My Streets

My night begins, with a long drag.

I love these streets that I roam.  A far cry from what we are used to on this silly island, some of us call home.  In the darkness, the sheep's skin shed and the wolves, let loose.  These streets that we prowl, a different orgy of smells - part sewer, part Beef Hor Fan - a different symphony - part moans, part whispers, part cries.

Truly, uniquely Singapore.

Everyone here has a different way of getting by.  I knew of a girl once who used to sing Hey Jude whenever she felt miserable.  An imported talent, a China girl, who spoke no English except, 'And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, don't carry the world upon your shoulders...'  What a miserable sight, to see a girl fumble over the lyrics of a Beatles song, in a dark alley, cigarette in one hand, fake LV clutch in the other.  It all got to us after a while.  No one on our streets needed reminding that their life was... different, from the fairy tales and the castles and the princes and the white horses that galloped through our childhood.  No one likes a whiner.

But in time, her song became part of the cacophony of our street, along with the blare of the horn of the illegal Malaysian durian seller, who, like us, was trying to make a living the best way he knew how.

Then one evening, the singing stopped.

And that's how we knew she left.  Going on to better things, fleeing the country, starting anew, were all the phrases that were used to describe what happened to Jude.  I think she simply understood what Paul McCartney was trying to tell her.

No one lives here for long.