Rues of Roo

Lakeside MRT

Gently heaving, the constant whirring of this island city. Operating with consistency, simplicity. The rhythm of the tracks, those long white trains passing by without a pause. The blank stares of those at the bus stop, sitting communally in silence on those hard orange seats. The old and their translucent pink carrier bags, the overweight young boy in his neighbourhood school uniform and an oversized backpack. The chattering of teenage girls and their enthusiastic laughter. The lovers, who really ought to get a room, and the girl, skinny as hell. An assortment of uncles talking in a language soon to be forgotten, tanned. A business owner, with twenty mobile phones hanging from his belt shouting as if to a client across the road. The inconsideration. A road side stall selling copies of hard-to-believe-these-sell 8 days and Cleo and an odd assortment of curry puffs and drinks in a dodgy looking refrigerator. The refreshing cold air from a bus’ interior, and then the heat from its exhaust as it roars away.

Ah. The heartlands. Grassroots. PAP and ACS Forever. Auspicium Melioris Aevi.