Master,

Today’s letter for the 24th day of Sagittarius, will be based on history, as my visit to the dream world was truncated and seemed without purpose; I had offered to go to the shop to buy orange juice for my late grandmother, then drove to a hawker centre and parked the car in a revolving vending machine, similar to the revolving tower at BMW Singapore. In my mind, a love story referred to in a book by Sam Meerkings, titled The Book of Crows, was running the whole night. In it, a prince was questioning the role of love for someone in his position. The exact details are a bit hazy, but the gist of it I will try to reproduce as faithfully to the original as I can.

The prince spoke of a poem entitled Song of Everlasting Sorrow by Bai Juyi, based on the tragic love story of Yang Guifei and Emperor Xuanzong of the Tang dynasty. The prince believed that love is for the common people with nothing better, or something to that effect. He was asking whether there exists a guard against it, the way a warrior wears armour, if not immunity. In the poem he saw love as something so insistent that it overcomes all else, such that there is no room for sense, morality, or duty. That his ancestor, the former emperor, known to have ruled in exemplary fashion and to have brought the country into a golden age lasting decades, could be so ensnared by his feelings that he let love destroy fundamental parts of his former life, was so unthinkable and frightening to him. Though people do marry to escape hardship, love is one luxury the truly affluent and powerful could not afford—at that time, at least.

Emperor Xuanzong was so taken with his consort that he was said to have neglected his duties, spending long days with her, elevating her family to high ranks, granting unprecedented titles, statuses, and positions for which they were unqualified—whether in experience, education, or lineage. One of her cousins was said to be so corrupt that he often acted with impunity, killing people who displeased him, including men working for a general who then led a rebellion, extending to a mutiny by the emperor’s guards.

On at least two occasions, she spoke out of turn, warranting exile as punishment, but both times the emperor could not bear to be apart from her for long—not even the thought that her living conditions were not as luxurious as he had made them. He ensured that her access to imperial food continued from a distance, and unsurprisingly, he brought her back to the palace very soon after—so much for punishment. This showed the people that he no longer had the independence and moral fortitude to rule justly and equitably. With so many of her family holding high office and having the emperor’s ear, the people began to doubt who truly held power, under whose laws they lived, whether the emperor was truly interested in ruling at all, and whether corruption and injustice would ever be punished.

So when General An Lushan rebelled, the people blamed the Yang family for the chaos. Though many of her relatives were killed, they demanded that Yang Guifei herself die—not because she had committed wrongdoing, but as a political demonstration: that the emperor could still act by putting the people first, that he was not entirely spellbound by the desires of his heart, that he could still tell right from wrong. The political health of the nation was thought separate from, and incompatible with, love of a romantic kind.

He eventually had her killed, her body displayed to the men as proof. He could not even give her a proper burial in a coffin without enraging the men tasked to guard him. That broke him so completely that when he returned to the palace, he abdicated the throne. He retired with a life-like portrait of her, which he visited daily as though she were still alive, until the end of his own life. “Though heaven and earth will one day be extinguished, this sorrow will have no end.”

Love entangled with power cannot be. Perhaps in this regard, I am glad to be a commoner, though I am, for all intents and purposes, in love with a king. Love is so coveted; some will never have it, others would but cannot keep it—do we need more proof of how precious (and powerful) love is?

Your eternal soulmate

Master,

Before the 23rd day of Sagittarius, we were on a date.

I was still a university student then, in a complex underground campus—rather like the ones you find in Seoul—with several commercial centres connecting to subway stations. Apart from bookshops, there were clothing stores, several cafés and restaurants, and other personal services such as laundry and shoe repairs: everything a student would need during term time, at student-friendly prices. Like in Seoul, there were many exits, accessible by climbing up stone staircases.

I was meant to meet a friend at one of the exits so we could take the bus back together, but I took the wrong one and ended up at the opposite end. As I hurried away, a woman shouted at me in anger because I hadn’t responded when she had earlier called out politely to ask for directions. That made me angry, so I shouted back that I too was lost and in a hurry to meet a friend.

Halfway through making a circle, I realised I was heading towards a doomed outcome. Too much time had passed; my friend would unlikely still be waiting. I slowed my pace almost to a leisurely stroll. The same irritating woman caught up with me, and in a flash of pique, I confronted her for being rather self-centred—shouting at people who clearly looked they were rushing somewhere, simply so she could reach her own destination.

Later, I felt more contrite when I learnt she wasn’t a student there. It was her first time being lost and overwhelmed in what must have felt like an intimidating labyrinth to a first-timer.

So I softened my voice and invited her to have lunch with me there sometime, so she could have a look around. I had been proud to be a student there, and I knew of several places I loved.

In that dream, the universe once again showed me the value of delay and detour. As I walked upslope towards a bus stop, you came downhill. We must have caught each other’s eye, because we ended up having a date at one of the cafés on campus. You were a former student there—dentistry—so you were quite familiar with the place. During the date, you were rather reserved and spoke only enough for our tête-à-tête to feel more equitable than I would have expected. I mean, you’re a master after all; you tend to do a lot of the talking and directing.

