C C Z H

“Only the wind knows where it will carry our dandelion souls.”

The crickets were singing, their indecipherable chorus ringing in my ears. They seemed to carry a message, some ancient insect dogma far beyond my human understanding. It was a quiet afternoon, one that brought with it much-needed respite. Choa Chu Kang Park was where I decided to spend my idle hours. After all, its quaint beauty had always struck a chord with me. Notebook in hand, I hoped that the peacefulness surrounding me would alleviate my writer’s block. In my notebook lay dozens of unfinished pieces, each one a fragment of a lost time. Some of them oozed anger, others nascent hope, albeit hope that was never nurtured to fruition. I know of people who pin their writer’s block on a lack of inspiration, but I pin mine on perfectionism. Irritated at my lack of progress, quality progress, to be precise, I tore up my latest piece. To my horror, my violent movements sent shreds of paper sailing into the wind.

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Closing my eyes, I exhaled. Streams of seeds erupted from what was once a flowery globe, strips of white bleeding into the wind. They melted into the orange horizon, free at last. Pastures new awaited them. A fresh start. A new home. A place to start their new lives, and give birth to yet more. Brave seeds they were, forging onward, embracing their unknown destinies.

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I’ve always wanted my words to go on air, but the situation I found myself in was a tad too literal. Shaken by the prospect of a hefty fine – Singapore takes a tough stand against littering – I chased after my tattered work. The looming sun illuminated each shred of paper, and for a moment, I was taken aback by the beauty before me. Swirling with the evening wind, spirals of written word danced before my eyes.

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It was beautiful.

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It was beautiful.

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Before long, every last piece fluttered beyond my farthest reach. I stood agape, overwhelmed by a sudden heaviness. I muttered a solemn goodbye, and walked back the way I came. As the sky gradually darkened, I came to a sudden realisation. Pieces of me were out there, scattered by my own hand. They would grow, they would preach, and they would live to tell their own stories. Before I could organise my newfound thoughts, I was struck by yet another realisation. I had a story to tell.

CCZH