Yesterday’s dream was fun. I was a special agent with superpowers: I could change my clothes with a single thought and on the go. In other words, I had the power of a chameleon. It was mostly related to a change in colour, but that alone was enough to make CCTV unreliable to any tracker.

The people trying to find me were a bunch of Scandinavian men I thought I had offended inadvertently with a comment. They were so determined to catch me that they followed me to a supermarket, where I was grocery shopping with a colleague who was there to give me information about a secret hideout. I left him with instructions on how to choose the right pepperoni stick for me. I told him I preferred the congealed fatty bits to be pointy rather than round, to which he replied that it would be better if I just slathered the entire stick in oil for better coverage. He was mocking me, but I think he was simultaneously being sexually suggestive. I let it slide this time—pun intended.

At that point, the Scandinavians found me and chased me to another building which I scaled as though flying—up along the side, over the top, and down again—changing the colour of my clothes to hideous khaki as I descended. That gave me an advantage by a wide margin since my pursuers couldn’t, in essence, jump over a building like I could. I heard one of the men shouting, “We don’t want you—we just want your nephew to be trained as an operative!” That didn’t make the situation any more palatable (though in real life, he’d jump at the opportunity).

They had found me because I’d taken a shortcut when entering a building. I hadn’t used the gantry point that everyday commuters were obligated to pass through—even though it was a public building with free entry, the gantry served as a security-screening point. At the time, it was guarded by an octogenarian lady who looked disinterested in checking anybody. My impertinence and impatience had almost done me in—it made me stand out from the ordinary rule-abiding citizens.

Regardless, I was an uncatchable cheetah pleased with her skills and adaptability at last. Though danger was still present in my mind, I strolled casually on the grounds, curious about a reflecting pool, crystal clear and sky blue, approaching it with caution but also with affinity.

Then Master appeared, riding a chestnut mare—bareback and naked. I didn’t ask him why he was making such a sartorial statement during a rescue mission, but I was glad to see him. He had come to take me away from those people—neither inconvenience nor indecency was going to stop him. We rode across an immaculate lawn, my arms around his naked waist, surely to the annoyance of the groundskeeper who must have worked so hard to keep the lawn looking like carpet.

Thank you, Master, for rescuing me. May your dreams always lead you to me—without your clothes on. If my dreams are any indication, reflecting pools are signposts for actual reflection. The last one had me thinking about the pointlessness of regret in the face of the future. Yesterday’s was a reminder that, even though I can overcome adversity on my own (literally, since I vaulted over an entire building), you’ll come for me eventually—no matter your current state of undress. Riding a horse bareback and naked could symbolise riding with determination together towards our freedom, mutual trust, dependability, and confidence despite our vulnerabilities. It reaffirms our cosmic connection: you as my protector, my most reliable partner, and the one who will always find his way to me when no one else can.

Today’s love story is about the heart of a star, based on the film Stardust. Tristan, smitten by Victoria, tells her that he will fetch her a piece of the fallen star they have only just seen, in order to prove his love to her. Tristan had been a boy not too long ago, when love meant being enamoured of the most sought-after woman in the village, and a kiss before an official commitment was an audacious thing to ask. And love entailed doing outrageous things for people—travelling to dangerous and faraway places to bag collector’s items—because love required gifting for bragging rights. But Tristan is not vain; he only wants to make her happy so she will agree to be his wife.

They are on a picnic the night the star falls into Faerie land, sipping champagne he paid for with his last earnings. That is a big thing for a villager, which alone shows how incompatible they really are: Victoria thinks of the champagne as the grand gesture, when someone else would have said it was his generosity.

Faerie land is walled in and well-guarded for good reason. It is a dangerous place and impossible to cross for everyone else except Tristan, who, as it turns out, was conceived in Faerie the same night his father met his mother, when she asked him for a kiss in exchange for a snowdrop. Nine months later, he was dropped off at his father’s doorstep along with several items, including a candle that, when burned, could take them anywhere they wished. This is how Tristan’s adventure begins—as a quest for love, which he eventually finds in the heart of a star.

He burns the candle, asking to be taken to the star, but finds a woman named Yvaine instead. It takes him a while to put two and two together, following a tense shouting match, but he eventually figures out who she is—she is the star that had been knocked out of the sky by a flying jewel. That jewel had been thrown out of a castle by a dying king who wanted one final showdown, turning his sons against each other for the jewel that would crown the next heir.

Tristan takes the star captive with a magic rope, intending to take her back to Victoria. But Yvaine, after some time, is too tired to move and very hungry. Taking pity on her, he promises to bring her some food but leaves her tied to a tree while she rests—where she is rescued by a unicorn. She seeks shelter at an inn which, unbeknownst to her, had been magically conjured up by a witch as a trap for her. With fine hospitality and a warm bath, the witch intends to make Yvaine happy so that she will shine—and when she does, that will be the best time to cut out her heart, for the one who possesses the heart of a star will have long life and great powers.

