Exhausted
Exhausting.
That is the only word that one could use to describe today, the ushering in of the weekend. Today, we hit a sales figure in the span of 9 hours that we usually hit in the span of 15 hours or thereabouts. From the time I started work, it was non-stop business all the way till late night. Even at 1 am in the morning, we were still filled with customers. It had led us to bemoan the fact that the machine, which churns out drink orders, had never stopped for at least 5 minutes. We were that busy.
Time flew very fast today. In the space of a wink, it was already 11 and time for supper. And my first break of the day, or rather night. After that, we were still slammed by orders! Imagine that! Where did all these people come from? On days that we expected a crowd, a handful would only turn out. On days that are supposed to be quiet, there would be a sudden surge of people swarming all over the cafe. Space is a rare commodity on such occasions.
Nevertheless, the day was still quite rewarding. Very rewarding.
Separation
And so, a fog settled down in between them, dividing them for ages untold, hiding them from each other as foretold. For what was prophesied could not be wrong, that they, the King and Queen, would thus be separated and perhaps, even conquered by their personal demons. Together, they were a force to reckon with. Separated? They were as weak as younglings. For they had different abilities that complement each other's flaws. Where the King was known to make haste, the Queen was thoughtful. Where the King was weak, she was strong. And vice versa.
What use was his pair of eyes if he couldn't see her? Being the King didn't even hold meaning anymore. He would rather be a peasant, just to have the chance to lay his eyes on his beloved again. Even the most beautiful sight would pale in comparison. Life would be like sepia, devoid of any colours.
He felt lost. Totally lost without her. He couldn't rid his thoughts of her. Every day, every passing second, he would mourn the loss of the sight of her. Though he could hear her through the devilish fog, it couldn't really substitute the elation of seeing her.
Perhaps this fog would come to lift in time, he thought. No doubt it has got to lift one day. Where the sun pours its warmth again on the coldness of the fog, and evaporates the essence of it. Where the good finally triumphs over evil. Where darkness retreats in the presence of light.
He couldn't wait for that day to come.
Hankering
Hankering.
Why do mortals hanker after so many things? Why do they desire this and want that? Are their wants never satisfied? When they have obtained this object of desire, most probably, in due time, they would be hankering after another new gadget. A year ago, it may be a PDA. A year after, it may be the sleekest handphones, or the coolest MP3 player. Again the age old question, why are human wants never satiated?
When they are young, they would bawl after toys. Perhaps in their teenage years, they would crave after technological gadgets. Reaching maturity, their objects of desire would morph to big-ticket items, perhaps to show that they are "there" with the crowd. To show the coming of age. When one has a car or a house, or even a family for that matter, one shows that he or she is mature enough, a coming of age for the metropolitan human. In the past, people show their coming of maturity through tattoos. Today, they show it through big ticket items. But even so, it may not necessary be true that they are of maturity. Who can say that some of them do not have rich parents that can obtain those items for them?
Mortals. If what I have is who I am, and what I have is lost, then who am I?
Your servant
Aristocrat
Rain
It was raining again.
He could hear the incessant pitter-pattering of the raindrops falling noisily against the cool asphalt in the dead of the night. The sound, as always, was a double-edged sword to him.
The rain does funny things. Sometimes, it carries him off to another world, where magick rules the world and unicorns dot the landscape. Or to some otherworlds of his imagining. It would never fail to cheer him up. Other times, it would remind him of the heavy burden he carries upon his shoulders. A burden too large for someone his age.
Today, the sound of the rain made him feel at ease, it made him feel that he was one with the world. Not the world that they all know of, the urban jungle of politics and money, where two-legged beings backstab one another for gold and glory. Where the two-legged beings don't really care about one another but rather they live in a world of their own. Where apathy generally runs free and the two-legged beings don't bother one another if one doesn't bother them.
