☾ 诗

Recently, in response to something I shared, Niks said that as we grow older, we need to spend more time with people we actually want to spend time with. Another friend calls these people “kindred spirits”–they’re not just people who are on the same frequency as us but who will care for us the way we would like to be cared for. Friends who will express that they want to see you, they miss you, they’d ask, “What’s been going on?” And really, truly listen.

Care has been on my mind. I really don’t care for indulging in resentment because that’s the easy way out (so easy to complain ‘woe is me’, how boring and stagnating) but one question that I believe was God’s way of grabbing my attention popped into my mind last Monday as I was meditating:

Who have you found who will share in, and hold the burdens you have hidden in your heart?

muah chee man near Gurney Hawker Centre, Penang

I was stunned as I sat on the sofa thinking about the answer to this question. I would have never phrased such a question in this way. It was asked by Someone who sees my heart, especially when I often take a long time to pinpoint what I have been going through underneath the surface.

The answer came in waves: Names, faces, people who have given me their yes despite my no. I counted a handful and was content but also kicked myself because I haven’t spent much time investing in them. So I decided to take the intiative to call and organise. I gave them my yes, and… each moment left me feeling fed. Full. Pardon the pun/dual meaning of the word but I found a metaphor to accurately describe what I want or hope to experience in my friendships: it should feel like the physical fullness you get after volume eating the good stuff for the body.

Some changes in my schedule forced me to review my relationships with people around me and to decide who should be in my inner circle (and me in theirs). Have I felt supported, or do I just keep saying Yes because guilt has been stirring within me, only to end up feeling ‘hungry’ and left wanting for more?

Papa's birthday dinner with mango cake, pulut hitam cake & ice-cream

More what? What else can they give but what they have given me thus far? So this entire week has been a tug-of-war and a (too) conscious reflection of whether or not I am approaching friends with too much pride or unreasonable expectations. Sometimes I find that I don’t have the energy to even communicate my expectations.

But one thing I give myself credit for is not letting disappointment take root, and I am proud to find that I can very graciously let myself enter this season of change to walk ahead. And that it is okay. It is okay to have felt tired of justifying or explaining, and to just walk on ahead knowing that we have each others’ best interests at heart :)

I trust that I have given what I can and I trust that I deserve what I want. All this must come from a place of security. The year started out with one word, “Dreams” and I must hold myself accountable to making them come true in all the aspects of my life even as I let the Potter hold my hand and mould my grip to complement His.

“I hoped otherwise.“

A line from Netflix’s Teach You A Lesson sums up what I’ve been learning this June. About hoping for the best in a person but feeling deep disappointment afterward. Still, forgiveness continues to fuel that hope-to not villanize, to keep giving people chances or giving them space to realize their faults-and reveals an angle on why God emphasizes forgivenes which I am surprised to have discovered. It is also the angle that I need—I need forgiveness from others; I need the grace from others when I make mistakes myself, especially when it is quick for me to criticise or lament on social media. Am still learning what it means to love somebody through the offence itself. Do I confront? Do I allow the person to step forward? Even then, how can I outdo that person in love? To let bygones be bygones, knowing that somewhere down the line, the bad thing will happen again. It just depends on the degree of it. And till then, it is my own responsibility to be grow to be able to handle it. Can I say that I have matured since, in the way I handle things? And can I give myself the grace I so need when I fail? I am still learning.

The brilliance of the Word is a light that never stops shining because of how the truth comes full circle… how one’s own actions can come back to bite. It is not a karmic lesson per se, but opportunities to practise love and put action to it instead of just waxing lyrical.

Normally I shy away from such opportunities. Part pride, part non-confrontational nature. I always stew, and it isn’t healthy to do so. Did I spare the other person by not letting him or her feel my very intense, very big emotions? I don’t know.

…passed by rather quickly.

Wedding plans have been going well and I find myself missing my parents a little more during this time. While we live in sweltering, humid Singapore, I’d like to think of the months of November and December as the soul’s winter: a cosy, little fireplace that comes alive with the imaginary sounds of crackling ember.

