To Infinity And Beyond

At night when I prepare to turn the lights off, I take a mental snapshot of the route to my bed between the landscape of clothes and books and assorted things on my bedroom floor. When I do flip the switch, I sprint along this path and make a dive for the covers lest my ankles come within the arm’s or tentacle’s length of the monsters that live below. That’s right. Despite the roll out bookshelf under my bed and the shelves in my wardrobe, I still half believe that monsters can emerge from them in the darkness.

I used to lull myself to sleep by telling myself that they don’t really exist but I’ve begun telling myself that perhaps I was judging them too quickly, that they could be rather lovely and lurking there only because of their jobs. I began to tell myself that on the off-chance that a monster did emerge from the darkness, I should reach out and call it “Kitty” before screaming bloody murder. Knowing me though, I would probably skip straight to the last step, which is why I keep the wardrobe doors ajar at night so that they can’t come in through Monstropolis.

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He used to take us fishing.

I used to think they call those hours ungodly because it wasn’t right that we should lose our blankets before the sky uncovers itself for the day. The hours where I didn’t even open my eyes to eat breakfast, barely staying conscious enough to register the rough texture of toast across my tongue. But still, the was a certain quality about that time in the mornings that was a little magical. For that one hour where we’d wake up, load the car and set off, the street lights seemed to reflect the stars above, the stray cars on the road would whisper past us and then I’d be asleep again, sprawled out in the backseat listening to the engine hum me to sleep – a mechanical lullaby. I was certain that, although I was too weak to fight sleep, his control of the car was absolute.

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Stomaching Medicine

Despite the Asian stereotype, my parents have always been quite liberal with my career aspirations and have never pressured me to try my hand in medicine. For me, this was a good thing. Mostly because I’ve never showed any interest in it other than a mild flirtation with the idea when I was in year ten and in love with biology and chemistry. It ended abruptly as soon as I realised that I would inevitably spiral into a nihilistic depression upon the death of any patient under my care.

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