THE CITIZEN
One may surmise that the home of the revolutionary is buzzing with ideas and passion. The love of country bringing individuals of disparate temperament together with one single goal. This is not so. The years chipping away at the foundations of a system rigged against the human soul take a heavy toll. I sit in the living room, watching the news and yelling at injustice, while Joanne gallavants with her new uni friends, leaving half a packet of economy rice sitting in the fridge for me to eat.
The love that sustains the home is barely alive. It receives sporadic injections of sex, which give it a lease of life of, say, six hours, and then flops back down onto a stinking bed, carrying the weight of so-many rules, regulations, and political doublespeak that the act of verbally questioning the laws that govern our increasingly meaningless lives results in humiliation and needless debate.
Joanne walks into the room, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. Lee Hsien Loong is on the TV.
“God, you’re obsessed with him aren’t you?” she says, dumping her handbag on the dining table and filling up a cup of water, “why don’t you find something else to obsess about, like me?”
“Of course I’m obsessed with him!”, I shoot back, “he’s the leader of our country!”
Joanne slams the cup onto the kitchen counter and storms into our room. Another night of silent anger for us then. Another foot of distance between our souls, one compromised, the other weakening, searching for a sustenance that will never come.