We texted afterwards to thank each other for the date. Then I spent several days agonising over whether my teeth were good enough to impress a dentist, and whether three days was too soon to text about another date. I hadn’t understood dating etiquette. When I finally did text, I suggested we meet at Orchard Road for coffee, or a movie, or something—which, in retrospect, was a foolish idea, because we were not into such things.

You called immediately, suggesting instead that we take our passports to the airport counter and go somewhere, just like that. You sounded much more like the Master I recognised—spontaneous, wild, outrageous, and fun.

The dream ended before I knew whether we actually went on that trip. But without a doubt, I am sure we did. I’m hoping it was somewhere cold, so we could share the warmth of our bodies.

Speaking of warm bodies, I’ll be having none of those in the pool today. It’s quite chilly in Singapore—26 now, when it was 24 moments ago. Perhaps I’ll go for a run instead.

I must not mind the absurd number of detours, so long as I am led, ineluctably, to you. Like a breakfast ice-cream stick, you are my midday canister of potato chips and evening hazelnut tartine.

Until our next date,

Your eternal mate

Master,

On the 22nd day of Sagittarius, the night brought both sweetness and terror.

I found myself in a beautiful apartment, staying with a family while my own dream-flat was being rented out—to benefit them, apparently. I wasn’t sure how we ended up in such a strange and grossly unfair arrangement, especially given how spectacular my home was, but I let her manage it however she wished—she took me back to my home for one last look just to be sure of my decision. To celebrate, we wandered down a gentle slope through a garden of stone after dusk; the children ran ahead, hiding behind megaliths that looked a lot like the stones at Stonehenge. The evening had that soft, enchanted quality—stars were making their appearance, moon glow increased in intensity, the silhouettes of trees shook off night-flyers—until it took a turn for the worse with no warning.

The entire family transformed into vampires, hissing and snarling through sharp teeth. Perhaps it was the moon, or the archway we passed under that revealed them for who they truly were. They had meant me no harm at all, smiling like any other happy family. But the sight of them—so monstrous, so hideous—sent me fleeing with two friends to the nearest airport. There, I was told a place had been reserved for me at an exclusive lounge during transit, and at my destination, an upscale hotel awaited. That was unexpected. I didn’t know who would do such a thing for me nor why I should be entitled to it. I gave my details to the receptionist, who took her time searching the system with the expression of someone contemplating an exam question. It needled me, and had it not been for my friends—thrilled at the idea of a few hours in luxury—I would have wandered off into the airport blending in with everyone else.

Then two emails arrived from the vampire family, written as though nothing completely unhinged had occurred. The man even addressed me as “my love.” All of them hoping to reconnect and maybe for my return into another lopsided arrangement.

And then you appeared. Clear and coherent for once, you said, “Soon, I’ll let you know.”

Those words changed everything. The fear, the annoyance, the confusion, the rejection of anything good because it felt undeserved—all gone. Suddenly I wanted to live again, to step into the exclusive lounge, to indulge in wondrous things, to be treated like someone important even if I never was one, just for a short while.

I had asked you when we could be together. And in that moment I understood the symbol of the dream: why I had allowed the vampire family to take advantage of me, why I hesitated to accept, I had been perplexed even, that good things had been arranged for me—I wasn’t happy, and when one isn’t happy, one cannot enjoy or appreciate what is meant to be enjoyed—to the fullest. Your words changed all of that. In the book I was reading, it said, “Everyone needs something to look forward to in order to carry on living.”

So I walked into the lounge and began removing my restrictive winter layers: thick wool black tights and heavy leather boots, preparing for a hot and radiant destination, where a spectacular place is waiting to become my home.

It was lovely seeing you last night. Next time, stay a little longer than a few seconds. You’re always a welcome intrusion in my dreams—especially when vampires are involved.

All my love,

Your eternal soulmate

Master,

Forgive me, if my letters have been getting shorter. I won’t deny that I’ve had a slight misgiving about offering you 30 letters for your birthday; they’re not easy to pen. But I’ve resolved to keep my word, not least because of how unpleasant it is to realise that our expectations and conduct have been adjusted in reliance on someone’s unkept word—not saying you have, it is obligation I put on myself as a matter of principle and existential purpose. Disappointment and contentment, at certain times, can be but a difference of a short letter.

Before I digress any further, and before the 21st day and the last 10 of Sagittarius, we were a single tree in a dream world. An ancient one, in an ancient world, with an intricate and sophisticated root and branching system, sheltering hectares of wildlife under a sky-blue, crisp morning. I don’t know how we came to be there—whether we had died and been buried there, giving the tree life with the bodies we no longer needed, or whether a part of our consciousness was re-constituted within a single, grander life form, symbolic of our combined numen’s transcription into a greater system.

