Entities out there that read this post,

Please leave a comment or two. I really appreciate the feedback, honest. At least I know that someone's reading my words, although mangled in both language and grammar as it is.

A plea, more or less.

I am working on somewhat a story, and I may not post as much as I like anymore. But I will keep this place updated.

I don't have the proverbial toast but still.

I had a dream.

Wait no, I dreamed, a dream.

Worry not; this anything but a song of a certain French musical - it has nothing to do with someone who had fallen so low, regretting what life would've been.

I had this bizarre dream, consisting a car, some policemen, and a girl I know but barely converse with.

Of course dreams being dreams, it is quite hazy as I remember it. It'd be good if you can remember it at all - but I wonder if it is a bad thing.
I'll start this dysfunctional story regardless.

It was a sunny day in Cyberjaya, and I had the family car, a Korean sedan. Classes ended early in the afternoon, and I decided that I should get back home. Packed things up, started the engine, and took the headlong road to Seremban, my hometown.
Thing is, as always with dreams, I somehow ended up in the busy metropolitan that is Kuala Lumpur, the capital. Not to mention was speeding the hell out - I was quite amazed myself then - and the highway was clear.
Now, for some unknown reason, I made a stop at a bus stop on the right shoulder of a four lane expressway. Probably for asking directions on how to get the hell back to the regular highway; I didn't know what I was doing.After getting what I needed from whomever that was waiting there, I nudged my car to the left - to a fork on the road that divided the four lanes into two. The thing about dreams, it randomly generates everything. I didn't know where this fork, a concrete "V" with a chevron stretching two meters down, came from.
But I just went with the flow, and moved my car onto the left side of the fork - apparently that's where I needed to go. But tried as I might, I got stuck on the chevron zone as I tried to muscle my way in. There were too many cars on the fork and I was afraid to cut in. Sooner or later, the traffic grew increasingly heavy, and a gridlock ensued. My car, yes got stuck on the Chevron zone, still there. Then a police car - it was blue, had a large "POLIS" emblazoned on its side - stopped on my right. A police officer in black was starting at me. Three of them got off the car, and went into mine. The staring officer rode shotgun.
"Oh boy, you know it is against the road rules to drive here, much less stopping her, isn't it?" he said, while pulling out a notebook, or a summons book with a pen.
"I was trying to get into the left, sir." I replied, "Now look at the traffic. Believe me, I didn't want to get stuck here either."
"Regardless kid, you still have to pay the fine," the officer said, ripping out a finished summons bill and handing it to me.
I stared, aghast. It had the car license plate, and as well the normal details - time, place, what offence - on it. I was in literal deep soup. But I remember in the dream, I asked the officers why didn't they need my car license.
"Oh right kid, let me see your license", an officer in the back asked.
Stupidest move on my part. I took out my license from my wallet and gave it to the wanting hand.
"It's a full one sir. He's beyond the "P - probationary - " phase." he said, while handing it back to me. I put it back into my wallet, my wallet on between my legs, under the car's steering.

The officers in the back then got out, leaving me at the shotgun riding officer in the car. Seeing an opening in the gridlock, I inched forward and squeezed my black metal ass into the metallic procession.
The traffic was I had expected - slow moving with the pace of an injured tortoise - and with lots of horns and screams peppering the whole classic metropolitan scene.

The officer beside me was silent the entire time, until my car, on an overhead bridge, got down to a junction. I asked him, how much would the fine be, because all the while I thought it would be RM300, which is really bad. And adding a demerit system, it was not too good at all for me.
The police officer replied - just RM59 and you'd be on your way. But I have to stop my car for whatever reason (I was still on the junction with traffic lights and everything) and get down with him to pay my fine.

Funny thing was, I left my wallet where it was, between my legs in the car and got down without removing the keys.
Stupid. I know.
The officer guided me through the mire of smoke and heat, from the junction where my car was towards a pavement and then towards an entrance of a tall, blue building. I followed him in.

Only after I followed the officer into a building, I realized I didn't have my wallet with me, and more so, my car keys.
I gasped, I ran back to the junction only, to find, that the car is gone. And the traffic was moving again.
Believing it was a trick, I tried looking for the car all over the place. No sign at all. And my wallet - containing close to RM500 - was in there.
All I could think at the time was to lodge a police report. I walked, amongst the busy, hot streets of Kuala Lumpur, into a train station. I didn't even have any money left, except my phones. I was considering of pawning my phones for some cash so I could travel back. Then I saw a girl that I barely knew, who came running towards me and hugging me.
She had short hair, was wearing a dress and yes, she asked me how I was with all the proper etiquette of a regular conversation. I probably replied I was good and explained my predicament - this part was rather hazy - and then somehow I ended up back into my house in Seremban. It was really hazy, how I got back, but I knew my parents were nonetheless were less than pleased to find out I, well, lost the car.

But at that point in the dream, I realized, it was a dream. It wasn't real. Everything around me wasn't real.

I looked around my house - it had a brownish tinge on the walls, my mother was taller than usual, and my dad was wearing this bright blue uniform. My little brother, was acting with all the gusto of a retarded child, eating cereal on the table and wore this weird smile on his face when he looked at me.

