The Escapist.

I wonder about a lot of things. About us, about them. Sometimes I wonder so much it's hard to perceive the difference between reality and imagination, my world from the real one. Is it wrong to be an escapist? Escape from the things you've done, the lies you've told, the secrets you've kept. How long do you continue before facing any consequences? I actually started beleiving in the loss of conscience. I was wrong. When your guilt finally overcomes your selfishness the soul feels heavy and the being even heavier.

I am here, writing this, what for? The answer is simple, the ability to understand it anything but. You can also escape, just stay a little ahead of the truth. But once it starts catching up, the conscience seems to reappear. We do so many things without understanding, without thinking, without facing them.

How do I justify my existence? I was born, it's my parents fault. I have no other defense. A long time ago I used to believe that good things always happen to good people. Maybe I need to wonder hard enough. Face the past, you say. Then let it go. It was a long time ago. You say it cause you don't know me. You say it cause you don't know what I run from. I can face it all, but not now, not today. I am an escapist.

The Prodigal Country & The Impenetrable Forest.

A few nights ago I was coming back home in a taxi. The driver was in the mood for conversation or so I guess from all the questions he had to ask. Most of them revolving around the fact that I was a foreigner here, why did I like Singapore so much and so on and so forth. In a way he understood why it's so, mainly because from what he had to say it sounded like he had come a full circle. Belonging to a country but only through a passport not the feeling. Most Singaporean's around my age feel trapped here and can't wait to move on. Sometimes in order to get what we want we don't realise what we gave up and when we do, it might be a little too late and we end up belonging no where in particular. In his coming back to Singapore it wasn't the taxi driver who was the prodigal son coming back to his country but it was the taxi driver welcoming the prodigal country with open arms and finally a sense of belonging.

"The person I have in mind is lost. That's the picture I'm getting. He beleives he is lost in the middle of an impenetrable forest. His head is full of trees. Branches he's bumping into. The sun is sinking. The shadows are darkening. Paths that lead nowhere. I make my way through the forest. I find him. With a swish and a flick everything vanishes. The paths straighten out. He can get on with it. He looks at me without gratitude. Get on with what, he says. I say, I come all this way through woodlots and darkness to find you, I've cleared the paths and you still don't know?
You don't understand much, he says. Why do you think I was lost in this impenetrable forest in the first place?"
Obviously, for me to find you, I say.