It’s hard to escape into the realms of your inner thoughts, when you are besieged by the hectic lifestyle demanded in Singapore. In another lifetime, in another alternate yet parallel universe, I am very much an emotionally deranged busker who finds solace in having a cup of coffee after every evening when the sun casts its setting shadows on the pavement.
Being original is very much a distant ideal. To go home and splash paint onto the canvases strewn all over the floor. To rest my tired legs on the glass table, with chips and a beer, notwithstanding the fact that I don’t drink, and watching reruns of Tony Danza’s Who’s The Boss. To kick up a storm in the house with David Cook’s rendition of Always Be My Baby, playing in the background. To wait patiently for the bell to ring, to answer the door and find a Megan Fox/Gal Gadot impersonator, dressed in over sized Raoul’s men shirt. To cuddle and huddle by a fireplace with a guitar, strumming to the tunes of Bruno Mars’s Billionaire.
Throw me a lifeline, and I am probably resting on the wooden beach chair somewhere in Brazil, human watching. As I struggle to come up with the concluding lines to the lyrics I was writing in tribute to a loved one.
I miss my imagination. I miss my zest for the impossible. I miss the times of my life.