Kent Ridge.
I took a walk this morning.
Labryinth-like, plastered with brick an unkempt foliage. I breathe in periwinkle (for want of a better identity of scent) and morning dew. As I trail almost involuntarily to the faculty, the slapping of concrete from my steps blaze the way forward, out and beyond. I get to the open, greeted by more green, this time, of gap-crawling, reluctant dirty moss clinging and wearing down the sides of the garnet coloured wall. It will take awhile, but this place may become a relic, or descend to the derelict.
Beside me go the insane whirrs of the shuttle buses engines, Formula-one worthy, they say. Raging down the winding terrain of a trajectory of a job they once thought novel. Now frustration just fills the violent ticks of the speedometer as the nameless students pile insolently in. It permeates the air; the destination, nowhere.
I look away. Walk past the glass entrance into the ice palace, where those who reign are either the decorated queens or those true to their craft, honing to perfection those scholastic (and often ruthless) ambition. I take comfort in that when it does rain, the smiles in the corridors drown me with warmth and the bouts of charity unspoken rival the thunderous storm outside. Other than that, it's easy to partner cynicism. And hide your face behind books, even though you don't know a thing.
I know smells, though. A banquet of smells I feast on- dumplings, oil from fried batter, soup, vinegar, da mai, viet beef noodles. They tantalize my mind, taking me away from myself for awhile. Accents also entertain- "next, please", makes me feel like I'm in a fish market with the fishmonger watching one too many movies out of Hollywood.
I'll miss you, Kent Ridge, for all the wrong reasons.