::bitter-sweet::

The gold fish was dying. One of the five careening in our tank, the one accidently christened 'Bob' by me, the fattest one of the lot - 'It's swimming upside down again,' my sister said, solemn. She peered into the tank and watched in silence the bobbing creature, its once-magnificent tail eaten up by parasites. It was struggling to turn back, but it couldn't. 'It's dying.' my sister said quietly, without a trace of irony in her voice. I put my hand on her shoulder and we watched Bob flip and float, dying to live. My sister had no expression. I wondered if this grave little child had any real understanding of death. And I wondered - aside from the religious implications that will no doubt one day be made known to her - who should be the appropriate teacher thereof. 'We were taught to live,' someone once told me. 'But there's no one to teach us how to die.' I shook off the morbid thought at that instant, but I knew full well it was going to come back, haunting, like the strained sad note of a melody unsung.

***

Seaside. Child. Wind. Running. Pebbles - in many strange shades of green. The child, hair wild and feet sandied, stoop to run her fingers over them. Strange green pebbles, gleaming russet and jade and dirty green in the sun. She turns them over, piece by piece, examining the jagged edges, fingering the odd smooth spot, all with the mock serious intent of a child. Strange green pebbles. She picks one up - not too heavy, not too jagged, not too green - and tucks it in her pocket. Then, turning her face to the sun, she begins to run again. As her sandy trail lengthens, she finds her pebble a sudden weight. She takes it out from her pocket, and turn it over in her palm once more - the pebble laid smooth and inert in her hand. She contemplates its weight, and - with a sudden flick of her wrist - she flings the pebble far out to sea, as hard as she could, until the pebble become a tiny green spot spiralling in the air; she watches it until the tiny green spot pierces the water with a quiet splash. The child laughs, satisfied. And so again she runs.

***

Strange green pebbles - much like my jealousy. In many shades of green, in pieces broken and whole, meant to be carried, meant to be discarded, meant.

::honey nougat::

Tony was in a good mood today. "Extra strong coffee?" he asked, grinning from ear to ear. "Bless you," I said, amused by his unreasonably good mood. He's a happy father - I can't remember the name of his baby now - something Elijah something - except that it's very complicated and very Catholic. He told me once with a straight face he married into the religion; before his mother-in-law strong-armed him into Catechism class the only saints he knew were from that dreadful British pop group. But still, that aside, he seems to be a proud member of the fast-extincting population of the Happily Married. I've checked: ring in place, always friendly but never eager, never flirty, the Wife keeps popping up as reference in conversation - I think he's a dear man. "I'll keep a cranberry muffin for you," he promised, as I heralded the day (which started off way too early: German lessons at 7.45!) with my double shot latte and the tiny shred of hope we may never find the right man, but we should all have the karma / luck / cash to find a man who does the right thing.

***

Stumbled into the office feeling tired, but it wasn't an unhappy lethargy - I had a stellar Saturday, crammed from end to end, but it was a maxed out good time. Mostly anyway. Spent some time eating cornflakes and watching cartoons with my sisters on Saturday morning, and felt a huge, bleeding prick from this conversation with my youngest:

She: My friend had a birthday party yesterday. It was at a chatlet.
Me: (brightly) Yeah? Did you go?
She: (matter-of-factly) Of course not. I didn't get invited.
Me: (subdued) Why not?
She: (quietly) No one likes me I guess.

I was instantly transported back to the days where I had suffered the honest malice of children; I was friendless and nameless, one of the unwanted members where the rest of the class had the misfortune of having. I remember the hurt, and I remember the matter-of-factness that I adopted to cover it up. Now I see it happening to my sister; her faith in herself would be shaken, her esteem would be trampled, and she would learn, way before she's supposed to, that the world is harsh and unkind and trenchant; that we don't just judge the book by its cover - we condemn it. I gave her a hug and kissed the top of her head. Don't listen to them, I told her inwardly. You're different, but you're beautiful and you should never let them feel that they're better than you. But I cannot say that to a 8-year-old child. I see her messy curls and see my own; I feel her defeat and her resignation and her tighten grip on that glimmer of hope, that someone somewhere would reach out and say, "Let's be friends!". I gave her two Kit Kar bars instead of one. Bite sized dreams. Sweets for my sweet. The other sister, her hair long and straight and sleek, would never understand this pain. I looked at them both, still young and fresh and unlined, and pondered the price for the trade off of innocence.

