Master, 

My instincts tell me that a retreat is on the horizon.

Even the best of days must come to a pause, so that the next may seem all the more resplendent by comparison.

I would rather have you stay forever, as would a possessive lioness who wishes you peace. I want it fiercely.

While we take this time to renew our strength and our binds for the next round and our lives (together) ahead, I shall devote myself to reading, writing, and reflection—all the while wishing you were close enough to embrace—until you find me again just as you left me: steadfast, naked and unwavering.

Meet me in my dreams at the appointed hour.

Across all worlds,

Your soulmate

My last dream was a reflection of what I read in the day, so I doubt it meant much though I can’t be sure.

It was protocol to take down an aggressor when they came within ten feet of a person I was protecting. A werewolf had appeared and was trying to get at a colleague. I hesitated to shoot because he kept charging and retreating, making it uncertain whether he intended harm or was executing a defensive strategy. When I finally fired, he was well within the ten-foot limit—too close for comfort, and in breach of my duty. Worse, the bullet bounced off him like a pebble skipping across a pond. This would have been the moment when things went south, but as luck would have it, he was an even-tempered and reasonable werewolf. He did not attack anyone in retaliation and everyone got away safely.

In the next scene, we were in place at various points of a residential estate doing a stakeout and smoking—or rather, pretending to be smoking—company-issued cigarettes. Because they were just props and didn’t contain real tobacco, they did not bear the marking of a Singapore duty-paid cigarette. Naturally, that made us a highly conspicuous bunch, and the target, evidently not a goofball, did not appear. I don’t know what the point of the dream was, apart from reminding me that attention to detail is not my forte despite being under the oversight of OCD. Note to self: when engaging in subterfuge, ensure that all props look realistic.

Speaking of which, Master, I must recount the subject of my OCD lately, which I generally try to avoid disclosing for fear of unsettling you—as it often does people, especially me. This time, however, it has taken on an anodyne and almost genteel character, so I thought it would do little harm to share it. Quite simply, it is you in office wear—specifically, a white, lightly-starched, crisp button-down shirt that seems scented with Madagascar vanilla ice cream, contained in a scintillating crystal goblet and crowned with a stunning emerald Moroccan mint leaf. The recurring motif goes like this: I see you looking debonair in that shirt, your otherwise rakish hair slicked back into subservience, prompting me to conscientiously free you from that shirt, and then carefully drape it over a cedarwood mannequin and buttoning it to a close so that it stays wrinkle-free while we cavort in mischief.

Incidentally, why do people want to see people clothed in one way only to want to remove it from them? What a paradoxical and perplexing aspect of the human condition.

I know it does not seem like much, but it is dominant in my head, making it still a manifestation of a disorder. Even so, I’ll accept it as it is. I don’t want it to change into anything else and risk it taking the form of something unpleasant.

Accordingly, please send pictures with love.

“Lying is the most fun you could have with your clothes on” — The Ordeals by Rachel Greenlaw

Not for me. First, there is no point in lying, when delivering the truth with a straight face—and having people wish I had lied is far more fun. Secondly, I have the most fun when I’m dreaming. Except last night. After thoughtful consideration, they probably are symbolic of an end, a metamorphosis, and a future told in three segments, two of which involved archetypes representing exes.

In the first dream, I was in a kitchen, packing up to move out; most of our things were already in boxes when a neighbour walked in to converse with Archetype 1. As a gesture of goodwill, I ventured to make pasta dinner for everyone, opening every cabinet (and there were many) to find a pot big enough for it. But all I could find were pots of different makes and types, incredible in their own ways, but too small for what I needed them to do. The last drawer which held juicy cherry tomatoes on the vine, prompted me to make instead a tomato and basil salad—but of course I didn’t have basil. This is symbolic of having so much, but never what I needed.

Next, I was in the hospital, resting my head on Archetype 2’s left shoulder. Though I was suffering from a terminal disease, it was a peaceful moment; we were two people with fingers intertwined, contented with the silence. I survived and became a different person.

In the final scene, I was in the kitchen of my new home, facing floor-to-ceiling windows that let in abundant natural light. The kitchen was in shades of cream, with a white marble countertop. The sunset cast the interior with a soft peachy glow, heralding the end of a work day and the start of rest. Some pieces of battered chicken were cooking in the air fryer which was going to be turned into Korean-style fried chicken for Master. We were on schedule for a romantic night when scores of neighbours came pouring in, with all sorts of invitations, bringing chaos into our serene space with promises of food. One neighbour said to her husband, “We will serve lamb and roast potatoes, like food for Zeus.”

