A Final Entrance

He lifts his eyes at the blazing sunlight. The sun's rays are warm, but the sun has never had any feelings for anyone. This makes him shudder all the more and a chill runs down his spine. He has to return to the house, the dark, damp house from where he first emerged so many years ago.

The door creaks open and he steps into the house. It is his last time, for the house will become his eternal confinement. He takes a deep breath in. The stale air has never smelled more familiar. Indeed, he finds more comfort in the stale air than the blazing rays outside. The door then closes behind him, creaking again, and the muted night arrives.

The maple tree outside the house withers. A lonesome wind blows through the yard, and the rusty leaves fall. The stream runs dry, and crevices crack open upon the gritty land. A snake slithers under the silent shadows. A nightingale tries to sing, but has lost its voice. People say that the maple tree may grow again next season, and the nightingale will perhaps find its voice then, but the door will remain shut, and he will be forever safe.

Now listening to: Stephen Albert - Symphony No. 1

Houseman - Two Episodes

I offer potassium elixir to my hypokalaemic patients, the saltiness of which would linger in their memories for the rest of their lives. I listen with earnest to the fantastic tales of delirious patients amidst their day-night reversals, occasionally adding in my own hallucinatory comments. I write long, heart-wrenching letters to the pain team about my suffering patients, which I'm sure Eugene Onegin would've been proud of had he lived to read them. I witness the gradual deterioration of dying patients, only to realize that I am also trapped in the process of dying ever since I was conceived in my mother's womb.

A patient cries, how human it sounds, unlike the chugging noise of the specimen label printer, unlike the ear-splitting beeps of the pager. His bowels have stopped moving, how silent they are, like the frozen menace of a dark forest. The surgeon puts his hand into the patient's abdomen; he touches the bowels, he feels the bowels, he comforts the bowels; and they miraculously start moving again.

Now listening to: Elgar - Piano Quintet

Three Portraits

1. He always reminds me of the sea. Beneath his apparent reticence is an impenetrable inner turbulence. Looking into his eyes, I can see an unfathomable depth, yet it carries the defiant power of waves, an inexorable yearning, a desire to struggle. But what is it that he is struggling from? His circumstances? His foes? Himself? He doesn't even know himself. But then, he might never had a self to begin with. It is then that I realize he is struggling from a selfless self. He is struggling to find a true self.

2. The feeling of distance leads most people to see him as the resemblance of solitude, somewhat tristful yet deliberately self-effacing, like the last flowers before autumn. His tall, slim figure with soft, fragile features seemingly cannot withstand the whimsical autumn gusts. But for him, there is no need to withstand the winds, for he always floats and flies along with an airy insouciance, which is why he is elusive to many, and which is why his death later was even more inconspicuous than a light sigh.

3. I am always amazed by the amount of brilliance he effortlessly exudes in every word, every smile, and every gesture, as though he were the sun itself. Flowers bloom wherever he has tread upon; he never has to bring an umbrella with him, for rain always stops before him, and for him; choruses of sparrows dedicate their songs of spring to him. But he is earnestly awaiting a terrible downfall, one that would add a darker but even more charismatic shade to this all-too-glamorous youth. But that would not happen: His brilliance will only increment with time, for he was destined to be faultless, no matter how hard he tries to fail.

Now listening to: Delius - Eventyr

Standing

Watching this new Olympic event can be quite boring. It is already into the thirteenth day; the stadium is near empty of audience, and most of the judges have dozed off. Six out of the eight competitors have either moved away from their designated spot or fell down from fatigue and hence lost. The two remaining competitors enduring for the gold medal are from China and Uzbekistan.

Representing China is a Buddhist monk, bald but still in his early twenties. He has been reciting cryptic verses all along while standing. The one next to him, a meditating octogenarian in an awkward posture with his hands twisted around his free leg, is the current president of the Uzbekistan National Yoga Society.

Everytime the monk reaches a cadence in his verses, he would increase his tone and clap his hands once. The Uzbekistan yoga-man tries hard not to wince, for he is to convince the world that he has escaped from his physical body and is now residing in another dimension.

Finally, something interesting happens: The monk suddenly shouts out some sort of incantation, waking up the judges, and a gigantic lotus flower descends like a UFO and lands itself upon the yoga-man's head. The yoga-man shuts his eyes even tighter and meditates as deeply as he never did in his eighty years of life. He succeeds in conjuring up a white snake which swims around the stadium and spills forth fire from its mouth, setting the lotus flower to flames and effectively nullifying the monk's attempted attack. (There is no violation of rules as long as no physical contact is made between contestants.)

The white snake ventures on to sink its fangs into the heels of the monk, injecting its venom. The monk staggers and falls down, and the judges sleepily announce the Uzbekistan contestant as the gold medalist. Everyone is relieved that the competition is finally over. However, the fainting monk manages to shout a last incantation, and darts rain down upon the white snake, nailing it onto the ground, severing its neck. The yoga-man immediately dies along with the snake, which is really the embodiment of his spirit, while the monk, after a flurry of intense shaking, also passes away from the lethal venom, wearing a wry smile on his face.

Now listening to: Martinu - The Epic of Gilgamesh

Deportation

His ambience reeks of malice and acrimony, his words sting and bite, his gestures are zany and farcical, yet these do not deprive him of smooth sail; in fact, he manages all matters, even the most trivial ones, with such dexterity that most of his critics are soon won over and befriend him instead. Yet I remain unimpressed, not because I am more sane, but because I am more cynical.

The night is still and the moon is high. I fix my gaze upon that particular skyscraper across the harbour. I know he is inside now. I can hear his coarse cackles. I can smell his sour breath. I can see his clownish movements.

I press the little button on my phone, that sweet little button of his verdict. With a distant rumble, the skyscraper takes off into the sky like a rocket. He is now wearing an astounded look. He races towards the windows of his office and gives a voiceless scream. He watches the ground fall below him. Yes, having surpassed the escape velocity, the skyscraper rises higher and higher into the heavens, to the point of no return.

I will deport him to Pluto. Goodbye.

Now listening to: Leyendecker - Symphony No. 3