the raw spookiness of a flame in the mountains

what is worth having? in a time where we have so much- rose-print lace stockings; frayed good morning towel; spanish marmalade harvested from a family farm; writing pads, old stock; lemongrass-mint soap with exfoliating salts; glow-in-the-dark stars and planets; warm woven mirrored indian rug; teh halia.

Can the comfort of a big old floral printed armchair enveloping you on a musky Sunday afternoon form a ballooning happiness strung together by objects of gravity? Maybe if the armchair was part of the memory of a person.

In the past you could pack a suitcase of your life and go away to a new land.

Now even a room cannot contain me and my belongings. A home cannot contain me and my heart. The world wouldn't be big enough either. You would need to open a thirteenth dimension.

What about being a cloud?
History-less, free-form
No past or future
Simply presently
blooming
and
shifting

So what.


You don't need to talk about inner peace. You fight but you don't need to win. You can drink rainwater when you are thirsty; eat flowers when you are hungry. Every morning you wake up and measure your life with a wooden ruler. Tea bags are soaked in water before being used to soothe the bruises from your parents as they sit in the next room reading the perennial newspapers. Tissue is no longer for crying, but for making soft flowers to be hung from ceiling lamps in colorful rooms. A book told me that kisses help you develop immunity against more germs.

If I carve out my intangible dream on a piece of soap and burn it over a flame in the mountains, will the cats come out to smell the wisps?

I don't know lah. I just trust in Singlish, in the simple gravity of Clair de Lune, in a banana for breakfast. Look at the sky in the mornings. Then walk down the road and don't look back.