A few emotions have been nudging at my heart tenderly, asking me to tend to them. But the one I felt the deepest was an inner desire for God to fill me again.

A few weeks ago, while I was praying, the Lord highlighted the word “Dream”. I am thankful for the amount of time I have been given to recover from the previous eye infection and with the deferment from school, I’ve been able to spend a lot more time in silence. But I have also been distracted. It’s been up and down, and in times when I focus way too much on myself and the future I want, I always find myself empty, naked, and wanting more. In my humanness, I turned inward, asking myself, “Do I want to eat? Do I want to move? Am I bored?” “Or am I empty?” came the question.

Then the wanting for ‘more’ felt familiar: it is the feeling of coming back to the Father and turning my gaze towards Him again.

Better is one day in Your courts, than thousands elsewhere. One thing I ask from the LORD, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the LORD and to seek him in his temple.

As I sat listening to Garett & Kate lead a worship session on YouTube yesterday evening, I found myself longing to sit with a congregation in corporate worship. I thought back to the nights when we would gather for corporate prayer sessions and how tangible the presence of the Lord was in the sanctuary even before any music began playing; it was not manmade, and it was so real that nobody could deny it.

To gaze upon God’s face. What a sight it is for one’s soul to behold. What a dream it is to dwell within His courts, and find that the day spent with the Lord has filled you beyond any other days elsewhere.

I am wayward. But I do find myself pouring out my oil on Jesus’ feet again and again, and there is no place I would rather be. Yet even as I think about what I can bring before the Lord, Jesus continues to ask, ‘Ling, will you let me wash your feet?’

My husband’s unwavering generosity towards me reveals a glimpse of God’s love to me every single day. Sometimes I need to ask for emotional connection when he is busy, but I am never left wanting. And as we continue kindling the fire of both marriage and faith in our own individual lives even though we are of different religions, I can’t help but feel that God’s presence is with us. But, I want to add, I can’t find Him when I am distracted. That perhaps the emptiness I felt meant I may have been slightly lost, like a lamb that has wandered off, and it was only my Maker’s voice that had the ability to call out to me to come back. To hold my attention, and to encounter the Lord again.

How short our attention spans are when it comes to God. I am 32. I think about my father who has lived (and continues to do so, by grace) 80+ over years on this earth. While I thank God for his life, I am also becoming even more aware of the brevity of life, and I don’t want to live out my days being distracted from the things that matter most.

So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.

I am sat here gobbling up the remains of the Ritz peach strudel I bought two days ago with my adult money. It’s a huge chunk, and I’m crazy, I know, but I’m very proud of myself for buying something to look forward to as my girl-hormones implode within me.

I’ve had plenty of free time over these two days and I’m thinking of starting a visual series on my tutoring account which will feature some highlights and events that a Singaporean citizen can go to using the SG Culture Pass. I’m thinking of including some notes for the upper primary and secondary students who may benefit from the insights and experiences. Like an illustrated, digital magazine feature with food-for-thought of some sort that will help them in the Oral and English exam. Or simply for mindful consumption! I want to make it sound cool and say the concept will follow something like an online zine that I may sell, perhaps, but in short, this is just a humble attempt at engaging with culture in Singapore and sharing it with the younger generation.

For someone who really loves everything about theatre, I haven’t really seen many plays in the past couple of years. I become very inspired after leaving the theatre but am secretly disappointed that I can only stay connected to that world through my participation as an audience member. I wonder if I could contribute by making and getting creative again. Theatre here is also expensive and if I had the time, I’d really like to organise a trip to the next Edinburgh Fringe festival (or is it Festival Fringe) with my UK mates. When that will happen, I don’t know.

