2025

It creeped in because health is overrated,

Took us by surprise, leaving the strong feeling naked.

A messed up joint is less important than a war,

But Ares himself wouldn't dream a strength so poor.

I always thought that the mental was a trigger for our soul,

Or at least the braise that burns our body whole.

A husband waiting up there in the sky,

An absence felt by both elder and child.

Dominoes triggered by a final breath,

Challenging the faith of the straight and narrow, faced with the questions of death.

The bottle is a symbol shared by newborn and the wild,

But especially the lost choosing to stay blind.

Selfishness is subjective and sometimes it is kind,

But who chooses if one's grief is stronger than the one left behind?

Metaphors are expression,

Embellishing what's inside.

Welcome to the year of 2025.

On Wheels

I would have been about six years old when I learnt to ride a bike. Although that day has since melted into just about every other day I lived before the age of ten, I can still piece together roughly what it would have looked like. 

It was a Sunday, I presume, as that was when we went on our 'adventures' - the term my Mother used to describe what was essentially a glorified walk. Every adventure was the same: my sibling on their bike and I on my scooter, rolling much too quickly along the path to the side of our apartment. I found her choice of wording endlessly frustrating as in my eyes it was really the antithesis of an adventure, but I digress. 

At the time I lived on the twenty-somethingth floor of an apartment complex, with a front door that opened out onto the lone elevator in the building. I still remember the distinct terror that would overcome me whenever I entered that lift. It was much too loud and much too slow, and my overactive imagination did not exactly play a helpful role in overcoming my lift-related phobia. On days such as these, we would venture to the lift and wait for its metal jaw to creak open. Fighting my instincts, I would place both feet on the platform. As the number on the dully lit screen above its mouth ticked downwards, I would hold my breath. I'm not sure that I ever succeeded in reaching the ground floor in a single gulp of air, but it never stopped me from trying. As the doors groaned open, I would grab my scooter and shove it over the threshold of the lobby. I would then halt at the double glass doors, waiting rather impatiently for my Father to pull them open. This was where my adventure began.

Scooter in hand, I took off, tripping over the rutted tiles. After some metres, the tiling became concrete and the roofing morphed into open air, and I knew it was time to mount my noble steed. In a blur of shocking pink, I took off along the road. As I moved faster and faster, the wind began to whip at my hair, only further knotting my array of tangles. Eventually I came to a hasty stop, suddenly possessing enough decency to pause momentarily for my parents to catch up. This was when my Father presented me with the idea of riding a bike for the first time. 

Taking the great thing off of my sibling, he pressed its thick handles into my palms. To this day I distinctly remember just how overly large it felt, and how unproportionately small I was in comparison. After clambering onto the seat, it became apparent that my feet only just brushed the pedals. I strained my arms forward to reach the handle bars, eyes peeled, and took off. 

This is where the memory becomes fuzzy. I can't seem to remember whether the event ended in triumph or tragedy. At the time I had such a knack for falling off, on or over things that I developed thick scars on my knees that are still there today - albeit a little faded. It is possible that I simply squeezed the breaks, and stumbled off, but it's more likely that I toppled over and added to that scar tissue. Either way, it was a momentous occasion. I'd like to think that I still tackle challenges with the same bravery, bordering on arrogance, that I exhibited that day, but I doubt that is the case. Sometimes I reckon it's necessary to ride overly large bikes and skate at a pace far quicker than is deemed safe. Life is simply too boring otherwise.

The Note of an Addicted Kid

Games are made to be fun. Games are made to be addictive. And once you start to play a game, you will want to play it repeatedly. That is me, I admit. I spend my time playing games instead of studying, even though I have exams coming up. I know I have to prepare and all, but I just can’t resist the urge to play games. Gaming has me trapped in this infinite cycle of playing games and not studying. 

This is my reality, and gaming is something that I can’t avoid spending my time on. From time to time, I just want to play games, in school or not, with my friends or not. It lets me relax. I sometimes don’t even tell my parents about me gaming, something they penalize me a lot for. For them, not saying the truth is equivalent to lying. Considering that for the test, the only subject I am not ready for is English, and I already have a tutor for that, do I really have to spend my entire day revising my English vocabulary, my PEEAL paragraphs, and my reading skills, instead of playing games and relieving my stress?

