you today, I was surprised at how different the feeling was compared to my imagination back then. Yes I can feel the cold glass wet with raindrops, a startling contrast to how your hand really feels like, but your sleepy smile transcending through the glaring glass touched my heart like the warmth of your lips on my neck, erasing all physical senses around me.

Is it the glass that allowed such feeling to melt through, or is it you?

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Painted Door - Sinclair Ross (from personal journal)

(Originally posted on 10/1/2009) ( Footsteps in snow. S orry, can't find the photo taken by Wayne R. Bilenduke that was printed in my book. Alternative photo.) I think this is by far the story I have to spend the longest time reading. Mr. Guraliuk was right, this is a very sleep-inducing "short" story. "It goes on and on and on and on… like forever". But, paradoxically, that's what makes it such a brilliant short story. When you read Sinclair Ross's lines, you feel cold. You can imagine the coldness of hard window glass pressing against your fingers as you look out to the freezing white snow-covered endless landscape and long for the person you love to arrive. You can feel your eyelids heavy as you watch the time go by; your heart heavy with sadness and loneliness but still not letting go of that weak hope, the only hope that keeps you still alive amidst the brutal coldness of winter. Of course if you've never been through a cold, white and l...

man and his bike

The bike laid next to a "Bike Vancouver" bike rack quietly and stubbornly. Her skeleton was black and a small pink Kryptonite held her close to the rack. She was brutally minimalistic. Without a kickstand, she's leaning against the small steel structure, resting her entire weight, light but sturdy, on the support. I took a step closer and realize she's without brakes. I frowned, and the bike simply stared back defiantly. With a skinny Brooks saddle, placed rather high up compared to the handlebars, I knew the owner was a savvy hardcore biker. In between the spokes, a picture of a woman - perhaps an actress or singer from the 70s that I couldn't recognize - was nicely placed, but precariously. What is the rider trying to say about himself? He also is riding without lights or a rack. No stickers, no colours, no visible brand name. You'd think he's a humble and low-key personality, but the small touches of customization makes me feel he's trying to say s...

so yesterday

If it's over, let it go and Come tomorrow it will seem So yesterday, so yesterday  - Hilary Duff Such a bittersweet teenage song. I remember the days I was still lipsyncing to Hilary Duff in my bedroom in Vietnam. I was 13 or 14 then, fantasizing I was a Disney star. So yesterday. As a teenager, I found it hard to understand how I felt about many things. Reading back some of my diary pages, I sounded over-sentimental, whiny, hyper, unstable, confused. Perhaps when I am 30 I will think of myself now the same way. But growing up, particularly for me, the biggest challenge was saying goodbye to the things I am used to. I had to learn how to embrace things as they last and not cry when they were over. Saying goodbye isn't easy, and moving in life isn't a breeze. This summer I felt this odd sensation of wanting time to stop, but at the same time wishing it would past faster. For a good chunk of this year I doubted myself in everything, and pushing myself to move on fr...