In Continuum.

Ink

Come on now, don't you want to know?
You're a refuge, somewhere I can go
You're air that, air that I can breathe
Cause you're my golden opportunity

It's always a degree or two too low in this place.Strange,considering the number of people crowded in that place every afternoon,with the afternoon sun pouring in through the windows,it's rather weird to have such a cold atmosphere all around.I hated that place,i remember myself thinking.I hated the coldness of that library.And not just the library,but the whole school.I didnt connect,i didnt relate,me with such an EQ saying such a thing.It has got to mean something.

It felt the same,as any other day in the library.The disc in my discman softly whirled,my sweater wasnt keeping me warm.It wasnt the air-conditioning perhaps,but rather the freezing feeling from the inside,piercing its way out like frost burn.The words didnt mean anything,the way they converged at the centre of the page.There was a whirlpool,or like an oceanic trench in the middle of the book.The words were like tiny boats dragged towards the darkness.They kept flowing in,kept drifting off,till there was nothing left at all.

Then she came,skipping throughh the shelves of books and slapped me so hard on the back i swear the life went out of me for a split second.It was her way of saying "Hello",aside from the times when i am more commonly known as "Bitch".When she was around,i remember,things werent as bleak as before.It was fun,it was interesting.It was like a ship to Titanic's rescue,at the end of the horizon.It felt good,just sitting across the table from each other,or laughing the day off till our sides ached.

Come on now, don't you want to see?
Just what a difference you've made in me
I'll be waiting oh no matter what you say
Cause I've been waiting for days, days, days

Let's face it,and you are probably not going to admit it.Upon learning about necessities in Economics,guess the people who knew/knows you automatically classified you under that category.In a way you've kept us warm like coat in a blazing storm,a good book on a rainy day,a cup of coffee when your eyes fail to remain opened,a friend through the times of utter self-destruction.You were there,like shampoo after outfield,like Coldplay to my ears,and so many other things.You mean so much to so many different people.So much so,that i dont think anybody(Not even Samantha)is capable of coming up with words,worthy enough to describe you.Nothing will do you justice,not in the Oxford or Longman,or any art in the Louvre.As priceless as those pieces,you are so much more.

I succumbed to your insistence,and reached out my left hand.I couldnt concentrate on my papers,distracted by the scratching of the tip of your pen upon the back of my hand.I didnt look,i guess i didnt dare to.The vandalism of my hand,i thought to myself.Just what the hell was i thinking?

It was done,you little piece of art.You beamed with your usual cheerfulness,and urged me to admire your drawing.It was my name,in dark blue ink and beautiful.Only,it was spelled wrongly,and i didnt have the heart to correct you(Initially).

So i was stuck with that name ever since,and that 'tattoo' for a day or two.I didnt want to wash away the drawing that night,i remember.It was like the feeling after you've shook hands with your favourite singer at a concert.That feeling,sort of electricity that runs through the tip of your fingers as you guys made contact.You wanted to retain that feeling,i wanted to keep that sensation.It was so wrong,no matter which direction i read my name from.The "G" at the end was distracting,and the fact that it didnt have an "E" in the middle of "I" and "N" was funny too,but i didnt wash it off.I thought it was funny,a little reminder than in this world,in this school,there is somebody out there the same as i was,and i was glad.Comforted,by that fact.

If the sky's gonna fall down, let it fall on me
If you're gonna break down, you can break on me
If the sky's gonna fall down, let it fall on me
If it's gonna rain down, it can rain on me
It can rain on me

Years afterwards,as bus 133 rumbled down Upper Serangoon Road,and the back of you walking away from the exit,with that slick new hair of yours,i opened the letter you wrote to me,accompanied by the Kinokuniya voucher.It was your same untidy handwriting,and the end of the first sentence you spelt my name wrong,again.I know,it was deliberate,but still it brought a smile to my face despite the old man staring at my face,confused.

I was at the back of the bus then.But really,i was at the back of the library.My left arm was outstretched,and the same sensation came back to the back of it.It wasnt cold anymore,and everybody in the library vanished with the world all around.It was just you,always you,and the ink on the back of my hand.

I cannot thank you enough,i dont think i am capable of that.No matter how good a writer i am,or will be,i dont think any language can do you justice as a person,as a friend,and most of all as a bitch.Im bad with words,i really am.I have no gratitude,i have no idea how to show them.I take refuge in my blog,like a scared little dog wanting to thank a stranger for a box of leftover dinner,but too afraid to do so.

But here,with my honest words and reading your advice about sharing,here i am in yet another air-conditioned room,playing a Coldplay song reminding me of you,and the letter sitting next to my hand,with my true words i thank you for being such a fantastic person,and so much so much more than that.