H has just sent me a response to my invitation to come with me to the Singapore Art Book Fair: “and do what exactly” I said: “Be a culture vulture. Walk walk. Look at things people create.” We are from two different worlds and have very different tastes. But we still end up huddled together at night (more like me) watching ‘Help! My House is Haunted!’ And when the host of the show asks the spirit, “Why are you here?” H shouts out, “SEX!!!” Maybe that’s what I like about being with him. Maybe that's why I'm marrying this man.

When I think about culture and the Arts in Singapore, I find myself trying to be positive about the scene but my mind always goes back to an article T.C. Chang wrote. He mentioned about how the government tends to co-opt graffiti artists to serve official purposes. Chang also touched on purists vs. the pragmatists: purists are artists who refuse to seek official license, which upholds the values and the rebellious streak of what graffiti, as a sub-culture, is all about. On the other hand, pragmatists are those who work within legal and physical restrictions such as demarcated spaces and cooperate with the government. An interesting point is that apparently, by doing so, the outcome is that it helps to reduce the negative stigma around graffiti and street art. An actor whom I worked with in a play I co-wrote said to me, ‘Push the boundaries.’ But I was afraid. Looking back, I wonder what else I would have written to reflect an ‘edginess’ that I think we’ve lost here. Now that I’ve spent so much time away from watching plays or keeping tabs on the scene, maybe I’ve lost my edge as well.

But this is what we’ve become, isn’t it. Here in Singapore. Food is culture, and it’s ‘safe’–so we consume and consume. Sure, you have the occasional creative F&B guy who comes up with yet another fusion dish and plays with form. But the experience is simply eaten and swallowed, not felt. Not often, anyway. And even if there were risks to be acted upon, who among us has the time to put that form of expression out there?

How does passion live here, in a society like Singapore?

I wish I had the bravery of an activist. I don’t. I feel like I am at a point in my life where I am transmuting a blazing fire in me into a small, steady flame. It’s October. I am making a promise to myself to keep writing and to keep tending to this flame through poetry and work as a future counsellor, until it burns pure and strong.

I struggle with finding the emotional arc to my writing sometimes but like I told a church friend when we were in Dishoom way back when we were in the UK: “When you’re writing a poem, you don’t usually know what you want to say at first, but then when it is finished, you will realise that the feeling is true.” I think I still trust that 21-year-old girl and her wisdom. It is what I needed today. Maybe I should start by asking some friends out to the Art Book fair. On a lighter note, I bought and wore my first Punjabi suit (this style is called 'sharara') to my friend's CMIO-themed wedding. It was one of the best days ever, besides this year's Diwali. Thanks for reading x

she is born, held, by the wave of a page within the axis of her own universe. she can still feel her mother’s soft gaze over her shoulder: a lesson in beholding the beauty of distance. the room is awash with humid gold that merely touches the tip of her lashes. the afternoon breeze sighs, exhaling a warm prayer as the little explorer pores over universes hidden in pages. her tummy bulges, small fingers applying just enough force to steady her focus as she is led by an invisible hand– pleasure, as she will grow to know, is the quiet in the wilderness asking her to follow her own lead, an ouroboros nobody knows. the wave turns to reveal an outpouring that knows only to seep and flow. are they tears? a life force? or a daughter’s cry for connection? like a bird’s wings covering its young, she lifts the flap of her own little heart, finding the lesson her mother taught her, beating steadily within.

– 28.9.2025 4.55PM

16 July 2025 On a bus As if it were a miracle, my 3PM tuition kid shifted his lesson to the weekend and freed up my afternoon for me to walk around Chinatown after a manicure. Each passing thought began to feel like a small pearl formed under layers, waiting to be discovered and collected. So, I decided to write.

I enter People's Park Centre and head to queue up for thunder tea rice. The stall used to be at Bukit Batok before it closed last year and shifted back here. The vendor spots me and grins with sparkly eyes—his smile radiates warmth, even behind his mask. "Ah, nice to see you again ah!" he beams and I smile shyly, responding with a Hi. My fiancé would never believe I am this shy in public, especially when I bump into someone I know. I order sweet and sour tempeh, and the usual thunder tea rice. At that moment, the vendor spots my wrist guard and asks in Mandarin, "Can you carry the tray?" 