Her plan is interrupted by one of the princes searching for the jewel that Yvaine now wears around her neck, but before he realises this and can claim it as his own, he is slain by the witch. Guided by stars, Tristan finds her just in time, and only clumsily rescues her himself with the last remnants of the candle, asking her to think of home while he thinks of his. And since “home” means the same thing only for lovers—and they were not—they end up at a middle point, in the clouds, where they are captured by a flying ship.

This is the moment when we see Tristan’s transformation—physically, as a dashing man in disguise, but also inwardly—for it is through his harrowing experience with the witch and pirates that we see what sort of person he truly is: selfless, kind and courageous. Even though he barely knows how to handle a sword, let alone fight, he risks his life to protect her. Happily, the pirate captain is a kind man who teaches him how to fight properly, gives them fine clothes to wear, and throws them a lavish dinner party. Though the captain knows what Yvaine really is—as she glows so brightly when she dances with Tristan—he promises that they will come to no harm and drops them off at the nearest port.

Stars can only shine when they feel love—the more genuine it is, the brighter they will be. She feels genuine love for him, as they spend a wondrous, romantic night together before he leaves her in the morning with a lock of her hair to bring to Victoria.

Devastated, Yvaine walks towards his village to present herself to Victoria as self-sacrifice for the man she loves, who she thinks has abandoned her, but he has not; he only means to fulfil his promise of delivering the star as a respectable man and out of consideration to Victoria, to say goodbye properly in case she is waiting—she is not. He hands over what he thinks is Yvaine’s hair, which has turned into stardust as soon as he steps out of Faerie land. Realising what this means for Yvaine, he leaves Victoria properly standing to rush back to her side. But by then Yvaine has been captured by yet another witch and taken back to a castle. Tristan, of course, saves her—or this would not be a proper love story—though he barely escapes with his life despite his new fighting skills and great love fuelling him. Yvaine, in her happiness that he came back for her, holds him tightly in her arms and shines so brightly that the witch is destroyed. Tristan has by then possessed her heart completely, so her light will never harm him.

He who possesses the heart of a star will not die. The witches were wrong to think this needed to be literal—cruelty and greed prevented them from seeing otherwise and from receiving love that would have granted them their hearts’ desires. To find love and keep it, one must be a person capable of receiving and holding it. Tristan does capture the heart of the star through love, and for that he is given immortality. He is also given everlasting powers as the one most deserving, because with power, the one most desperate to have it for its own sake ought to be the last to receive it. If you remember, she was wearing the jewel which would enable a male from the king’s lineage to be the next king—she became inadvertently, the guardian of the key to the kingdom. Tristan’s mother was the daughter of that king, who had been enslaved by a witch and thought lost forever. That meant Tristan is the next king over the land, which he rules with grace and magnanimity, being the person he has grown to be.

As an allegory, this story tells me the value of adversity, which not only changes us but carries us towards our truest potential. Tristan is shown to be courageous, selfless, and kind because he had several opportunities to show them—not fearless, because without fear there would be no courage. He was utterly terrified as he fought to protect her, which earned him her love. Had he been selfish, untouched by adversity, or unwilling to seek adventure—to gain knowledge and experience—he could only have had a semblance of what love might be, with a vain woman who did not truly love him back.

So this story isn’t so different from Orlando after all, in that change is required for us to come closer to love in its ultimate form. I could enumerate how you have changed me, but you already know, in several other letters. So I pray you’ll be contented instead, at least for the time being, with several kisses for each kiss you gave me as I was dreaming. In that dream, I was filled with regret and wishing I could be young again so I could swim competitively, and because of your kisses, I woke knowing I could leave my regrets behind. I missed nothing substantial by being on the path life took me instead—for nothing could be better than being by your side.

Master,

When I wink at you for no reason at all, it means I’d like one inestimable kiss, not that your kisses vary in outstanding quality—but some days, such as today, when I need a little more love, I’d like a special one.

This isn’t to say that I’m above begging, nor that I do not enjoy the pomp and ceremony of being on my knees and humbly beseeching you for one on top of each curve, or several in a continuous line, while you’re on a work call. But begging takes energy, which I can hardly exert when utterly knackered. Though I must preface, I recognise, indisputably, how hard Master has worked for my ease and good name, some days I can scarcely do otherwise than beg for reprieve.

