Rain

It is pouring as I write, almost as if someone is desperately trying to hit the rainfall quota before the end of the year. It has been pouring the whole of December since I’ve been back. So there is winter in Singapore after all. I never known the difference between seasons to be so drastic. Had I merely never noticed, or is global warming moving up a notch?

The rain seems to portend the passing of a year, a torrent of emotion no longer being held back. Yet it is also as a waterfall in some run-of-the-mill adventure story, a diaphanous veil concealing treasure beyond, the Ding an sich, the hidden reality of which I wish to speak but am unable to. That failure to describe reality is itself the reality which I must describe.