In Continuum.

Dwindle, Dwindle Little Star

Every day I wake up and it's Sunday
Whatever's in my head won't go away
The radio is playing all the usual
And what's a Wonderwall anyway?

Sigur Ros' music brings you to places, and they bring you far and deep. Picture a landscape stretching out seamlessly into the horizon, that is where their music brings you. Think about the hole in your heart, the blood that is pouring out while you are lying in the middle of a snowcapped wasteland, that is where their music takes you. They take people to a million different destinations in a million different directions, it is impossible to classify their songs into a certain genre, or a certain category of song. Their music is heartbreak, their music is inspiration, their music is the world, their music is...

The very first time I plucked their music into my ears outside of the comfort of my home, I was smelling the air of mixing cement and dust. The noise from the construction site is turning from bad to worse these days, drilling deep into the land, sending mild vibrations even to my computer table. The air around my estate has been seriously polluted by the exhaust from the heavy machinery, as well as the dust clouds pouring over the metal fences along the street. For a moment there, I hated my house. I wanted to run away, and with Sigur Ros' music in my ears I ran so fast, so fast.

Because my inside is outside
My right side's on the left side
'Cos I'm writing to reach you
But I might never reach you
I long to teach you about you
But that's not you

I could smell the rain, I could taste it in the air. Mixed with that beautiful scent the awful smell of the construction site from a hundred meters away. But that did not dampen my spirits this afternoon, as I stood at the windy bus stop with another school boy, who was so thin I swear he could've been blown away by the sudden gusts. The bus came around the corner, sweeping to the side of the road a swirling cloud of dead leaves that swarmed over the Filipino maid who was walking her golden retriever. The air-conditioning on the bus was too cold, but for a moment I was relieved to be inside the bus despite the droplets of water hanging from the opening above my head. The pipeline of the air-conditioning must have been leaking, and after changing seats twice I settled down just adjacent to a middle-aged couple right across the aisle.

There they were, hands all over each other and the sound of their wet kisses overpowering the sound of the engine from the back. There were only a few other fellow passengers, and there they were all over one another, almost melting into one another like a pair of snowmen next to each under in the summer sun. Fingers crawling into the guy's hair like hungry worms, tongue like a long red snake lapping out at each other, almost like a dance before mating. It was a disgusting sight as much as I am okay with P.D.A. But as far as Public Display of Affections, they were doing Public Display of Sex - or nearly so, anyway. Besides, they were middle-aged. That made things so much worse than before. Were we ever like that? Was that how people saw us on the buses so long ago? 'So long ago', I can't believe I typed that.

It's good to know that you are home for Christmas
It's good to know that you are doing well
It's good to know that you all know I'm hurting
It's good to know I'm feeling not so well

The plastic handles swung from the left to the right and back. A straight row of triangles stretching all the way from carriage to carriage. For a moment I was hypnotized with the movement, but snapped myself out of it to observe the people. The people, dead like zombies and invisible to one another like ghosts. But in that same carriage came the next phase of my relationship, the stage that came after the loving cuddling and the sensual touches. It was the disintegration, the death, the dwindling of a relationship before my eyes, in the eyes of fellow commuters towards town and completely oblivious to each others' predicaments.

Her fingers were opened, holding on loosely to her boyfriend's hands. Intersected, it was almost as if the boy was putting in all the efforts to hold on while the other party merely humored his existence. He buried his face into the hollows of her neck, but looking away she gave him a cold shoulder, in her eyes only the signs of ignorance. The boyfriend was dismayed, and throughout the journey he looked around to see if anybody noticed their tensed aura. But like I said, people were dead like zombies and invisible to one another. They were probably all hypnotized to the swaying of the plastic triangles. He returned his gaze to her, but her finger were still wide opened, effortless and weak. She turned away once more, and my stop came. Were we ever like that? Did somebody else in a train long ago see us the way I saw that couple? Did I just use "long ago" again? I have to stop saying that, stop lying to myself. Stop.

Because my inside is outside
My right side's on the left side
'Cos I'm writing to reach you
But I might never reach you
I long to teach you about you
But that's not you
Do you know it's true
And that won't do

It poured, like it never did before. I hate it when it rains in town, so much for the hair and the carefully picked out wardrobe. It came down on the buildings and the roads, making puddles on the side of the pavements and drenched locals and tourists alike. I peered into the blinding light above as I came up from the basement on an escalator. The giant glass cone at Wheelock's Place looked like a house built with matchsticks from the inside somehow, with the iron beams criss-crossing one another. The rainwater flowed down from the peak, and as they did so it felt as if the whole cone was melting in the blinding heat. Like it was disintegrating, losing its shape, dwindling like the couple on the train, the space they shared in between.

A girl was vomiting behind the bench, puking into the bushes while her boyfriend stood by. Ashamed somehow, she peered from between her loosened hair at the passing crowd. But they took no heed of this girl in the corner of the road, everybody was still invisible to one another. It was as if the only way to have people notice you was to crash into them, put a sledge hammer to their faces. But the girl cared little about attention. She continued puking for some reason, and as the boyfriend tried to pat her back, she pushed his arm away and stormed off into the rain - alone. He stood there helpless, wondering if he shoot run after her or stay where he was. A dilemma, written all over his face as the silhouette of the girl slowly disappeared into the raging storm. He hesitated, then with a deep breath he ran into the rain too, unsure of his steps and doubtful. Why did you do that? But why did you do that?

Maybe then tomorrow will be Monday
And whatever's in my head should go away
Still the radio keeps playing all the usual
And what's a wonderwall anyway

On the way back to the train station with the graphic novel I just bought in my hands, I hummed a random tune while waiting to cross the road. Despite Sigur Ros' music still ringing in my ears, I hummed "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" as I crossed the road with my hands in my pockets. But instead of "Twinkle", I found myself saying "Dwindle" instead. Probably because of the images I saw throughout the day. How the three incidents between three couples reflected my own relationship: From the beautiful, to the stale, to the ugly. It was a transformation too gradual to notice while being part of it, and only so clearly revealed before your eyes when it happens to somebody else.

I saw how my own relationship dwindled in the past with the breaking down of someone else's. A perfect stranger, somebody whom I have never seen before, going through the same things I went through when I was in my own relationship. Then you start to wonder if there is a plague of some kind, spreading through lovers world wide, the same virus that kills the love bugs inside our bodies. Because it is amazing how fast love can die, it is amazing how fast hate can grow too. And there under the giant glass cone, I saw my own glass castle melting in the rain and the coming storm.

Because my inside is outside
My right side's on the left side
'Cos I'm writing to reach you
But I might never reach you
I long to teach you about you
But that's not you
Do you know it's true
And that won't do
You know it's you
I'm talking to


*

They say that every star is dying as we speak.
Why couldn't you be the star for me to keep?
One's heart is not like the Iraq War.
You don't destroy it, then come back to set it free.