Muller

There was this one time in Art & Craft class in primary 5 (4? 6?) when we were making stuff with plasticine (or some other doughy material?) and somehow along the way I got into a quarrel with my partner, Cheryl (Sheryl?). We were both struggling for the plasticine, four hands wrestling in a mass of white dough, and in my idiocy and frustration, I headbutted her head. Hard. My head hurt, so it must have been painful for her too. She looked at me with bug eyes and then she surrendered the plasticine, walked away, starting to cry. I don't think I ever apologized for that. Cheryl, if you ever read this, I'm sorry, it was incredibly stupid and violent and unchivalrous of me. I see you around in Hwa Chong but I don't dare to say hi, not because I'm afraid you'll headbutt me back, but because I don't have the guts to go up to you, asking you if you ever remember me, and if you don't, bringing up things when we were eleven and I was a jerk, and saying I'm sorry.

In another art-and-craft session, during Sec2 when I stupidly attended a sabbatical which gave AEP ACE points (and I didn't take AEP), I was working with this guy called Bryan. We were working on this really cool sculpture which I am proud to say was my brainchild. (Okay, on hindsight, it's a really amateurish work and the teacher probably indulged me.) If you go to the Science Research Centre Level 1, you can see a photograph of Bryan and I looking really excited about our sculpture, on a pillar. (I look really ugly in that pillar-photo.) I didn't headbutt anyone this time, it went well, we left the sculpture for the teachers to bake it. On a few occasions I sneaked into the art studio storeroom to admire the baked sculpture, and I would show it my friend who sneaked me in - "Eh look see I did this." After the sabbatical, Bryan and I would say hi to each other when we see each other. But because we don't share anything else (e.g. classes, CCA, sports), and because I tend to go into periods of anti-social withdrawal, we stopped saying hi somewhere along the way, which is what happens with most of my acquaintances. Now I see him at the gym occasionally and sometimes I do the "look of recognition", sometimes I don't. Granted, I usually ignore people in the gym, but one can always make more effort. To Bryan, and to all my other unfortunate acquaintances: there is nothing wrong with you, it has always been me, I know you don't care, and you'll probably never read this, but I'm sorry that sometimes I saw too much into myself and edged you out of my peripheral.

To the Hainan guy who sent me emails, of which I only replied two of them, then ignored your third email, I know you'll never read this, but I'm sorry that to this day I still haven't read your email, and I'm not sure if I ever will.

To Yu Quan, I've dissed your music before, most of the time because it was kinda uncool to like you. But truth be told there are nights when I'm burning midnight electricity and I loop your covers. You're not as arrogant as people tell me, and you're good at what you do, so keep doing it. I'm sorry for not saying this earlier. I'm not good at appreciating people.

To Zhi Hao, like I've said before, I'm sorry for blaming you for the whole haystack when you were only the last straw. Two artists meet to remind each other of their monstrosity, which is why artists don't usually like to meet each other. I have no more goodness than you do. I just promote the good side better.

To Jie Han, I don't know if you ever read this blog, but last week I went through my old blogs and our email correspondence, and I couldn't stop crying. I'm sorry that when you called my name in the canteen, I turned, stared, and walked away. During that 2 seconds of staring I only thought that you called me too late, that I didn't want to revisit the pain, that you had nothing to offer which would make me happy again, all of which is true, but you did no wrong, you were just the hero who left and made me the replacement martyr. While I had things to burn I was happy. But now that so much of me is charred, I am afraid of fire, and perhaps my rejection is a reflex. That day you called my name, I deleted you from my Facebook friends, like I did with most band members. I had originally kept you, hoping against absurd hope that you would notice, but I guess not. I also deleted our mutual friends. Secretly, I googled you and found your blog and Twitter with the infrequent posts and boring subject matters and uninteresting language, and I devoured each word like first-time parents. I'm sorry for being drama; I'm sorry for being not drama enough. But somehow I think that, like most people who disappoint me, I had an ideal of you when you were gone, but people are not gods or kings, they are too small to fill the beauty I have carved out in their absence. Maybe I made things up about you when you were gone, and believed those things. When you came back you disrupted my mourning. But who cares? Don't call my name again. You have a life somewhere outside my mind, somewhere you are not dead and forever glorious and saintly. Live that life, and if someday I manage to break out of my psychosis, I may join you in the ranks of sanity and plain words and social company. We will meet for lunch and carefully sidestep the landmines of memory, and talk exclusively about the present and future. When we run out of conversation, we will resist against reminiscing, both of us reaching for water to fill our mouths.