That moment—the tinge of concern in his voice—felt as if an angel had dropped a pearl of human kindness into my pocket and had been waiting for me to realise it. No one knew I had come with a heavy, shelled-up heart that afternoon. It reminded me of a vision I had when Christ had asked me, "Ling, what else is in your pocket?" There had been two rocks, symbolising burdens. This time, I was receiving from above.

I savour the tempeh and tell myself not to dabao some home because there's food at home, and now that I'm transitioning out of my parents' home and into the matrimonial one, I am reminded of abiding by our agreed budget and to accept the reality check: don't be greedy.

A lady in her forties sitting opposite me in too-close proximity at the table keeps stealing glances at me. She had helped to shift my umbrella before I sat down, and I had said thank you, but the staring was off-putting. "Maybe people think you look nice? Stop being so conscious," H and a friend had told me before. Still, I find people who like to stare and let their gaze linger very rude. It's invasive. I look up and she quickly looks away. I find myself thinking about my Japanese nail technician who avoids eye contact (probably a cultural thing). Today she was slightly chattier than usual—often, we sit in silence due to time constraints and the language barrier. "Would you join a nail art competition?" I ask. She responds matter-of-factly, "I don't like competitive. I like peace." Funnily enough, today she told me that she's a Cancer. I nodded, because I like moody people. 

As I walk around People's Park Centre, the small, sporadic shops remind me that we can only ever be at one place, at one time. As I take the escalator up, I asked myself why I like the place so much. The last time I was here was with my mum, years back. A woman's puffy hair reminds me of her. A thought: Maybe I like this place because I feel like I'll bump into my mum at any moment. A watery film glazes over my vision for a little while and the lights around me sparkle before I take a breath. A tear, or rather, a pearl reveals itself to me in the form of a memory when I used to feel a warm glow spread over my heart whenever I would see my mother's face as a young girl. As I grew older, the warmth gradually faded. Buried itself under layers. I blink and continue wandering around. 'Breathe in, breathe out.'

As a daughter of elderly parents, I've come to accept that actually, my parents are not as 'good-natured' as I think they are. God and I have been working on the aftermath of this shattered illusion, and I've been able to hold myself back from lashing out and simply letting natural consequences do the talking. In the absence of words or expression, silence can be very loud, and it can serve you well. The last straw that made me decide it was time to move out happened in silence—and it was effective and productive; meaning, I got the peace I needed in the end. Perhaps it would be nice to bump into my mum, or my dad, some other time instead. Presence doesn't always mean connection, and perhaps this transition is teaching me and them something more profound about our relationship. What that something is, I don't quite know yet.

The contact dermatitis on my fingers are blistering at full force today. Maybe I'm stressed. / 18 July 2025 At Vanda I'm usually very good with transitions and adjusting to new phases of life. This time round, I find myself worrying a bit more about my dad and wondering if he feels lonely. I've been listening and reading to the Word a little more, and can feel that I am letting the Lord tend to a tender spot in me. Do you know what tender feels like? Tender is when your joint is ravaged by gouty crystals and it feels as if needles are poking through the bone from the inside out. A light blanket brushes the joint, which is a shock, and you yelp in pain.

/ once again, i find myself sipping coffee as if i'm in a different time zone, like i don't need to go to bed. the reality doesn't quite sink in. rather, it overlaps. i choose to have a vanilla and cinnamon risotto for dinner, to which the waiter raises a brow. diagonally across me, a man enjoys a glass of wine, alone. like i am, alone. he doesn't see me but i let my gaze rest on him for a little longer. 

in that moment, my memory throws itself back to a date years ago when i peeled prawns in front of a Polish boy and the juice almost splattered all over him. we got on, but for some reason, i never wanted him back at mine. then i met you. a small part of me is still teetering on that timeline, which, if i'm honest, feels more like a rope. i know who i am, i know who i am with. i'm frustrated because the more i tug on it to loosen myself, the more it tightens itself. funny how i stepped into the open loop voluntarily, naively, of my own accord.