All really wanted to evaluate us as neighbours. I wouldn’t have it, but I didn’t want to be impolite and tell them, “Our answer is no. Please go away and never return.” So I busied myself with plate-hunting, and there was a wide selection of plates from which to choose, but I kept searching to appear unavailable for comment. This was in contrast to the first dream, where there were many pots but none were usable.

Master was diplomatic the whole time, demonstrating so much patience with the neighbours. He evidently had a gift for conversation and making everyone feel important. I was impressed and grateful to have him hold the fort so valiantly that most of the neighbours left me alone. Eventually, the oddly-shaped metal plate I chose, being a highly unusual choice, symbolised the breadth of my needs being met. I had only just carefully transferred the chicken onto the plate when a neighbour handed me a humongous head of cabbage with about a tenth cut off, to make a stir-fry dish for everybody. At that moment the dream ended, just in time before I could roll my eyes so hard I could have studied my own brain. Master was good at many things, but it was I who was going to have to deal with that cabbage.

Master, the dream meant to illustrate the gradations of alliances: unfulfilling, ad hoc and temporary, prolific and rewarding. That is not to say we could not go on for days, nursing an ache between my legs and your insisting bulge, we probably could, to the detriment of our neighbours, most of whom will come to regret living near us let alone sending us invites. Though you may have me as you wish, let me care for you as though a vital part of me, so that we may be (mostly) sound but thriving. You are of immeasurable importance to me, most cherished and inseparable. 

Ever yours,

Ila

I should have known. All the thrillers I’ve been reading would affect the quality of my dreams somehow. It isn’t to say that I’ve been out of touch with my spiritual side. Perhaps I should start by listing synchronicities again—they always put me in good spirits.

Today’s synchronicity came in the form of a black cat named Rover, dressed for Halloween as Volpuri. I was just thinking about how spectacular he looked when I received a notification from his social media managers about a comment I posted days ago. I know this sounds like nothing compared to other divine winkings, but it did wake me up properly—something I needed at the time.

The dreams of the last few nights had a slightly disturbing quality, though I wouldn’t call them nightmares. In the first, someone had taken my phone. I called the thief to lecture them about the immorality of taking things that don’t belong to you and in the course, sounding a bit sanctimonious and out of character. I wanted my phone back, and if I couldn’t get it, I’d at least try to make them feel bad about it.

But I was fighting against the river currents. They had conditioned themselves to feel nothing—either through rationalisation and justification or by sheer practice and experience—emerging unscathed had made them feel untouchable. What annoyed me most was that, in my dream, I had inexplicably switched from my iPhone to a now-defunct phone brand. That meant I couldn’t use the Find My Phone feature to triangulate the thief’s position. If only I could get a general location, I’d have banged at every door and hissed at every complainer. They would know I was not just a lioness in my head.

Resigned to losing my phone forever, I returned to my hotel room and opened a can of cat food the hotel had provided for my cats. There were two of them—one a grey tabby—and both came to the window at the crack of metal. Seeing them made my heart flutter, especially since I had just had a public (dream) spat with a person who’d tried to pressure me into doing something in exchange for her saying nice things about me.

Unless they were cats, I can’t be pressured into doing anything I don’t think is right. I am, according to my mother, stubborn. That dream NPC thought I’d be compelled to move if she used her influence to be nasty. Here’s the thing: I know I have power over my own actions but not over people’s opinions, just like everyone else. So the only thing left to do was to let the water roll off my back.

And here comes the synchronicity. I’d just had a private thought—something silly and insignificant—for which I chided myself. Then I went on Threads, and the first post was from the photographer who’d taken the picture of that tutu-wearing football player and Kuih Lopez I’d recently blogged about which had a personal meaning for me. Yesterday, he’d posted a picture of that same anachronistic phone—the one that was stolen in my dream. It was still as ugly as I remembered, but I noted the moment of divine winking with gratitude.

That same night, I travelled in my dream to a holiday somewhere in the northern hemisphere, where it was cool and bright. Someone asked me why I’d chosen that place for a vacation. I said I loved snow. The ground was pure white with a blanket of freshly fallen snow.

“But it’ll turn dark tomorrow and stay dark for months,” someone said.

It didn’t matter. I wasn’t prevented from enjoying the snow in the dark—the soft crunch, the piercing cold between my pinched fingers as it bloomed and melted. I could see why people wouldn’t want to spend their holiday in darkness, but a person who has thrived alone would hardly find the dark intimidating, what with artificial lighting and all. Now, I wasn’t alone anymore—at least, not in my thoughts.