My dad put on his hat for whatever reason and marched out of the door, saying obscenities about me losing the car and went to get his truck to go to work. And it was evening. I remember the sky was turning brown somewhat.
I remember telling my mom that this was all not real. It was a dream. She laughed and then screamed as I ran out of the house, willing myself to wake up. I was banging my head on walls that were honestly, greener than I remembered. I ran past Chinese New Year decorations and then fell backwards into a drain. My head hit the concrete, and by then I fully convinced myself to wake up.

End of story gentleman and ladies.
I don't know whether you found it bizarre (or just boring) but I sure as hell, found it creepy. I never thought that I had to fight my way out of a dream before.

After what's been said and done,

I think, I may have gone too hard on her.

Yeah I know. Everyone told me to stay away from her. She's bad news. No bones to pick with that single statement alone. She was oil to my being of water. She was the capitalist element to my communist ideology.
In short, cannot get along; never did and never will ever again.

But me, being only human, I am naught but without my feelings and my memories. Especially, being a writer, I seem to have been more in tune with my emotions lately. My words, all that I have ever written, would always contain a vestige of my emotions in them.
And these are the very feelings, that may have convinced me of being too hard on her.

First and foremost, I am not reiterating what I feel for her last time. I have been hurt too much and left in the dark even more, to even remotely consider the feelings I have inside for  her again.
Too much had been said, too much have been heard; the only thing that's left between me and her is just the chilly silence of being strangers.


I have heard of her, through friends of various quarters, that she's not having exactly a stellar time with her past two companions. Ones that promised the moon and would probably give the sun thrown in as well. Ones that would expect that their words, to sway a broken girl inside, gifts to sweeten her shattered heart; shattered as many times at it is.
These are the ones that would anticipate what little effort they made into pleasing her emotionally and materially, into something they want, that only women would provide. It would be poor taste to mention here but I would give a hint; it ain't cooking.

I do remember her as someone who was happy, who would brave the harsh wintry coldness of her barren life at home, and still put up a smile at the end of the day. I recall her being the funniest person alive at the time, and the most colourful, although she carries a heavy baggage of bittersweet memories and experiences.

I can accuse her of having ulterior motives when she wrote that little (albeit lengthy) letter to me. Maybe it is because of the rage and hate that never died within me, I suspected the letter being a pitching of a snake oil business. Everyone else that I knew, had heard my rage tales one too many times, deduced that it is indeed something that is tinged with poison. The poison that which will make me her slave once again.


But for all I know, I did not hear what's on the other side of that bridge.
I did not ask her, actually what it means. That whole lengthy excuse of an apology. What does it signify? What do you want with me? It may be an actual plea to talk, be friends. I know not of what she is going through.


Wherever you are. Take care. I may not see things the way you wanted to, but I feel sorry because frankly, I am only human. And more fortunate for you because me being someone who's involved in the arts more than his science, I feel what is written.
And unfortunate for me, I still feel sorry for you, in contrast of what you did in the past.

What is your take on this situation? What is the meaning behind the email you sent me?

Your words. Bleeding with regret and despair and apology. It was enough to make someone like me to reply at all. They reached out with their ink tentacles, draping my iris with its illusion, fooling my brain into a stupor of sympathy and an inkling to forgive. And to give up the hatred that has been sowed into the core of my current being, the hate that is only reserved for you, the author.

But your words, are not without sympathy. Amidst the entire seemingly sad prose you wrote, your literature longingly led me to a path that I did not see the first time reading it.
Your words would've made me a simpering fool, had you given me back then, when I barely knew a sliver of your infernal actuality. I would've eaten that synthetically derived emotions you tried so hard to logically create from the intellectual cranial thoughts of yours.

I know who you really are. It doesn't take anyone much thought to figure out of what you are capable of. If you read any of Chinese strategy epics (which I honestly doubt you did), you typically executed the Knife in the Map maneuver.
You'll appear to not be familiar with this but I will explain it here, for the benefit of my readers.

Back in 228 BC, it was Shih Huang Ti, the first Qin emperor's reign. And as obvious with any regime, there will be people who are dissatisfied with the way things are and decides to change it. So, an assassination plan was derived, where someone would go to the king would present a gift; a map that contained a knife. When the king opens the map, the gift bearer would seize the knife and thrust it at the king's heart. And in the king's court of Old China, the guards are ill equipped with weapons; they're decorations. And the ones who actually have weapons are stationed outside the court. The king wouldn't be able to defend himself, and the guards won't be able to take down the assassin. A perfect plan.

Except for a flaw.

The king backed off at the first sight of danger and tried to run away from his attacker. He tried to pull out his sword but, being a royal sword, a ceremonial sword, it was long and it was hard to pull from its sheath. The royal physician (or a doctor these days) reached for his medical bag and slammed it into the assassin. That delay of time bought by the doctor gave the king some time to draw his blade and eventually, cut up the assassin.

Storytelling time ends.


I am the king.
You are the assassin.
Your gift was the map with knife in it. And by presenting it to me for my perusal, you already have intended to strike me down with the punishment of deception.
The court physician, are my friends as a whole.
And the ceremonial sword, is this post.


But really.
Who are you? You're such a mystery. A riddle.
But a riddle that I am really, unwilling to solve. A riddle that I would let others unravel, so they'd know and understand your true nature.