Dancing across the pits of night,
These blue dancers, streaks of light.
Skipping to the drums of war,
Convulsing in rage's roar.

Light my path so damp and straight,
In my heart I'm so afraid,
Singe my soul,
The rest is dead.

Pitter, patter, falls these feet,
Uncertainty does deeply sit.
Raise the spectres of lonesome ghosts,
They shall join me, I their host.

Mirrored in this pool of mud,
Predicaments of such a rut
Of terrible aloneness,
A permanent scorched furnace.

Raise my chins, an umbrella black,
Lower eyes, a belligerent sack
Housing past scars and future fears,
I carry thee in stubborn tears.

Today, I woke to melancholy seven inches thick,
Afraid, I felt the weight of this hedonistic brick,
Again, the sun illustrates corners in my room,
Today, melancholy does well to leave me soon.

The solid dependable rock. Read this interview thoroughly as there are many things mentioned here, both of the person the honoured late Ong Teng Cheong was, and also the government's practices and their use of the reserves. Very relevant now considering how deeply the reserves are being used now.

Ong Teng Cheong's Interview with Asia Week

Morpheus: This is your last chance.
After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill - you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes.


LKY : This is your last chance.
After this, there is no turning back.
You take the Blue Teng Kee - The story ends, NO NS for you, HDB housings will be given, scholarships for your entire family, and together we make the Red Teng Kee Peasants serve us.
You take the RED TENG KEE, you must be a retard.

Mindsets over time erode in the winds of change. However, like minerals of different hardness, the level and degree of refinement by the environment differs. The exposition of this lonesome night dictates that I reminisce on times where my own perceptions wavered like mirages.

How often did I truly think I was right? I shall run a backward marathon and sift through the faded sand prints, reversing in my own footsteps. The events are nebulous. It might have been in the year of the Dog, give or take a year, for my old age renders me senile.

Like the protagonists, Cowherd and the Girl Weaver, we never did get together. We called each other throughout the nights, summer romances of the soldier and the civilian girl. Soothing voices coo and whisper, nightly ventures into wild woods of possibilities. Of possibilities, yes, there abound. Yet, old flames die hard, fanned by even the lightest of desires, the embers revive, but I was always there, dousing and kicking, desperate for my own flames to ignite. But, as a friend aptly put it, she was too much of a historian, not merely learning from history, but also one foot is in it.

My peacock feathers, preened and spread, strutted and swooned. I could feel the untying of the chains in her heart. I had great confidence in my pedigree; the same cannot be said of my rivals. Eventually, she did separate from the poor sod, whose name I knew not, whose face I cared not. There was no doubt, my dominance.

But the insidious chains of history tugged like the fingers of souls in the Bermuda, no reprieve was there from tumultuous winds threatening to reignite latent passions. Not one, not two but three. Three individuals vying for attention. One was already cast aside, one was desperately clinging on, the last was never in the ring. Yet I knew, nay, I had complete faith, that time was on my side, and nary shall I falter.

But fate intervened. A mistake? I should think so now. As much as we had long years together, I still feel a grave injustice had been done, both to me, to her, and to her as well. At that juncture, summer,fall, both came and went, yet I began to despair. Should I have succumbed to the ennui, knowing that she needed time to finally make up her mind? No matter, succumb I did.

This other girl who came along, sallied into my life. In a fortnight, temptation drove me to her. Now, she was completely, irrevocably, not the kind I would have wished for. My Girl Weaver had been that. This other girl, a burst out of my own past, maybe it was familiarity, maybe it was just the whirlwind game we played. A fortnight, perchance two, and I surrendered.

As much as, ultimately, the succeeding two years had been joyous gay, I had no doubt right now, in this year, my own year of the Ox, that the poor Girl Weaver I left behind was truly what I sought. Instead of sweating out the run to the final ribbon, I had plucked the wayside flower, finally only to have the flower wilt, and an unfinished race, one I no longer be able to run.

In this essay, I do not attempt to put down anyone, I am merely exploring the state of mind that possessed me in that time of the past. My own marks of regret, of guilt to either, or any parties involved, are indelible. My shoulders are toughened by bearing these burdens, and I pray for the one chance I shall shed them and turn to new light dawning. In the intervening time between the past year and now, I had become a pariah, for not following through, for such rash impudence. But I really sincerely believe, life is short. I do not want to attempt to distend the yawning gaps only finally to have either of us fall into the chasm. As is how a good fairy tale should end, both of them have met their own pairs. In all delight I bless them thus. This pariah has since retired to be a hermit, in the off chance that the truly repentant shall cease to err, and a delightful nymph might stray into my part of the woods.

you would hardly catch me in such a mood. but i gotta say, lower my expectations and i would not be disappointed. remember, there is a lot more to life out there, dun get too hung up on it.