We were not alone in that tree; there were others we did not see. They were in charge of ensuring the running of the roots, directing the growing of leaves or abscission for colder weather, and so on. Our task was reproduction. Just the two of us, assigned with such an important task, the future depended on us. Having only united several days earlier, you were told in stern language by your father to mind your duties to me, while I hid from your mother, bashful or wary, even though all she wanted was to have a look. Astonishingly, she was like a fairy queen, offering an audience simply for a chance to admire me. That was how vital we were to the system.

I did not understand the symbol then, but I understand it now. For the tree to thrive and survive, we must not neglect our duties. A single lapse within a network can wreak devastating effects upon the whole. The sacred tree can stand for anything—a grand design, a relationship, ambition, a soul-reunion, divine intervention. It is dependent on us to work on the basis of trust and reliance. So I must keep my word and write you letters until such time as you are ready to read them, as part of my duty to you, as your soul-bound mate; may they offer you comfort and assurances of my love and loyalty, especially during difficult times, when you need them most. If I keep my promises, perhaps the universe will honour its promises to us sooner than we imagine—the promises of the Divine are never broken.

As if to reinforce this point, in the next dream card I found myself tending my mother’s fruit stall at the market. I had no money for lunch, so I took some from the pouch she kept by the wall—unattended, within easy reach of passersby, and from which nobody had ever stolen—much to the disapproval of the other stall owners. I didn’t speak of it, but I intended to return what I had taken as soon as I could. Indeed, I did, later that day, in several one-dollar coins. In the dream world, this was significant: it signified the resolution of obligations, the settling of a situation in life, a relief from stress, the restoration of balance, an affirmation of cosmic justice and above all, a fulfilment of promises.

In other news, synchronicity arrived by way of garlic. Yesterday I put up a poll asking how much garlic is too much per person. You already know I wasn’t after an answer—I wanted friendly people to call me names, as is my peculiar affinity (you haven’t called me names in a while). Many went for the polite option, which is fine by me; I appreciate principled friends and followers.

This morning, within an hour of finishing the letter and the poll closing, I visited the TikTok page of my favourite Chinese tuxedo cat—Dousha/Maxwell. He was challenging a black cat to a duel as usual. But the moment belonged not to him; rather, it was another cat who darted out from under a building, trailing dust and debris, and—having spooked the duellists by its sudden appearance—scattered, of all things, several bulbs of garlic. The last time Dousha came as a synchronicity was on 13th August with a hedgehog, around the time you returned as a crouching tiger.

A promise need not be expressed before it becomes an obligation upon us; when fulfilled, it is the lightest feeling in the world. Just before returning to the waking one, I was rewarded with a large serving of whipped cream and a drizzle of dark chocolate; there was no need for a reminder. I already know that you are my best reward.

All my love,

Your eternal soulmate

Master,

Whom I’d recognise instantly, hidden beneath a tangle of people.

In my mind’s eye, on the 20th day of Sagittarius, is a field of flowers, a kaleidoscope of colours—heralds of spring, in various cups and sizes.

We must cut them from the base of their stems so they can bring wonderment into people’s homes. Travelling in their trucks, life diminishes into a free-fall from open cuts; cold air sets back the unavoidable by a few days which by then will become visible. For now, their colours remain vibrant, their petals silk satin, their leaves operative and green, heavenly scent permeates their coverings.

We should not grieve for them; in fact, many of us don’t while their life purpose is still current. We live in the present though we can look into the past and elsewhere. When they lose their colour, we may preserve them in another form: between pages of a book or sheets of plastic; by acrylic paint or colour pens; in photos and in memories. They will not be the same as when they first arrived, and neither will we. That is what it means to change, not staying the same can be a good thing.

Flowers die so their splendour can reach others. It’s a kind of sacrifice inherent and necessary in mortality and finite space. From their remains, new life will spring—prolific, robust, astounding.

Last night we were all dressed in black. You sent a boy on an errand to get a cup of hot drink and some bread. But he had to wait in line for so long he grew hungry and thirsty that by the time he came back with your order, he had already eaten and drunk half of it. You were not angry. In that moment of solemnity, you cracked a smile, tickled by his antics. If he were just another delivery man you would have been enraged, but not in this case—the boy was family.

I was standing nearby watching you all, dressed also in black. We were coordinated by colour so we could have a family photo taken. Black is the only colour we have in common. While you wear colours in your merriment, I like mine monotone. The boy takes after his father.

I’ve planned to winter in an old haunt, close to a river where I’d hoped it will snow just like in my dream. It’s where I envision taking long walks, listening to audiobooks, drinking matcha latte, waiting for nightfall so colourful lights can come alive. It will be my sea of flowers that need only be cut from their power source when the sun rises.

For now, I’m taking the advice of dream officials and learning a language so that by the time I arrive at my destination, it will feel like a prize. In one dream you were there, pelting snowballs at me while two elderly men looked on. It’s hard to stay angry with you because you are family. 

Still with a lot of love and affection,

Your eternal mate