He felt at one with the real world, the real world out there in the wilderness. Where elephants run free, where Nature is still untainted by the touch of Man. Those that you only got to see on documentaries or Animal Planet. Those lands would not remain untainted for long. Wherever Man's feet landed on some place, the land would change drastically. For the worse. Most species of animals were extinct because of Man, he pondered sadly. In the future, there wouldn't be a lot of chances of feeling at one with the world anymore. Perhaps what the future generation would see of Nature would be from pre-recorded discs? Woe to Man when that day happens, he mused. Not that he would be alive to see that day, but what of the later generations?
Dying Spark
Again another prolonged period of absence. My apologies for I have been rather busy of late, what with work and all. And the way I see it, things are not going to change for the better any time soon.
I could never imagine myself saying this, but I am getting tired. Getting tired of writing in fact. A horrendous reality. It is becoming more and more of a chore to me. The fire is gradually dying out, being smothered by more mundane and materialistic pursuits. I am only learning and yet, I face such straits. How could one ever hope to elevate oneself to a higher level? Perhaps I would have to undergo a formal course. For I am yet untrained as such.
And so it is the same with relationships. The magickal spark between two mortals that keep the passion alive. With the passing of time, it may gradually get buried by mundane and materialistic pursuits as well. In the mortals' chase for glory and gold, they may take on different paths to their goals, and therefore, widening the crevasse between them. Maintain the spark, let not the flame die, and you would live to see the sweet fruits of your labour. Let the mortals beware.
Even now, tiredness swamps me over like the night that falls upon the land. Perhaps I should rest for now. A longer journey ahead awaits.
Your servant
Aristocrat
Digression:Of servitude and motivation
Singapore.
A country where its people loathe to work in the service industry because of its negative connotations of subservience and low wages. A country where the service industry is being populated by other nationals who don't mind the long hours and the measly pay. A country where the customers, that is, Singaporeans themselves, treat the service workers like their own Filippino maids or faceless people. A country where tipping is abolished and instead, a service charge is implemented.
For all these reasons above, it can be easily seen why Singaporeans don't like to work in the service industry. I am in the industry myself, for quite some time already I must add, and it hasn't been easy. There are easier ways of earning money, why not? Academically, one can give tuition to earn quick bucks. Easy job, easy money. If you have enough students, you might even earn more than me. But technically, counting by hours, you do earn more than me. And what's more, most of the time, service workers get paid minimum wages. Therefore, tipping is essential to us. It is most important! The extra source of motivation in our work. It motivates waiters or barmen to give the customers a higher degree of service, so that the customer will appreciate it and perhaps tip them. A rule of thumb for tipping is to tip only when they deserve it, no more, no less.
Therefore, I could not for heaven's sake, think of a godforsaken reason as to why Singapore abolished tipping and put in place a hefty 10percent service charge. It is not as if the 10percent goes back to the staff as bonuses. Rather, most of the time it goes back to paying the salaries of the staff, or the boss wil use it as some upgrading budget. Go ahead and complain why service is poor then. Look at places where tipping is practised. Is the service there poor? Only on occasions when they are understaffed in peak hours.
We stand for long hours, perhaps a minimum of 5 to a maximum of 9. Non-stop, little or no rest. So sometimes, we do appreciate it when customers treat us like bosom buddies instead of the typical Singaporean ordering us here and there, expecting servitude of us. A nice word might just motivate us to serve you even better. And if you are a regular, well, count yourself lucky. Cordial service is guaranteed, because we remember faces the best. But tipping is always the best motivation.
And people still wonder why service in Singapore is bad.
Your servant(how ironic)
Aristocrat
Out damn spot out!
It is said that all writers, poets and philosophists have at least a tiny streak of melancholy in them. Is that true? Does melancholy drives wordsmiths to their peaks? Or to the Valley of Death beneath? The gloom it gives, is it a muse, or rather a wolf in sheep's clothing, a Siren in disguise, luring them to slaughter?
