sometimes i feel like, what i would belive to be a child, blissfully content with the tiny little bubble i reside in, its thin gleaming pulsing membrane separating me from the rest of the world. other times though, the bubble disintegrates - leaving me uncomfortable, naked, vulnerable in my unfamiliar 18 year old skin. who am i, huddled at the back of a public bus, voices and laughter swimming around me, suspending before me, excluding me. Not mine.

loneliness permeates this house. A theme my family scurries around and tries to escape everyday. my brother locks himself in his room day in and out, throwing himself into his school work, video games. dawne paces around restlessly, miserable that "there just isnt anything good to do". My parents, now seem so small and frail relentlessly lament to me about depleting savings, lack of jobs, recent badluck, the lack of friends, contacts, the aches and pains of this strange weather and growing older.

at night, this theme clings onto the shadows on the walls, soft glows emitting from under each closed door. We never say anything of course. do we ever? But isnt it obvious, the way my mother clings onto the phone with her sisters, her precious nieces and nephews, faint voices on the line. my dad reminices of days he failed english exams shortly after his arrival in singapore, his constant worries for his friend diagnosed with kidney cancer. the fondness and almost bitter tilt to my siblings' voices as they talk of their friends, the "old" life as they wandered aimlessly to and from each other's rooms, including my own?

We sorta know we have each other, and somehow then again we don't. Is something missing.. or is this just not enough?

we are almost merely hollowed versions of ourselves occupying this same strained space, wordless, fake. Personas employed and displayed during most dinners - personas that are slowly shed during the journey from the table to the sink and the first step up the carpetted stairs.

today is just another one of those days. all the doors are still open, each of us staring at something else completely different, our hearts moving to different music, our minds somewhere faraway.. from each other.. perhaps even from the isolation we place ourselves both willingly and relunctantly in. But we are accustomed to this. cold fingers and voiceless words. spaces.

voids. and pauses.