Groundhog Day
Its on rare days like this that i cant sleep on the bus because I'm thinking too much abt unnecessary stuff, wondering abt the future, reminiscing abt the past and fantasizing abt unrealistic ideas.
Sometimes I wished that there will be some device to capture these random fleeting thoughts and ideas, possibly designed like a thumb drive that can be inserted into the belly button to tap on these thoughts. Apart from serving as the receving end of the umbilical cord, it basically stays on as a defunct recess for accumulating dirt.
Speaking of orifices, which reminds me of this orifice advertisement. Its about an indian girl who lacked money to pay for birds and how our benevolent and moneyed Richard gere noticed her plight and paid for a flock of birds to take flight.
"i'm sorry. This is only enough for one bird." "Many birds bring good *uck".Apart from the miniscule sexual connotations and the pompous flaunting of wealth which reeks of white man superiority and dominance, I'm starting to get tired of watching such ads. The first time is awe. The Second time is interesting. Many times is simply annoying. The advertisors/advertising company probably dont understand the mental torment caused by the constant bombardment of the ad televised on TV mobile. Great. Now its playing again.
An Nsf's life is not much different, especially mine. Its like groundhog day everyday. Every morning, you wake up to the disgusting alarm clock sound of your handphone. Trying to shakeoff the grogginess from your somnolent zombie self. You proceed to dress up in the army uniform in a mechanical fashion. You begin to question yourself about individual existence. MaybeI m just another clone like Ewan McGregor seeking for the Island.You smile to yourself in the mirror and say in the most positive, convincing manner: fresh day for fresh shitwork.
Exit house. Walk past the auntie running past the bend. Its the same bend and same auntie.Everyday. Without fail. Walk past the old man walking his dog. Eh, thats euphemistically speaking.To put it crudely, its releasing his dog to shit/piss outside his residence.I look forwardto his daily shitty grin and the poodle getting out its poo. No wonder they say the pet usually takes after the owner.
After avoiding the puddles and mines, i'll reach the bus stop,where i wait for my 74 bus.Its amazing how the brain works to imprint the faces and idiosyncracies of each and everycommuter that board the 6 am bus. I wonder if they bother to register my face:-like a character in their ? life who comes on in clockwork precision.
You take the place as the omniscient observer on the bus. You know where the bespectacled office worker's favourite seat is, the stop where the middle-aged lady will alight, and of course, where your favourite HCJC girl's boarding and alighting points. The occurence of the latter is one of those few events that will register a blip in the otherwise horizontal, below baseline curve.
Your body suddenly becomes tense when she boards the bus. You become self conscious and concerned with even the most minute movements. You want to get a little attention yet you want to remain inconspicuous. How ironic. You do the weirdest things: pretending to gaze at the scenery outside (knowing that its pitch black), stealing a few furtive glances at the girl, peering from the reading medium strategically poised toact as concealment. Shes as deadly as Medusa, one glimpse at her, I'll be transfixed, mesmerized,stoned.
I'm not quite sure whether this is wad people call sick voyeuristic beahviour or craven infatuation but i suspect its a bit of both.
The heart sinks with disappointment as the girl alights from the bus. The sadness lingerseven as she has left. ok, time to concuss and look for the girl in my dreams,its a 50.50 chance.Wish me luck. Night. Before its another day tomorrow.