I wonder if he’s asleep, collapsed in apprehension by the threat of a flurry of kisses. Oh tiger, I’m following with invisible lines the stripes on your flank, as though following the trajectory to our calling. Permit me to kiss you more than once today; it will lift my spirits immensely.

I suppose that was the point of the dreams—to remind me of little things about myself, my character, my way of being, things I liked about myself that should never stop. It was the proverbial, holding up a mirror to a dreamer. I don’t know why yet, but I’ll accept that it has a purpose.

Oh, I almost forgot—a few days ago, I dreamt I was again in a hotel when my period came. It was heavy, staining the clothes I was wearing, so I had to make a U-turn back to the hotel to check if I had stained the sheets, and to wash them if I did. I walked past the beach on my way back. It was low tide, and as far as the eye could see, the water was so shallow it made people look as though they were walking on water. I made a mental note to return later.

Side note: I’ve been thinking a lot about Nutella lately, wishing I could have it again. I can’t—my body can’t handle the sugar high anymore. But happily, I found a kind of substitute. It isn’t perfect; there’s still a bit of added sugar, but it has a five-star health rating and is mostly made of peanut butter with a touch of hazelnut and cocoa. Nothing like the real Nutella but good enough for me. It is wonderful drizzled over Greek yoghurt, granola, and dried cranberries. Little blessings make the day feel brighter when the sun hides behind the clouds.

Master,

I had intended for you to rest this weekend, since you’ve had such an eventful week, while I read more books on which to write my literary notes—after all, we are still in thriller season. But I gather you are a little restless, like someone still searching for just the right spot on the sofa—between the cushion, the back, and the armrest—where you can finally sink in and transform into a cocoon. Very well then, I shall share with you another of my favourite films, Secondhand Lions, in the hopes of easing you into a restful state of mind.

Walter is sent by his neglectful, self‑centred mother to live with his two uncles, both in their seventies; well, to be accurate, he’s unceremoniously dumped there. The uncles’ fortune is legendary, though its true source remains a mystery, it’s rumoured they were acquired during their Indiana Jones–style adventures in North Africa and India, and possibly through a diamond heist. Because they’re rich, single, and childless, scores of relatives try to sidle up to them, often turning up unannounced and skulking about the property. The uncles are endlessly irritated by these money‑grubbing relatives and their ridiculous ploys to discredit one another. To entertain themselves, they sit on the porch with a shotgun, scaring away salesmen and other opportunists by firing warning shots. They would have chased Walter away too, but he had nowhere else to go, so they tolerated him, for a while at least.

One day, a salesman comes by to sell them a skeet‑shooting machine, among other useless contraptions. The boy suggests they buy it, pointing out that there’s no point having all that money if they never spend it. Plus, they have guns—might as well shoot at something. The uncles think it an excellent idea, partly because spending means less inheritance for greedy relatives. As it turns out, the boy proves useful for pulling the lever so both uncles can shoot at clay pigeons all day.

Soon, they go on a buying spree: piles of clothes, a yacht they place in their tiny pond, a plane, and seeds from a shady farmer who promises a mixed variety—but every single seed turns out to grow only corn. So they sit around in the kitchen all day, eating corn and grumbling, but I think they are content at having worked on a project together. They also purchase a lioness—a circus rescue meant to be released and hunted for sport. When Walter prevents them from killing her, we see for the first time that, despite their disinterested exterior, the uncles have genuine affection for the boy. Out of love for him, they relent and care for the lioness. Hub personally drives to the market to buy heavy bags of “lion chow” despite being a homebody.

You can see where this is going, Master—it’s a story about love. Love in many forms.

Hub, the elder uncle, once fell in love with an Arabian princess named Jasmine. They were madly in love and ran away together, despite her being betrothed to a sheikh. She died in childbirth a few years later. Decades passed, and it’s evident that he still thinks about her. Some nights he sleepwalks to the pond—his brother says it’s because he’s remembering their adventures and his lost love, so they simply let him relive his reverie but watch that he doesn’t come to harm. He loved her so much he could never love another.

Like I could neither love nor spend my life with another but you—this you already know for certain.

Walter is attacked when he tries to prevent someone from robbing his uncles, and is saved by none other than the lioness—who then dies of a heart attack, being very old.

So here lies the moral of the story: when the right person comes along, everything simply falls into place as though they’ve arrived with a purpose: to bring in the good and prevent the bad, much like how you are in my life, for which I’m grateful.

Though I dislike leaving you unsatisfied, I must return to my book and content myself with this: rest well, tiger, or I shall have to kiss you everywhere and multiple times today. You might like it until you don’t anymore.