A delayed reaction

“You ready to rock and roll in sterile Singapore, baby?” – Eza

Here I am again, in a country I didn’t expect to come back to quite so soon — and I probably wouldn’t have had to either if I’d made sure I hadn’t left anything behind the last time. Walking around Orchard Road, and at one point being run to earth by a girl with bleached hair and glued-on eyelashes outside Paragon, I realized I didn’t quite like being here. Though some might say the hustle and bustle of the city is like that of New York, there was none of the hushed, controlled busyness, in spite of all the vehicular and human traffic that gives that feeling of life and activity to Manhattan. Instead, it was noisy, congested and downright irritating. And yet I was surprised to be feeling this only now, when I had been here three times over the past five months; it made me wonder why it had never bothered me before.

Maybe it was because you were here all those other times, and now you’re not anymore. Maybe the fact that you were here back then, right next to me, that made all the little things I couldn’t stand seem so insignificant. Maybe I had gotten used to you being here and today it seemed as though something was amiss, even though I’ll be gone by tomorrow and you’ll be there — theoretically.

And maybe that’s the whole problem: that I’ve gotten used to you.

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