I lie near a big fat tree, close enough to admire the shape of the leaves but distant enough so it doesn't block my view of the (starless) sky. The waves make music when they meet the rocks. I hold my own polished, carefully carved piece of wood, and make my own music.
(This is my escape. I have a funny aversion to city-ness that emerges whenever I get too cooped up. In Sec 4, when I was studying for the O's, all of a sudden I went "NO MORE AIRCON NO MORE FLOURESCENT LIGHTING" and had to study out in the open (like at the stone tables at Jurong East - no kidding), or at least where the desk was lit by natural lighting. Today, all of a sudden, I felt like I just needed to get away. Too much time has been spent in this one building; too much rushing of readings, too many chats and homework sessions in a shoebox; too much that has to be planned out every day. Tomorrow's my class-free weekday and I'll be rushing around from 9am-5.30pm, possibly till 8.30pm. Then there are the readings and assignments due on Thursday.)
Put down that polished piece of wood. Stop creating your own artificial music. Didn't you come here to escape? Listen to what the waves have to offer. Don't curl up. Lie flat on your back. Spread your hands across the mat. Palms upward and open. Let your legs lie long. Feel that still chill. Breathe in the freshness. Absorb it.
But flat on my back with my arms spread out, I feel vulnerable. Awkward. Ugly.
Stop it; the only other person here doesn't give a damn anyway, so there's no point being all self-conscious. Be courageous. Go ahead. Face the sky and tell it that you want this.
I put on my slippers and walk westward in search of a nicer green spot where the streetlamp isn't so glaring. There's a pretty little circular arena surrounded by trees. Engineered. Cute. As I walk along the fence between the land and the sea and seriously contemplate climbing over, I hear him singing. It's funny, how his singing voice is imprinted in my head, but it's not the same way for his laugh, even though it's so freaking distinct and I can detect it better than I detect my own name being called across the hall. I look back and he's singing Tears In Heaven, trying to play my guitar. I can't help wanting to laugh and I turn back to look at the mass of lights on the sea. Now that I spend a little more time looking at it I realise why he was wondering why there were so many lights. Way too many. It looks like there's a city there but it's just a couple of islands used for manufacturing/refining whatever. And all the ships.
After a while I walk back and he's not holding my guitar anymore. Looks at me. And I'm like, what? So he continues playing his minus-ones and singing and I'm silent for a while because I just want to listen. Not the usual strong clear happy singing voice because this is a park and it's past midnight; more shaky and slightly off but hearing these imperfections is something that makes me smile, because it makes it special.
Rhythm Of Love, and he picks up my guitar and pretends to strum because it's such a strummy song, and I realise he would be that much cuter if he played the guitar. (I wonder if my love for amateur strumming has any influence on my image)
And it doesn't matter that there's nothing to say. It doesn't matter that as soon as the mat is laid he lies down and closes his eyes and I try to play whatever I can and then walk to the fence to strum and sing to the sea. It doesn't matter that he isn't in the mood to talk, because I'm often not, either. It doesn't matter that this trip is another one of my weird just-gotta-do-it-spur-of-the-moments where I ask him out of the blue to accompany me wherever, just because. It doesn't matter that there's no agenda and no food. And there is comfort in knowing these things don't matter.
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