I admit it, yes I am one who gives much to Thought. Perhaps too much Thought that it becomes self-destructive, like a tiny little maggot eating at the heart of my heart, slowly worming its way out. That little maggot might just reproduce and eventually consume me relentlessly. We'll never know for sure until the maggots are out, won't we? Thought leads to Self-Doubt, and this can kill or maketh a man. To prevent such a needless fatality, the heart would perhaps have to be armoured against such. Never ever let Self-Doubt worm its way it. For once in, then Adam would have consumed the apple under Eve's naviety and bedamned are we all to the bowels of Hell.
Be gone maggots! I will not have ye here!
Out damn it out!
Your servant
Aristocrat
Digression
Ah, I see that you are here waiting for me in the lounge again. And you even got the fire started, bless your soul young man. Though it's but a corporeal comfort to me, I thank you nevertheless. Have you break fast yet? Oh my apologies, I presumed that you were nocturne as well. How presumptuous of me.
Let me tell you something. Just lend me your ears for this moment, and mayhap you will hear the continuation of the story very soon. But first, let me ask you this question. What do you think of Death? Do you have any thoughts on that? Do you fear it? Or are you rather nonchalant about it?
What?! You don't know? Go and think about it then while I tell you something about Death that few mortals are aware of. Or rather the process after Death. Firstly, I presume one's beliefs would affect the meaning of Death right? For starters, I think Death would make a fine gentleman. Don't you think so? He looks absolutely gorgeous when I first saw him. Pale porcelain skin, so pale that one could almost see the jade-green veins underneath. I always have wondered why he need veins for. Do you think he has blood in him as well? What colour would it be then? Or is it part of his masquerade? His features, ah, he looked like Lucifer himself. It must be sinful to allow a person to possess such beauty. And his clothes! He always looked like someone out from the Medieval Ages, those times of seneschals and lords. Seeing him always made my heart stopped beating.
Don't peer so hard, its considered rude to stare at a person like that. I am not inclined towards my own sex, if that's what you are thinking. No worries on that count at all. But it's just this fascination with Death! Have you ever wondered what comes after? Would it be bliss? Or hell? I supposed I am already destined for hell, but no harm in thinking about heaven, is there? Tell me, reader, why do people mourn for the dead? Supposedly they are in a better place than this terra firma already, why do people still shed tears? Is mourning not more of a closure for the living to come to acceptance rather than for the dead? Are they rites to show that one cares for the passed? Aren't there any other ways of showing such care and concern at all? It's all rather drab to me. Oh yes, I see the irony in my words. I'm rather drab and melancholic as well you say. But that is my nature you see! Since when have I been a happy-go-lucky being to you? Never right?
It just sends me laughing, reader, of how people say that melancholics don't do well in a relationship. They say that two melancholics, or pessimists, or two negatives, would tend to have a self-fulfilling prophecy in their relationship, with each other's moods affecting them, thus dragging them down into oblivion. Ah well, I think I could prove that wrong. But it still tickles me that some people think the way they think. How very amusing. Oh my, I think I am going on and on. Perhaps I should go and break fast. After all, it is two in the afternoon. Care to join me?
Your servant
Aristocrat
Scum
He hated it when the night falls.
Though he loved it for the solace and the comfort it gives to a loner like him, at times, he sometimes felt like pulling out his mane of hair. At times such as this, it never failed to act as an amplifier, multiplying his emotions by a gazillion times it seems. Whatever feelings he harbour, be it loneliness, despair or sorrow, it would be multifolded when it was night.
Night should be a time of prayer, a time of self-reflection within one's soul. Why has it turned out this way? He never realised that there was so much activity during the night. Looking at the denizens scurrying under the cover of darkness, he was amazed that how alike he was compared to them. No more was he a human being than them, living on scraps of food that he could scavenge from the dumps or by begging.
Once, he had his pride and honour. He refused to beg nor stoop to scavenging. He deemed it too lowly beyond a man of his stature. He was not going to resort to that. But can pride and honour feed a man? Slowly, his primordial instincts took and pride and honour was thrown to the winds. For survival, he had to resort to anything. No longer did his pride mattered. And that was how he ended up on the slums today. From a powerful broker on Wall Street to a denizen of the slums, slinking along under the cover of darkness, where not even a single human had noticed, a nameless and worthless soul.