***

But the rest of Saturday was better. I went back to the office, tinkered with the bits and pieces I never had the time to during the week, and spent the afternoon filing old documents, clearing my mail box (538 emails!), and researching for my Communication Management module. Met Sam just after six, and we grabbed a quick bite before going to Bent, a play on the Nazi persecution on homosexuals by the Toy Factory Ensemble. I liked the play immensely; the raw energy of the actors resurrected the old euphoria of watching art unfold in real time, the words and feelings and creative integrity of the scriptwriter transcended from print to life with each line, each action, each movement of the actors. Loved it. Afterwards (Sam couldn't get out fast enough; he was being eyed by half of the gay population) we got ourselves a coffee, and we talked. We had one of our rare 'floodgate' conversations; when the café shut we walked to One Fullerton and sat by the Merlion and smoked and talked somemore. Our first pack of cigarettes together. We held hands and laughed and giggled as the hazy tendrils of smoke obscured our vision. We ended the night with chicken rice at 2 in the morning; I knew I would have trouble concentrating on the mundane requirements of my Sunday - tuition, driving, housework - but Saturday was spent the way a Saturday should have been, and I carry my tired zest with me to the office today, smiling, and like Tony, unreasonably happy.

::caramel candy::

Decisions.
Assignments.
Decisions.
Deadlines.
Feel a certain drowning. More later.

::no-nut chocolate chip::

I gave myself a pretty purple bruise. Just above the turn of my right wrist; it sits placid and pretty and purple, a slight stain of grey at its tip. Matches my blouse, I thought inanely. I had to laugh at myself, at my ability to find humour in the greyest, blandest details.

***

Had a fantastic time on Tuesday - after The Italian Job the girls and I ate til we had heart burn at Newton Hawker Center; I didn't get home until close to three a.m., my skirt practically bursting at the seams. Despite feeling sick the whole of the next morning I was never so grateful for girlfriend bonding - that, and a day off. Rounded off Wednesday with a very interesting filming experience (it's too bloody cumbersome to explain, but yes, I will be on TV...my thirty seconds of embarrassment) and a huge slice of cheesecake with Sam. Little moments. If I think back on our last six years together, it's always the little moments I find the most endearing, and the most enduring. I don't think you can live for - or live with - the grandeurs of love, stardust and glitter and poetic pain and all that claptrap; but the little pockets of intimacy, the little instances of unbridled laughter, of spontaneous kisses, of instant understanding - that, to me, is worth waiting for. I never believe one should suffer for the idea of love - it's the consequence of love that makes the heart raw and real and vulnerable, and that consequence is what we find ourselves chained and bound to. Love lorn fool, me.

::rum and raisin ::

Slow morning. One of those where even my mocha is tinged with the bland after-taste of inevitability. Working can be such an insipid requirement of life - despite trying to find little moments of satisfaction in a job well done or that five-minute gossip break with a like-minded colleague, there are some days where getting up is a drudgery and work is drenched in mud and political-incorrectness.

***

Started school last night. My reunion with the academic world was sharply nostalgic; the shocking new smell of text-books, the scribblings of red-inked notes, the discomfort of sitting stationary in a plastic seat - they all brought back ghosts from my poly days. And (I smile wryly) the physical ghosts - former 'Omigod, how are you!?' classmates rejoined by the same restless pursuit for that elusive white paper - were there, irking, fake, as plastic as the horrible swivel chair I must now get used to. Yes. I'm just being harsh. Later then - more budget reports to churn out, more smarmy ad-types to deal with, more media releases to vet. I'm but a chess piece - made to be checked or chucked, designed to be manipulated, fashioned to be used as a pawn and bait - aren't we all!

::chocolate sauce::

After leaving my previous blogs (that no one has seen anyway!) to the spiders and dusts of the virtual world, I've decided to resurrect my long-dead online presence. People are slipping away: friends, family - 'I'm busy' has become an overused mantra, and old friends are starting to wear the dusky shadow of unfamiliarity. Perhaps - I hope anyway - a blog would help record the little bits of me that I never had the chance to share: my grandfather's illness, my father's jobless state, my fights with Sam, my struggles at work. This is not a call for sympathy; we all choose our ways and voices, and this happens to be mine.