cord. that's the word. the spiritual test will not break me. 

this sweet breakfast risotto has stewed apples on it, but it's a tad too cold for my liking. on this timeline, my free will is a gift. on this timeline, my mother isn't screaming in my head. my intentions are set—scarily even, like boulders. unmoving. for the first time, i feel the full weight of my existence in the here-and-now ten years later. an era. i can't bring you with me because i don't know who you are.

that risotto was so good. the night class will be boring. the coffee will keep me awake. my blistered feet will continue walking this rope, setting me right again. 

Been listening to Baby Teeth on repeat. What a tune. Favourite lyrics are: I'm getting used to it, rip my womb outside of me I'm as pure, pure as gasoline Sounds violent (probably is) but once you look past it, I think a lot of people don't understand what an abuse victim goes through after having had something pure of them and their identity taken away by an abuser. People who feel worthless (and I have felt it before) tend to feel 'dirty', 'used', 'wasted' - and this is something you have to live with. Imagine having to give birth to the child of your abuser. It isn't so easy to see the child as separate from the mother because the purpose of sex, is essentially how two spirits (one flesh in the context of marriage) come together to make another. I cannot even begin to imagine the neonatal issues that arise from abuse. The rage a woman feels is deeper, more profound than you know. In order to protect one's self, one would rather not have a womb because with it, you can reproduce a potential abuser's 'spawn'. One would rather not be a woman but 'alone', not willing to become one flesh with another, not willing to be in relationship with a man who is supposed to honour, love and protect her at all costs. Why would you? Listening to a lot of #aliceglass has been triggering but as I continue with further studies as a future therapist and counsellor, I find myself being connected deeply with the spirit behind these lyrics. I feel unafraid, and like what Glass has mentioned before: she dances when she's sad. I think it is an art to turn fear into rage. And in my experience, it works. God rest our souls, after death, and in the here and now.

‘Culture’ is a big word. Since it’s Gemini season (Moon in Gemini here, hola!), I’m going to try and unpack how I navigated through a 3-year-long ‘cultural exchange’ through my experience with language at university.

When I first started my lessons at Royal Holloway, I remember how certain white British people would turn their noses up at me simply because I communicated differently. Only a rare handful put in the effort to understand where I was coming from. By ‘different’ I mean that I had to catch myself whenever I slurred or cut my words short in order to compress them into a sound that fit the accent they were already used to. Basically, I was begging my mirror neurons to work for me every time I had to attend a class all throughout my first year. Trying on the one hand was difficult. Feeling like my communicated message wasn’t accepted was a whole other ballgame. Was it that deep? Yes, it was, and is still that deep.

I can break my interactions with people whom I am considered ‘foreign’ to down into three tiers, and each tier requires a bit of a leap to reach the other, in this order:

1 - You make an effort to understand what I am saying.

2 - You understand what I am saying, and ACCEPT what I am saying.

3 - You ask and LEARN how to speak like me in order to get a glimpse of my experience and process whenever I code-switch to sound like you. (This requires learning on your part to even begin considering snippets of my history and culture that I carry with me wherever I go, and to communicate with me on that level while acknowledging that you don’t know and will never know everything about the place I come from as you converse with me. And I will do the same with you.)

I still speak in a different accent when I communicate with my British friends and can code-switch back to Singlish whenever I want, but a question I’ve been asking myself is this: ‘Why do I feel the need to speak in an accent in the first place?’ It’s a pressure-cooker of a question, but it is important to me that I am able to answer it. I am confronting that question today.

Did I trust that the Brits could understand my Singaporean accent? No. And by the way, I am impatient as hell, so I learned to speak the way they did in order to communicate messages across in an efficient, surefire way. Did I compromise on my own cultural identity especially since language is such a big part of it? Yes, actually. But I don’t regret it because I saw myself as a guest in their country, though I believe it is their privilege to learn how to speak like me.

