Heels on railway tracks

My most recent dream saw me walking on railway tracks.

I would have said they were the ones at Bukit Timah, the ones where I'd gone with the one I called the flower--but the tracks there had been broken off, pieces by pieces, and couldn't have been the same ones I'd walked my whole dream.

It was a long walk, all alone, in my heels because I definitely was not wearing anything flat-soled. A red dress or skirt, something flared, because when the wind blew I caught a glimpse of a little fabric below my waist being lifted, and felt the cold against my legs.

I'm not entirely sure if those tracks were completely abandoned or still in use.

If they'd been abandoned, then it must have been the end of the world, or at least this country must have gone to shit, because the MRT lines are the spine of its public transport. I've grown to believe that a world where Singapore doesn't have its MRT system working must be a dead universe.

And if the railway tracks were still in use, then there had been the possibility of a train coming along, hitting me, dragging parts of me beneath its wheels.

Either way, ...how peaceful.

The best way to die?

My writing is fueled by loneliness. It's in the name Solitary Author, if you haven't noticed. (If there's even any 'you' reading this.) The loneliness that comes with having no friends, and the passion for these words coming out via keyboard or ink; they go so well together. They intertwine, just like vines, and I am the tree that they form to be.

Even though I wasn't a tree anymore, since more than four years ago. A tree can't be a tree if it has bled, a rose can't be a rose if the only red it sheds isn't its petals.

I will never in my life apologise for anything. To say the word sorry--it's heavy on my lips. I do not say sorry to a customer for not having something they're looking for. I do not say sorry to my other half even when it's clear I was in the wrong. I do not say sorry to the girls I've known since high school, or to my own mother. I do not even say sorry to me, for all the harm I've done to myself.

What's the best way to die? By something that you love, or by your biggest fear? Is my better way to die on the railway tracks, dragged apart by a train, or by drowning, my lungs filling with water? Because if it's by my fear--I just have to wait for this world to be taken, submerged and forgotten, gone.

I wish everyone was equal. Nobody missing a limb, nobody left lonely in the absence of children and grandchildren, nobody digging through rubbish bins for scraps.

The people in this world, as strange as they are: I wish they had more time. How contradictory am I? At times, I wish to watch this world burn, perhaps to even be the one to set it on fire. And at other times, I wish time would stop ticking. I wish everyone would have more time to live. I wish nieces wouldn't grow up, grandmothers wouldn't die, grounds wouldn't shake and tidal waves wouldn't swallow.

I have a brain, but I don't make good use of it. Instead I submerge myself in this cryptic writing, thoughts that nobody will ever understand, not even the woman who carried me for 9 months, not even the significant other who's been supporting me for nearly 4 years. It's the truth, nobody will get it--nobody but me.

And that's the funny thing, that only I understand I; but I am also the last person on earth I could care less about.