Just to even begin.

I find myself in a rare thoughtful mood, sparked by listening to St. Vincent on a cigarette break just now. Perhaps this is still an after-effect of last night’s long-overdue personal time; I’m beginning to feel as if I’m filling myself out properly again, bit by bit regaining comfort in being inside my own skin, in being in this situation and living this life.


“Marry Me” begins to play, and I’m suddenly walking down that familiar Cubao street, on the way to the MRT station from where the jeepney lets me off. I’ve nothing on my mind but a commuter’s quotidian worries and what to do with the rest of my evening upon getting home. My much-too-bulky bag that I stubbornly still haven’t gotten around to replacing bounces familiarly against my hip with every brisk stride. I briefly consider dropping by the 7-11 on the way home for a couple cans of beer, a pack of spicy cracker nuts, a bag of chips. Then the song ends and I’m at home. I shrug off my bag, take off and put away my shoes, head into the kitchen for the obligatory drink of water, go upstairs to my room and change.

Here the vision ends and I’m back in Singapore, sitting with my legs up on my chair, listening to the rest of the album and enjoying a slight buzz from the strong black coffee I bought from the nearby cafe on the way back from my break. Stretching my fingers and facility of description, trying not to let my disappointment get too much in the way. The important thing is to keep moving, keep practicing. In fact, just to even begin.