I definitely attach pride to my ability to code-switch. Dear reader, you may find the next statement a contentious one, but here goes: I find myself being able to articulate my ideas more when I speak in a British accent. There are certain idiosyncratic words and phrases that express a whole range of various meanings compared to the English/Singlish vocabulary I am already exposed to. There is a certain confident or poise I perform whenever I speak in an accent, and I like how my mind works when my mouth runs on accented, Brit-English fuel.

This is very personal by the way, and I am by no means saying that people are unable to express themselves while speaking Singlish/Singaporean English as compared to the British accent. It just means that I like how I am able to express myself in a different way. Up till today, it is as if speaking in a British accent unleashes a whole other world of speech and expression in my being. There is a different vibe, and with that different vibe comes a new meaning of what it means to even coming close to calling Britain a ‘home’. When I was at university, I would also delight in the fact that I could speak Singlish among my friends and feel connected to both worlds. Strange, yet familiar.

One night, I found myself hanging out with two male friends, the first being a black British, Jamaican-born man and the other a British Lebanese (and ultimate Drake-wannabe, lol) under a shelter in complete darkness except for the red glow of the cigarette we shared. I looked at them and said, “Guys, our backgrounds are so different, yet here we are.” And we simply nodded and grinned in agreement. This is a picture of what Tier 3 (as above) looks like. Another Tier 3 incident was when Tammy started singing a string of Hokkien expletives I had taught her in class. It just so happened that a Malaysian playwright had come in to teach us that day. He smiled and looked at her before turning to me, asking, “So where are you from?” “Singapore.” “Ah.” That was classic.

What’s my point? I learned more by speaking their way, and I relished it.

But never once did I hesitate to correct my friends’ intonations when they used ‘lah’ or ‘leh’ wrongly. You should’ve seen the look on my face when the Dean of the English department pronounced my name wrongly at graduation and added another syllable from god knows where. I was livid.

This is how we communicate and practice acceptance. It’s not very difficult, but it’s definitely not as simple, either.

So, Set Apart happened.

We sold out all four shows, and want to continue growing much more.

We’re taking about a year’s worth of time to work on the next production.

Thankful for the overwhelming support we’ve gotten from those within and outside of our immediate circles. The world is watching... and it wants more theatre!

Some days you run out of breath singing this song of ascents. Some days you can only sing but not move.

Perhaps this is Part I: Hopelessness

Every teaspoon of faith a forced feed like some deep implication waiting to manifest. But you weren't a detective the last time you checked.

It feels more and more like a consequence as every bit of rock eats into the sole of the one strong foot you thought you could rely on.

But even the callous on that one doesn’t grow fast enough.

The feeling is always ungentle when it comes to blaming the family for one’s learned behaviour, but the moment of conviction is surprisingly ...sweet. After all, original sin took place in a garden abundant with stone fruit.

It is so easy to take a bite only to have your teeth fall out one, by one.

“The artist is not divided and she is not for sale. Her clarity of purpose protects her although it is her clarity of purpose that is most likely to irritate most people. We are not happy with obsessives, visionaries, which means, in effect, that we are not happy with artists. Why do we flee from feeling? Why do we celebrate those who lower us in the mire of their own making while we hound those who come to us with hands full of difficult beauty? If we could imagine ourselves out of despair? 

"I think a lot of art is trying to make someone love you. Doing a little dance for one particular person. But it's all bigger than that now." —Keaton Henson

x - X

if this is the journey i have walked right back to the start, made myself a bed and got in. but to rouse from sleep, changed, is a different matter.

x. it came in threes: an M.A., a flat, a salary

your wants were always black and white hand ever-ready to drive itself through an angry lacquered door

a strong finish that looked like saving

xx. we knew march to be sudden doom in spring.

xxx. reappearance

a once (or twice) occurrence of a lover's name etching its authority into your body - flash of taste - the angry hand - violence to mark that V-day morning dare you believe abuse can still be done from afar