I like where I sit at work.
It's how you'd imagine an advertising agency will be like.
A shophouse somewhere, white-washed, big windows, creaky floorboards.
It's very pretty, with fan-shaped transoms and cream lourvers.
I sit facing the window. And outside that window there's plenty of green and a Bauhinia blakeana tree(it was hell trying to find the name of this thing. Thanks to nparks).
I remember collecting the leaf for my scrapbook when I was young,
The heart-shaped leaf and pink flowers always remind me of kindergartens and Singapore.
There is something romantic about gazing out of the window. Rain or shine.
Because on mornings when the sun makes a full effort to indulge us
The leaves outside seem to revel and bask in it, radiating a happy glow through the glass.
And when it rains, the streams of water always fall at different angles.
And sometimes if I walk to the window I can see the Duxton Hill street cat lying on the pavement, asleep and oblivious to the world around.
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I'm battling yet another flu. The dry winters and fickle springs didn't seem to inflict as much hurt to my health.
Last night I turned down antibiotics. My body is sick of it, and so am I. The doctor tells me I look run-down. Whatever.
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Comparison.
How can it ever be fair?
Apples to apples, they say.
But how, I ask.
Like a Pink Lady to Fuji.
Like love to passion?
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Like trust is to commitment.
Like tryst is to ill-fated lovers.
Risk.
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I'm reading again. On nights when the eyes are too tired to thread needles.
The book of choice is Jeanette Winterson's Lighthousekeeping. It took me months to find it. I kept looking in Borders, but it was always in Kinokuniya. And I didn't think to look there.
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