by Dylan Lim
She descended her dark stage, illuminated by a singular spotlight and floating on the silent praise on her performance that represented a part of her, only permitted to come alive, to dance, to sorrow and to die with an audience; untouched by reality, she immortalized herself on that scene full of glitter and puff, impressing the crowd of shadows as her musicians serenaded her every action. She loves being herself – able to live and die multiple lives, and who can say they really understand a story unless they are within it themselves?
by Jeng Yang
I stay up in the library a lot, to the early mornings of the day.
Those who know me know I do not study very well so sometimes I do something different.
Our library have light sensors that are triggered by motion sensors. It is common to see a swath of corridors light up as a person comes in and out of the library. When one sits long enough, the motion sensors fail and the lights go out.
Sometimes, I play a slow piano serenade and sit still, long enough to see the lights go out one by one, as the darkness descends steadily towards me until it engulfs me completely.
It becomes so beautifully surreal. No longer buoyed with reality, my mind lifts me by a tether and I watch myself watch myself watch myself.
by Random Contributor
Random Contributor is his/her name. Don’t wear it out.
We met, if only fleetingly, in a city that was not our own.
I was there on business, a short hop from the place I now call home. For you, it was just one stop in a long sojourn, a trek halfway across the world.
Together, we explored the city. We walked the beach, we ran in the rain, we navigated the back alleys, we travelled the night.
Living out his imagination, thinking the worth of his life, and communicating his identity through writing, Koxeida struggles not for the sake of others, but for himself. He is a selfish amateur being.
It is said that new life begins at January;
The festive of birth, and the rebirth of hope.
Awakening dream that is our life.
So when February teases us with the roses of romanticism,
we let ourselves drown in mirthful delight.
By Afiq Azman
Afiq Azman is a freelance writer and aspiring filmmaker. He often travels by bus as it is, according to him, a place of solitude and soul searching.
A bus, speeding at 100km/h, a journey 800 km in length, clear weather and seamless traffic; yet it still doesn’t help.
All I can do is just to dream of something unrealistic. Then again, what can you do when you are on an economic express bus heading north, with no entertainment onboard?
At least there is a 3-year old Macbook Pro to keep me accompanied. Still, all I can do is to think of something to write. As milepost after milepost whizz past, words slowly appear on the word document sheet. All the random musings of ambition, regrets, success, failures all typed out in perfect harmony.