Tonight, a love letter escapes me, though it ought to make little difference; by now you must already know how much I’m utterly taken with you, up to a point of villainy, and even then…

About yesterday’s murmuration of starlings—they captivate much like my phantasmagorical dreams, and certain pieces of contemporary art, and you, unclothed with your anarchic hair, and your instructions that only beholding is (fairly) permitted. We’d be in that liminal space in which we spend the most fabulous time; between imagination and reality, rolling on our bed, on the floor, and on the grass. As the starlings form transient recognisable silhouettes, one has but a moment to identify them before they dissolve into another; it’s like that with kisses, splendid in their brevity, and esteemed in their prize. The birds do as they must, and we can play along with our guesses in their whirls against a gold-streaked sky, and I will do as I must, resting against your chest, our fingers interlacing, deep in a stately trance.

Tomorrow’s letter will be about stardust, I hope.

Yours since forever,

In too much love this time,

Ila

Today’s synchronicity arrived in a murmuration of starlings. These birds gather closely together in large numbers around dusk to share warmth and diffuse the risk from predators. In flight, they resemble rapidly shifting clouds, amorphous like wax in a hot spring—splitting, swirling, and sloshing in mesmerising synchronised patterns.

I had read a description just yesterday in a book, likening this to drowsing while gazing at a lava lamp—a thought I barely registered until I chanced upon the phenomenon today on Instagram. The starlings form chameleonic shapes that are, in essence, chaotic and immiscible in quality; their motion is hypnotic in its unpredictability, as the mind tries to follow an ever-elusive stabilising point.

Emblematic of strength in numbers, the first spiritual and symbolic thought that comes to mind is unity in a community, the value of cooperation and synchronicity, and harmony arising when individuals act with awareness and care for the collective, attending closely to purpose and the maintenance of oneness. Those who break rank or stray far from formation put themselves at risk of being the first to fall to a predator, and so must invest effort and concentration in a primitive state sustaining on social contract. With coordination, there is still order in ostensible chaos.

I can think of one person with whom I want to be ostensibly “one” through chaotic coordination.

*~ ~ ~*

Shortly after writing the preceding paragraphs, as if on cue, a Javan mynah wandered into my room today, strolling about as though on a museum tour—like the universe was telling me: you don’t thrive in a collective. You’re that bird who mates for life, standing by him through both the breeding and off-breeding seasons.

Before you slip into unconsciousness,

I’d like to have another kiss,

Another flashing chance at bliss,

Another kiss, another kiss.

The Crystal Ship by The Doors was playing on my phone as the bird marvelled at my bedroom furniture. While it’s widely believed to be a farewell love song, because of its dreamlike and romantic imagery, I like to see it as Morrison’s way of immortalising (distant) memories and moments when he travels between worlds and consciousness—like I do with these dream chronicles, now holding a collection of love letters.

Tomorrow, if I have time, I’ll write another love story. For now, I am enjoying the cool weather and contemplating what I can do with a case of 1.5L bottles of sparkling mineral water I purchased on impulse. Carbonation does resemble the mottled patterns and iridescence of starlings’ feathers, do they not? I could meditate on bubbles instead.

Yesterday, while scrolling on Instagram, I came upon Oxford University’s video on Dubai chocolate, in which a professor wearing a white lab coat from the Department of Psychology offered his take on the ubiquitous confection in a 1-min clip. He simply remarked how it was visually distinctive and differed from ordinary chocolate that snapped audibly, for it retained the crunch as you keep biting through it and chewing, owing to its pistachio interior. He called this auditory noise “sonic cues,” designed to draw attention to the mouth and heighten the intensity of flavour. He noted how texturally, the contrast between the melting chocolate and the crisp pistachio was striking. The packaging, resembling a gold bar, “primes all sorts of notions of luxury.” When asked whether he liked it, he said that he did not.

Some viewers commented beneath the video with remarks such as: “He’s saying so much without saying anything.”

I understand why some might think this way—it is not a conventional food-tasting video that would appeal to anyone looking for regular enjoyment through video consumption. Unless someone creates a sugar-free version of the Dubai chocolate, I will never be able to taste it myself, so I must rely upon one of the thousands of influencers on TikTok to describe these things for me. Their descriptions are so simple that they are all essentially saying the same thing: it’s got a crunchy centre from the pistachio, nutty and sweet, chocolatey from the milk chocolate, mmmmmm! Their eyes roll back dramatically, eyelids flutter closed, body quivering, “Best chocolate I’ve ever tasted!” It’s hyperbolic and theatrical, I know, but I also know what pistachios taste like, and separately, milk chocolate, sweetened buttery cream, and any other lightly-toasted, crunchy element that draws out nutty flavour. I remember how pleasurable textural and complementary contrasts can be—like wafer-covered chocolate—and with all this information, I can now assemble an imagined version of the Dubai chocolate in my mind. Watching someone enjoy it allows me to enjoy it vicariously, which is the closest I can get to enjoying the real thing. It is, in essence, the culinary equivalent of watching food porn—excitement and titillation through witnessing someone else experiencing those very emotions.