I do understand what they are saying. Gaming does impact my exam results. But what about my happiness? What about my emotions? Am I not allowed to be happy at all? Do I have to suffer all day just because my parents are worrying about my results and I am not satisfying them? Sure, they do let me learn from my “mistakes”, and they are “helping” me get into the top university. I don’t need their help! I know what I am good at and bad at, and I know what to do. I know you have experience and all, but at least let me be who I want to be, not a person that is teased by others about being “mama’s boy”!

This might be a rude thing to say, but I feel misunderstood by my parents. I only play games from time to time, and my parents seem to only notice that part of me, and seem to watch me every time I play games and never when I study. You know why? Because they say that they were “busy” when I was studying, and just ignore what I do literally every day. How is this fair? Because, for me, my parents don’t seem to acknowledge that I am putting effort into my studies, even though I am already doing my best.

***

I am sorry to hear that you had an unpleasant day. I understand your point of view, but let me explain your parents’ thought process. 

Firstly, you have to admit that you were not being honest with your parents. While you didn’t lie, not telling the truth makes it seem like you don’t want to solve the issue of your gaming addiction. You don’t seem to reflect on your mistakes.

Think about it this way. Imagine a bucket with a small hole. Your parents could have helped you mend the hole. But by not telling them and not fixing the hole, you are letting the hole become bigger and bigger. At the start, perhaps you could block the hole with your hand. But as it gets larger, it becomes harder for you to block and mend the hole.

Maybe try to talk to your parents before you start gaming and they will allow you to play for a bit.

I am sure your parents actually know how much you actually try in your studies. It might just be that they are worried that you will regret that you didn’t try your best if you get bad grades. I mean, if that costs you your desired university, your dream job, wouldn’t you wish that you had listened to your parents? It may seem like a long time away, but no matter what, it will still be your future and your decision. Maybe try telling them your opinions, and they might listen to your thoughts and allow you to negotiate.

Just remember, your parents do have responsibility over you, at least until you are 18. But it is certain that they care about your emotions and thoughts, and want to lead you to a good future. If you don’t like their choices, you have to let your parents know, because they can’t know without you telling them!

My Friend Who Turned Red

I once knew a girl named River. 

I found it difficult to look in her eyes for they were painfully mesmerising: unlike anything a human could ever fathom. When you looked in the great green of her irises, you could find your own reflection, unblinking, and dumbly staring back at you. She would flow gently against pain, kissing the roughness tenderly and carefully eroding all things jagged until all that was left was soft and changed. Her ribbon-like rivulets would mutter and hum softly, whispering secrets in their wake and weaving a braided path through grasses and deserts alike. 

I tried touching her once. The first and last time. I think it was the way she smelt - like salt and the sweetness of fresh air - that reeled me in like a stupid fish. I recall my shaking hand. How it trembled like a velvety vibrato as the calloused pads of my wrinkled fingertips grazed her rippling blue skin, only to find that my hand went right through her arm! She looked at me and laughed at my foolishly gaping face, droplets falling as each note came out, hitting the ground with a wild splash!

Like most changes we find ourselves encountering, they usually happen without warning. I don’t remember what I noticed first when it happened. But it was sudden.

Perhaps it was the smell. The violent tang of metal filled my nose, like corroding copper left out exposed and unclean for too long. No…surely it was the colour? Beneath the mysterious cloudiness of her eyes, a wine-dark bloom began to spread like the unfurling bud of a rose. The blood blotched the mottled greenery, spreading like the veins of a hungry lightning strike. 

Yes. It was the colour that pushed me away. I had never seen red like that, so dark and black that nothing could seep through it. I remember gazing desperately at the last of the blue in her eyes, watching pathetically as it was engulfed by murky shadows. 

As it happened, a voice in my head chimed and said: ‘You’ll never see the faint speckles of gold in her eyes again.’