:: Villainy ::

If there is nothing to write about, today, can I just write about things? Just things, you know―like the way the air outside is a lethal sheen of hot smog. I imagine the dust particles as dancing, torrid atoms, sticking to my skin, whispering into my hair, dripping sweat down the nape of my neck.

Like the bunch of grapes I bought from the supermarket―deceptively attractive, firm and plump with purple promise, but they turn out to be cutting and tart, as though the vines from which they were harvested from are heavy with sour tragedy.

Like the old lady slumped against the wall at the smoking lobby seventeen floors beneath my corporate (penal) colony, dragging on her cigarette with the passion one reserves for a lover or a child. She sits squarely on the bench, her loose, flowery blouse running over her thin body with distaste. Her cheeks sink with effort everytime she takes a puff; her lips are cracked with nicotine and flaky lipstick. I have never seen her without those old-fashion sunglasses, so I can't say what her eyes are like. But I imagine they tell some sort of story―she doesn't seem wretched or angry, just barren with lucid waste. Once upon a time―when I was an occasional worshipper of the nicotine god―I would have joined her. Perhaps I would ask her for a light; we might have ignited a conversation, along with the poisonous whorls of self indulgence.

Like the bird I saw the other day. Its song was eclipsed by the evening traffic. It was darting through the sky―low flung; the weight of the air was clamant pressure, and it couldn't struggle free―not with ease, but with animal intent. Sometimes you have wings, and you still cannot fly.

Like the pleasure of watching evening give way to night. When I flicked on this screen ten minutes ago, the sky was a child's painting―unkempt with fiery colours, broken in places, and smeared with the afternoon haze. Now the sun has ebbed into a gentle grey. You can still see an arch of daylight over the skyline of buildings, but not for long. I sometimes think Darkness is the sensible elder brother to Light, and when one embrace the other, it becomes a gentle homecoming.

You know, just things.

***

Girls―I miss you. I saw a bunch of school girls the other day, on the bus―they reminded me of us, years ago; our youth was green and gregarious, and the only thing blue about our existence then was our turquoise uniform. When I think about us, I can't be bothered with pretty prose or stylish words, because it's all very simple―we have laughed and cried ourselves into familiarity, and I can only hope time, distance and our adult distractions wouldn't erode our friendship.

Come over soon. We'll order pizza, guzzle down bottles of green tea, and we'll have our heart-to-heart talks until sleep takes over.