This idea is closely related to the phantom limb theory which essentially states that our emotions are manufactured in our brain and felt throughout the body. As we watch food-tasting videos and if we concentrated properly and engaged our imaginations and so on, our brain mirrors the neural activity associated with the act, enabling us to feel the same emotional and sensory experiences, albeit mutedly, as the brain recreates them for us.

Now, speaking as someone who enjoys bits of psychology every now and then, I appreciate the professor’s approach. There are many ways to enjoy a product—for its taste, general experience, dopamine hit, energy-giving quality to fuel a long-distance run, during sexual intercourse with or without fellatio—but also for what it can teach. Consumers can easily associate visually striking products with brands: we remember things not just simply by how similar they are to one another, but also by how they differ, creating a separate mental folder for each unique item. For now, this one stands alone because I don’t yet know anything quite like it: a thick bar of milk chocolate, bright green in the centre and markings on the shell like a minimalist drip (abstract) art painting.

It explains why Master is so dominant in my mind, during the day, and at night in the dream world—because there is none in the entire universe like him, throughout space and time, my cosmic mate and significant other. My one and only, celestial husband.

The more striking something or someone is, the more memorable they become, which translates to easier and quicker recall and, through that, future sales. It’s like an implanted advertisement in our minds—increasing its chances of finding its way into someone’s basket.

The uniqueness and complementary texture and flavour of the confection contribute to the perception of luxury and exclusivity, partly because it cannot be acquired elsewhere. The packaging resembling a gold bar evokes the opulence of the city, making the visual metaphor perfect based on its suitability for the objective, justifying the higher price point—at least in part—because it is associated with wealth, exoticism, and, more importantly, novelty: a unique experience unparalleled and difficult to replicate. People are willing to pay more for a new experience if they tell themselves this is only a one-time thing. Taken together, consumers spend on such a product because it situates them within an indulgent, luxurious, and singular experience. This is how, to me, the Oxford professor has said a great deal with very little. Granted, it may not appeal to the everyday consumer uninterested in psychology or marketing, because when they eat, they simply wish to enjoy the experience as is—as they should—one has to pay good money for it after all. They want to be told in everyday simple terms, how and whether it is good because principally, that is what matters to an average consumer. But for many (home) business owners, the insight is invaluable: it tells them how to design product packaging, and how to create products with experience in mind, depending on their target market.

Speaking of target markets—last night, I found myself once more employed by a large corporation. I was dressed in a black Prada tailored suit, with a black bandeau top underneath to soften its severity and adding an edge to my overall look, which I paired with sky-high Louboutin patent heels (I don’t own such outfits). My secretary had informed me that I was to meet Master for a business meeting at a “company” restaurant in Suntec. The instructions were evidently vague. Whose company? His, mine—or was that the restaurant’s name? I wandered from restaurant to restaurant in my stilettos, searching for him frantically, glancing periodically at my watch as anxiety built. I couldn’t be late—not to a business meeting, and certainly not to any meeting with Master.

I left the building and stepped into the humid afternoon air, hurrying past coffeeshops full of casually dressed people in cotton T-shirts and shorts, knowing I would soon pay dearly for my out-of-place attire with pain, sweat, and blisters. Every gaze seemed to follow me as I strode past like a woman-boss with my ponytail swinging. The meeting was about to start, and still, there was no sign of him. I kept walking and searching for his face upon rows and clusters of people, until I felt his presence, which came as suddenly and shockingly as the humidity to my hair. I didn’t see or hear him, but in my mind’s eye, I saw him as clear as day; I felt him approaching, getting closer, swiftly and imperceptibly. I turned just as he came within several paces—mouth slightly parted to form my name, and wearing that crisp, lightly-starched white button-down shirt.

Almost without thinking, I leapt towards him like a lioness, fixing my mouth to his, tongue darting deep in his warm mouth, coaxing and sliding instinctively, predatorily. My hands were firm behind his back in case he tried to flee. He didn’t. He let me kiss him—he just stood there, stunned.

I stepped back to take him all in, like gentle heat applied to white chocolate on a bain-marie: buttery, floral, sweet, and rich. Symbolically, and perhaps divinely, the dream meant to remind me that Master and I will meet at the appointed time, though the place itself may be unexpected. “In your dreams, pay attention not to the fears, but the joy. It will lead you to a life well-lived.” — The Witcher, S4 E2

And then, my wretched secretary called, rather than texted as any sensible person would when they knew their boss was in a meeting that they themselves had arranged. I answered, growing in irritation, as she said only: “Please call ‘some company’ as soon as you can—they’re expecting your call.” I made a mental note to dismiss her at the earliest opportunity.