by Justin Teoh
The world is a karma system, not in the literal finger-pointing sense. Let in the uninvited guest who keeps on knocking. Each time it comes rummaging and assembling my sentiments back together, I rehearse myself to look at it in the eye, and though in glimpses I see a different excuse it sees the same nevertheless. If my skin could stretch I’d say just let the rain etch it out. Hardship both kills and strengthens; eventually it runs in circles and you’d wonder when would it honor its promise of the latter. Maybe I won’t end up a Confucian, or perhaps I was still at the entrance of the tunnel all along. Honesty is a construct. If I could think, then I must say about myself, “think about myself.” If this whole place is a test then that should be the default option. But it is. Anything reflects; I see you but when I see me apologies in advance if I take some time to answer the whats of my being, if not I’ll never be. Mirrors don’t lie and dessert tastes as good as the next bite.