But they would never know, some day, they might end up like him as well. Cast out of the society by their own kind into the bottomless pits. Humans.
A Story
The Night, though at times she seems magnificent, tonight she only seemed to exacerbate feelings of loneliness that dwells inside me. Every time she does, I would always fall into a contemplative or a melancholic mood and my mind would go soaring above my body, going into places that I have never seen nor heard before. Normally, it would be a time of inspiration, a time for contemplative writing if you will. But tonight, is not normal. Tonight, I experienced these tiny tuggings at my heart. As was the night before. And the night before it. And before it. It goes on and on. Is it Loneliness? I have to think so, as Life is no longer the same as it was. No longer a sepia landscape, nor a black and white. This reminds me of a story told to me long ago, and perhaps I might interest my reader in it? As I sipped my cup of coffee, I will tell you the story of The Tabulands.
In New Orleans, why New Orleans, don't bother asking me. For it had happened right there. And this story was narrated to me by my grandfather, who heard it from his great-grandfather, who heard it from his great-great-grandfather, who heard it from his...you get the idea. Anyway, New Orleans was always a dreary place, not unlike England, where the weather was always gloomy. The best weather you could find probably went like this: drizzling in the morning, showers in the late afternoons. The worst could go like: Heavy showers forecasted throughout the day. Well, there are sunny days no doubt. But that was quite rare.
To go on, there lived this painter in one of those Gothic houses. No no, not those Gothic punks, but the Gothic of the Romantic Age. This house was simply outlandish and amazing to look at. From the outside, it looked like a mini-castle. Replete with a splendous garden, an Olympic-sized pool and a small pavilion. Once you were inside, the first floor would be enought to sweep your feet off the ground. That is, if you managed to stand up once you were in it in the first place. At one glance, you would be able to see the whole collection of paintings that they had, all hung around the hall, with some even leading up the winding stairs. The paintings themselves were ghastly to look at, either with some grotesque figures or demonic artwork in them. To the neighbours, it felt as though they had their very own Osbournes in the neighbourhood. Only weirder. Sometimes, these paintings would look as though they were alive, for they seem to move when you stare hard enough at them. But then, you would think that it's the flickering candles on the great chandelier of gold hanging above the hall. You would just think that the light is playing a trick on you.
However, not all paintings were as grotesque. There were some Romantic-esque artwork, numbering to less than five. It seemed perfectly logical now, but then, well who would have thought of it? These four paintings were of some landscape in some country I supposed, for the features were none that artwork collectors could identify. Nor guess the age. Many aspiring collectors had came to lay their hands on them, but money was never a problem. For this story, the first three landscape portraits are not of significance, but the last one is.
The last one, hanging by the wall beside the edge of the glided stairs, was a picture of bleakness. From afar, it looked like a tundra, but when one stepped in for a closer look, you could hear the amazement, " My god, I had thought that it was a picture of the famed tundra in the Northeast. But now, I see it as something else. It's so..there's no mot juste for it." Even they were at a loss for words, for everyone claimed to see different things in there. Sometimes a couple standing by the sea, sometimes the bright beams of sunlight striking out from the cover of dark clouds, or even sometimes it seemed like a writhing pool of naked bodies. As to how the painter managed to accomplish that, no one had a clue.
Ah, I see that it is getting late. For the sun is rising over the horizon and in a few minutes time, the hustle bustle will begin all over again. And before it does, I have to turn in, safe and secure in my own foothold. Where no one may come and intrude upon my peace.
You wish for me to continue? Ah my reader, if I could I would. But alas, time is growing short. Now that's an oft-repeated phrase. And I don't think you would want to hear it too many times don't you? Retire as well reader, you need the rest. Mayhap I will continue the story tomorrow. Meanwhile, au revoir.
Your servant
Aristocrat
