The following is a very nice write-up by one of
us in the blogosphere, and I am sharing it here. It is addressed as a
"Letter to Singapore", written by Zing, to whom copyright belongs.
Letter to Singapore
Dear Singapore,
I’m sorry, but I’m leaving you. I’ve fallen in love with somewhere else, and you wouldn’t like her. But London is the place for me. I’ve fallen for her dingy, narrow streets. The 24-hour bagels on Brick Lane; the club kids in neon and glitter falling out of Boombox at 3 in the morning; the bands with their urgent, clashing guitars, cigarettes and floppy hair. I’ve fallen for boys who play in bands with a copy of The Female Eunuch in their bedrooms; I’ve fallen for girls who write poetry and play guitar in Leicester Square pubs. I’ve fallen for the Chinese boy I saw at Kings Cross holding hands with his boyfriend, while his mother smiled and hailed a taxi for them all. I’ve fallen in love with the Irish. I’ve fallen in love with the Welsh. They’re all here, Singapore, in tiny corners, in crammed spaces, in underground dancehalls and abandoned warehouses.
We had a good run, but I was never really comfortable with you. You were always liberal when it suited you, small-minded when it didn’t. You used to say, “Careful you don’t be so open-minded, otherwise your brains fall out”. But maybe some fresh air would be good for your head. You were always scared of my clothes, the way I spoke, what I wanted to do. “So smart, is it?” you used to say. “Have some common sense. Later in life, what matters is money. Sad but true. You have to think ahead.”
Letter to Singapore
by Zing (http://stories.sg/issues/1/zing/)
Dear Singapore,
I’m sorry, but I’m leaving you. I’ve fallen in love with somewhere else, and you wouldn’t like her. But London is the place for me. I’ve fallen for her dingy, narrow streets. The 24-hour bagels on Brick Lane; the club kids in neon and glitter falling out of Boombox at 3 in the morning; the bands with their urgent, clashing guitars, cigarettes and floppy hair. I’ve fallen for boys who play in bands with a copy of The Female Eunuch in their bedrooms; I’ve fallen for girls who write poetry and play guitar in Leicester Square pubs. I’ve fallen for the Chinese boy I saw at Kings Cross holding hands with his boyfriend, while his mother smiled and hailed a taxi for them all. I’ve fallen in love with the Irish. I’ve fallen in love with the Welsh. They’re all here, Singapore, in tiny corners, in crammed spaces, in underground dancehalls and abandoned warehouses.
We had a good run, but I was never really comfortable with you. You were always liberal when it suited you, small-minded when it didn’t. You used to say, “Careful you don’t be so open-minded, otherwise your brains fall out”. But maybe some fresh air would be good for your head. You were always scared of my clothes, the way I spoke, what I wanted to do. “So smart, is it?” you used to say. “Have some common sense. Later in life, what matters is money. Sad but true. You have to think ahead.”
