Let me ask you something.
Would you believe me if I told you that there are just some stories that refuse to be told?
Hard to believe... considering that rare it is that a story decides to fold onto itself and remain silent. Most of us are familiar with the belief that stories deserve their place on stage, that they deserve to be narrated and performed and shared and oracled, and so we try hard to tell each and every story. We explore angles, we practice our language, we push the boundaries of vocabulary, thematic discussion, grammar, approach and style. We give voice to whatever it is that we can give voice to. We write- or we attempt to.
Yet, after countless deleted drafts and umpteen attempts to write about this one single block of flats at Rochor, I'm starting to think otherwise. I'm starting to open myself up to the possibility that in this case, it is not the words that speak the story.
It is the Silence.
Specifically, Her Silence.
Does it sound strange? Mystical, even? Frankly, yes, I think so. But I don't have any other explanation as to why, after trying to write about her darkened corridors, her forever-open windows, her shuttered staircase landings, her empty rooms and her void of residents, I'm still nowhere near the end of the article. It is not as if I'm discussing serious s*** like transport infrastructure or city development or displacement either!
Nope. None of that.
I'm just trying to talk about a block of flats.
A block of flats that belonged to an estate and which had lots of people wandering in and out and so there was lots of movement within her walls, and which she doesn't have anymore.
A block of flats that once had an NTUC facing the main courtyard and a corner coffee shop that overlooked the bus terminal across the road, and whose shutters have been down for a long time now.
That's all.
Simple, present, nostalgic and reminiscent.
That's all I was trying to say.
But none of it came out the way I wanted it to. None of it sounded as smooth or even right as per the way I had imagined it to, and since some things cannot be compelled, I guess, if this story decides that her Silence speaks louder than many, many words, so be it. :) She'll tell her own story somehow anyway.
Would you believe me if I told you that there are just some stories that refuse to be told?
Hard to believe... considering that rare it is that a story decides to fold onto itself and remain silent. Most of us are familiar with the belief that stories deserve their place on stage, that they deserve to be narrated and performed and shared and oracled, and so we try hard to tell each and every story. We explore angles, we practice our language, we push the boundaries of vocabulary, thematic discussion, grammar, approach and style. We give voice to whatever it is that we can give voice to. We write- or we attempt to.
Yet, after countless deleted drafts and umpteen attempts to write about this one single block of flats at Rochor, I'm starting to think otherwise. I'm starting to open myself up to the possibility that in this case, it is not the words that speak the story.
It is the Silence.
Specifically, Her Silence.
Does it sound strange? Mystical, even? Frankly, yes, I think so. But I don't have any other explanation as to why, after trying to write about her darkened corridors, her forever-open windows, her shuttered staircase landings, her empty rooms and her void of residents, I'm still nowhere near the end of the article. It is not as if I'm discussing serious s*** like transport infrastructure or city development or displacement either!
Nope. None of that.
I'm just trying to talk about a block of flats.
A block of flats that belonged to an estate and which had lots of people wandering in and out and so there was lots of movement within her walls, and which she doesn't have anymore.
A block of flats that once had an NTUC facing the main courtyard and a corner coffee shop that overlooked the bus terminal across the road, and whose shutters have been down for a long time now.
That's all.
Simple, present, nostalgic and reminiscent.
That's all I was trying to say.
But none of it came out the way I wanted it to. None of it sounded as smooth or even right as per the way I had imagined it to, and since some things cannot be compelled, I guess, if this story decides that her Silence speaks louder than many, many words, so be it. :) She'll tell her own story somehow anyway.