It’s one of those nights when I wake up earlier than I should to my mum’s snore. Through half closed lids, I noted the absence of my dad on the comfy queen sized mattress they shared and half-concluded that he could either be sleeping on the couch due to a fight I missed or he could have been forced to bond with the youngest brat in the room my brothers (previously) shared. After all, the second eldest was packed away to Kampar, probably reveling his newfound freedom in booze and late nights of WoW instead of the stack of accounting textbooks his doting parents so hoped.

I trotted down into the dark living room in silence. Should my mum awaken herself from her snore, I was ready with the excuse that a person who has slept since six in the evening would have the appetite of a walrus. She probably wouldn’t know what a walrus is and I probably wouldn’t know how to say what a walrus is in Mandarin and she wouldn’t have to know that I actually wanted to fix my Net addiction.

The thrill of sneaking behind your parents’ back.

I suppose a part of us would somehow hope that we’re not the only ones doing the dirty deeds we do or the only ones thinking the dirty thoughts we think; that others might somehow be as secretly guilty as us too. I went downstairs, half expecting the youngest to be bathing in sinful monitor glare instead of sleeping for school like he should, twisting his head in red-handed surprise at his (maybe) blackmailer’s discovery.

I came to see an empty seat. For a brief moment, I contemplated whether I could get away with typing an entry or three or not. Should I execute my secret plan in success, I shall gently ease back the desk chair to its original stray position, as if nothing happened at all.

If only nothing happened at all.

I walked past it to the dining table, ate leftover greens and carrots and beans, and started washing all the dishes. Bowls and spatulas and all.

Guilt can convince us to do things we normally wouldn’t.

Just when I couldn’t find anymore dirty plates to wash and greasy counters to wipe, I walked back into the living room, up the stairs, and paused at the top, just in front of the master bedroom door.

To hell with it.

And so I sat here, wondering what to type, just because I had to.

–

It’s one of those nights when you wake up earlier than you should, not just because you had too much sleep, but because you have something to say, something your heart and mind wouldn’t shut up about yet it wouldn’t come out in words. It just pops up unexpectedly like annoying pop up ads and that screen saver you keep forgetting to switch off. Tales as old as time.

And when you finally face that good friend or white screen to take it off your chest, you don’t.

You suddenly wonder what the fuss is all about. You suddenly remember age old resolutions of bygone years.

And then you wish that you can have a pack of Marlboro, just to see if it delivers like they say it would.

–

Oh, and for the record, don’t fall for artists. Especially not writers/songwriters/photographers/painters/drawing artists. Especially not the good ones.

Because there is a high chance that you might fall in blind hope that you’ll ever be their muse.