Glass panels form half the walls of this quiet room that I am in. In this eastern end of my country, I am but a dust smacked right in this place filled with laughter and tears. Looking through the panel in front of me, I see tired travellers catching as much sleep as they can, while they wait for their time to board the huge metal tins that will be bringing them to their destinations via the flight journeys they will embark on. The name of this place is Changi Airport. I scribble what you are reading now on this notebook that was a gift from my wife, and while I am at it, I hear heavy foot steps coming towards me from my rear. I turn my head, and I see the arrivals of armed soldiers, patrolling to protect every individual in this place that has idly become one of the targets of mindless extremists. They stand tall with their LBVs on their backs, and the rifle that Singapore is proud to manufacture, the SAR21 in their hands. Their presence intimidates only the ones with the malignant intentions, and assures the rest.
Ah, the sense of security that many have – but shouldn’t – take for granted.
Being here in this place, at this time – working hours on a weekday – is something that many “good-lifers” are not able to understand. Epitome being the word “privilege”. I didn’t, and I don’t have to race through places of unrest, nor do I have to hide from showers of bullets. I do not have to ride (because, bike) across slums and I do not have to fear if this place are occupied and made shut down by protesters from various incitements that we are unaware of. Complacency is the word permanent in the last place in my dictionary of changing prioritized words.
Besides me are a group of middle age ladies here also to enjoy the peace, and the views of planes taking off from this area called the “Gallery”. A little girl is walking around looking for the owner of a card she found, and my reply “it’s not mine” earned the praises from the ladies sitting besides me. I thank them.
The serenity of this place and the departure of planes are making my thoughts taking a turn towards the emotional end. I think I’ll stop here, for I prefer Andy Lawson to be remembered as the blog/person who brings smiles to his readers through the nonsensical posts he writes, over this fake and shitty emo front.
Andy Lawson is the average man on the street that you’ll not even trouble yourself looking at him if he passes by you. He’s sensitive to bullshit, and he hates mediocrity in most people. He is the author of his self-published book: Facts and Fiction of Fengshui: Facts that Masters are NOT Telling You. He doesn’t have Facebook or Twitter, because he hates to be associated with people who tend to be passive-aggressive online, but he does have a very limited set of vocabularies, terrible grammar, a twisted mind that makes himself God in his own twisted world and an ability to communicate with people who wish to be his friend.