Passing, Anon.

The train pulled into the station. The doors slid open with a hiss, and a steady flow of people poured into the carriage, their business shoes and heels thudding erratically on the vinyl floor. Some of the new passengers moved upstairs and downstairs to fill up the few remaining empty seats.

Every day, a million strangers will rub shoulders with each other on the buses and trains. They stare at their feet, or bury their faces in a novel, or stare vacantly at the passing scenery outside. Anything to prevent them from making eye contact with one another.

Some people sit next to each other, their shoulders and legs inadvertently touching. When the trains and buses are crowded, people are crammed in like blocks of plasticine in a container. They stand close together but are oblivious to the possibilities. Facing one another, accidental lovers unconsciously waiting.

He was sitting there, thinking of the monotonous day that lay ahead of him, when she walked down the stairs. She paused at the aisle he was sitting in, the sound of her heels stopping abruptly. He shuffled over to give her room. She smoothed her dark business skirt and sat down. Outside, the guard blew his whistle as the last passengers dribbled in, and the doors hissed again and closed. The train groaned once, and started once more.

He rested his head against the window. Day always seemed so long, yet night was never long enough to find rest. He closed his eyes and tried to nap, but found that he couldn’t. The perfume from the woman next to him engulfed him, threatening to strangle him in its sweetness. It brought with it the promise of beautiful things and precious moments.

He turned his head to see the perfume’s owner, but, at the last minute, thought better of it. He covered the awkwardness of this movement by adjusting his pants, and turned to gaze out the window again. The wheels of the carriage clattered frantically against the steel tracks as the train hurried on, and the walls enclosing the railway line bore nothing but brownness and the occasional bright scar of graffiti.

She closed her eyes, then opened them again. She was so tired, so tired. It was already a week, and still she couldn’t stop crying at night. She had no appetite for food, no smiles to give, no life but the life that is routine. She hid her traumatised eyes behind dark glasses and watched the world in shades of gray. Every day she awoke to wish she had never opened her eyes in the first place. She closed her eyes once more. The train rocked gently from side to side, and its peaceful rhythm beckoned her to drift away…

A plane flew overhead and he gazed up at it through the glass, awed by its immenseness. Suddenly, the woman next to him let her head touch his shoulder and then, rested it there. Surprised, he was at once embarrassed, and shifted slightly in his seat. What would the passengers behind him think? He tried to lower himself and inch away, but her head followed wherever his shoulder went. There was nothing he could do, he decided, but let her sleep until it was time for him to go.

The train rolled on, and the initial discomfort of the situation faded away. He sensed the warmth of the weight on his shoulder, became more and more fond of it. It had been a long time since anyone had rested their head on his shoulder. The girl he once loved would often sleep against him when he stayed with her on the long train ride back home.

He turned to look at the woman on his shoulder. Now that she was asleep, he was not afraid to observe her. She was so close, so very close. His world, his senses, were filled with her – her smell, her warmth, her shape. Her hair brushed against his cheek as he turned, fine dark threads of silk laced with the scent of the shampoo she used. Some strands fell over her face and sunglasses, shrouding them furtively. Her lips were a light red and were half-open, like a new rose before it opened its petals. Her breasts rose and fell, rose and fell gently with every breath she took.

He was enamoured with this woman. He did not know her name, had not even heard her voice, yet he wanted her to be his. He wanted badly for her to be his. How foolish of him to think these things, he thought. He turned his attention back to the world outside and watched a lamp post running backwards as the train passed another station.

She stirred and was still again. He turned back to her. He saw that the hair over her face was really a veil, and if he brushed it aside and kissed her half-open lips, she would be forever wedded to him. If only he could embrace her, he would never let go!

I know what to do, he decided. When she awakes, I’ll ask her for her name and number. It would work, he was sure of it. He waited nervously. A part of him wanted to wake her then and there, wake her and talk to her. But she looked so sacred in her slumber, like something divine that would be blasphemed by his intervention. He could not commit such a sin. What if she is still asleep when it is time for him to leave? If he were to get up, she would wake. No – he would let her wake on her own accord. He would miss his stop and let her sleep.

The train slowed as it approached the station. Pulling into the station, thick blurred lines of black and grey melted into thinner and thinner lines, until finally transmorphing into people checking watches and folding newspapers. The train braked to a stop and sighed. The doors hissed and opened.

Startled by the noise, the woman awoke and sat up abruptly. Shit. This was her stop. Clinging onto her handbag, she got up, bounded up the carriage stairs and stepped out of the train.

Schweppes Lemon, Lime & Bitters (315mL)

Rating: 3.5 out of 5.




Schweppes lemon lime and bitters. I will forever remember you as the first drink I ever had at my first ever professional job.

Why did I choose you?

Maybe it was your name. Lemon lime and bitters - it brings an image of some exotic mixture, concocted from a rare tropical fruit that grows in trees 100ft tall and must be handpicked at precisely 2am in the morning.

It also sounds very vague and mysterious; it's something that would be written, very Da Vinci-like, on some ancient treasure map to hidden gold. Treasure awaits ye at lemon...lime...bitter....

Maybe though, it was the colour of the liquid. I've always had a strange predisposition to slightly-off-colour-milky substances. The bright green of the label contrasts perfectly with the sickly lime green around it, and the yellow Schweppes label tops it all off nicely. It's almost as if they made the label first, and then experimented with the liquid until they found the right colour. ("That still doesn't match! Add more artificial colour #3572!")

Intriguingly, the label states, in fine print: WITH 5% LEMON & LIME JUICE. Makes you wonder what the other 95% is made of. Sugar? Colour? Asbestos?
The bottle itself is a nice shape, although it lacks the hourglass curves of a Coke bottle. It's also a little on the small side, but this allows it to fit snugly in any hand or cupholder.

Twisting off the gold lid for the first time, a gentle hiss is emitted as gas escapes from the bottle. If you're a little crazy, you might even swear that the hiss is really a 'schhhh' - as in 'Scchhhweppes'. But no, that's just silly.

Gulping down the contents, I am surprisedly unsurprised that it tastes like lemon. And lime. The bubbles that were trapped in the drink explode pleasantly on the back of my tongue and throat, like being caressed by hundreds of tiny little hands. I fantasise briefly on the pleasures of immersing myself in a bathtub of the stuff. Oh dear, did I say that aloud?

And then, just as I'm sitting there enjoying it, the last part of the drink hits. The bitterness. It's akin to having your favourite wonton noodle soup only to find a bandaid in it when you're almost finished. The aftertaste is awful.

Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet, but the fruit of the poor lemon, is impossible to eat.

I've made a new friend at work. He is a Canon Multifunction machine, model no. CLC-iR C3200-C1 PCL5c. His name is BND03C01. At least that's what everyone tells me.
I visit him whenever I need to print, fax or copy. Today I had to run off fifteen 90-page booklets, so I was able to spend some quality time with him.
'How are you today?'
'Buuuuuurrrrr........' he burbles back.
'I'm so bored...'
'....buuurrrrr......'
'....I have nothing to do. I wish I was like them. They sit there and make phonecalls and go to meetings and get paid heaps.'
'....buuurrrrr......'
'I can't believe I'm doing this. Wasting my time.'
'....buuurrrrr......chikachika....buuurrrrrr.......'


I turn on the starfield screensaver and pretend I'm flying into hyperspace. Wait. You can't go on an astronomical trip like that without some snacks!
I scurry into the kitchen and bring back chocolate chip cookies and chicken-flavoured chips. I am ready for my galactic journey of no return.


'So....anything interesting been happening lately?'
'Buuuurrrrrr.....chikachika......buuuuuurrrrrr..........'

I've been reading a lot of books lately. I used to read a lot in school, but when uni came, I just couldn't be bothered spending the time and the thought.
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I think it works the other way, too. What the soul sees out of those windows nourishes it and strengthens it.
There are two types of books that one can read. Books that free your imagination, and books that open your mind. The former expands your vision, the latter lengthens it.

Everyone has a secret desire to be cast as a character in a novel or a movie. We hope our character will reinforce our positive aspects, or demonstrate to us a (positive) side of ourselves we have not yet seen. Will I be the tireless wanderer? The loyal friend? The naive girl who has her heart broken again and again and again?

I think some people get the wrong impression of me when reading this blog. They think I have all these deep and meaningful ideas in my head, and this means that they can have deep and meaningful conversations with me. Perhaps, at times. But in reality, the me Me is different from the blog Me.
The me Me has something to say, but is afraid or doesn't know how or when to say it. In truth, he isn't very talkative. The blog Me doesn't care. He has something to say and says it, each time your eyes read the words on the page.
Sometimes the blog Me will look upon the me Me and say: 'How trite and trivial you are!'

My dream is to one day write a book. I know a friend who has already started, and I admire her greatly for it. My trouble is coming up with a story.
For now though, I realise our lives are a story, and this is my book. You are the characters in my book. Have we reached our climax?

The young man rode the elevator down to the ground floor and stepped out. He was on his lunch break. He walked stiffly towards the lounges and sat down, stiffly. He still wasn't used to wearing business attire, day in, day out. He felt like a small child playing dress-ups with his dad's clothes. He tucked his shirt in for the hundredth time, adjusted his belt.

Eating his lunch in the muted quiet, he noticed that the small black coffee table before him was really a mirror; leaning over it, he could see his own face clearly in the glass. He stared at his own reflection, studying it like one would study a lover's face.
His face seemed so foreign, and each time he saw his own reflection it would always, for an instant, both surprise and terrify him - never did it look like what he expected it to look like.

And now he noticed that the black glass framed his reflection, as if his reflection were trapped in the glass. Trapped in a airtight void, imprisoned within layers of silicon. How glad he was that he was not his reflection!
But then, as he blinked and his reflection blinked back, he was reminded of a boy peering down a well. It was then that he realised his mistake. The boy glared at him from the edge of the well, glared down at him. It was he that was in the well, looking back up at the boy above! The boy grinned. Look who's trapped now! his smile said.

The young man stood up and left, back up the elevator and back to his desk, where he continued to stare at his screen as before.