Moving Day

Moving Day

Packing the SC Room is a horrible job.

Wait, did I just say that? Let's try that again.

Packing the SC Room is a horrible job.

Looks like that idea's going to stick. Don't blame me though, the sheer adventure of such a task is way too much for an average 15 year old to handle.

The SC Room has been hidden away in a corner of the school, sandwiched by the massive, comfortable CO Room, and the neat, orderly kept NPCC Room. Oh the irony. As fate loves a good joke every now and then, it was only natural that the SC Room had to be the sore thumb sticking out between these two well kept CCA Rooms.

Over the years the original SC Room back in Tanjong Rhu had collected its fair share of memorablia from each school event, and then some. Apparently, every single batch of SCs had been hoping that our cozy little (and I mean little) SC room would somehow grow to accomodate every single logistic that we throw in. That, or we used to have a closet with Narnia hidden inside.

So it was inevitable that one day a certain batch of SCs would finally decide that some things just had to go. We had to put our food down, and turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to each and every item's pleads to allow them to stay inside. After all, how else could another decade of Student Councillors be able to continue storing the most random of items inside the Room?

It was tough sometimes, deciding what to do with certain items found. Did we find a ragged, old shirt that nobody would every want to wear again, or a precious remaining piece of history marking an early pioneered event? Most of the time, the painful decision ended up in the former.

We did manage to salvage the string of shirts taken from various events past that were hung up along the window of the Room, the same way corridors in mansions are often lined with portraits of family ancestors or past inhabitants. They weren't just shirts - they were heritage.

It took some time, beads of sweat and a whole lot of space in the rubbish bin to finally clear out the items that we decided we didn't need anymore. Although the packing was not finished (Only the blazers were all in their respective boxes), it was heartening to see how much we had achieved, yet a small tinge of pity was present when I saw the small pile that would have to go through another check.

Actually, cleaning the SC Room isn't all that horrible. It's abit like going through a time capsule - any small find excites all of us inside the Room, and then we get spurred on to search a little bit more, discovering what else lay inside the room. Despite the fact that nobody could take five steps in any direction without touching the wall, the Room held its charm with the occasional memento from a year or two back.

It was almost magical, the whole experience, and really is an experience that strengthens any councillor's bond to the council. The Room's collection of treasures never failed to suprise and delight every now and then. It turned a job into an adventure. Perhaps, in its own way, our SC Room does hold a Narnia after all.

Testify.

Testify

This post has a different writing style, and also a very different basis for content. It was something that I had to share, no matter what. I guess only a few of you know I was on on 31st October - even then you may not remember. Ignore or enjoy - your choice.

31st October

I woke up to feeling the urge not to wake up. It was around seven thirty in the morning, and it was drizzling lightly outside. Perfect conditions for a longer sleep.

Fate isn't so merciful though, and the weather affected my mood as well. The day ahead seemed longer than usual, and no brighter than the overcast skies that stretched further than I could see.

I got into an auto-pilot routine again, and was soon ready to leave my house. I trudged along and listened to crunch whenever my foot made contact with the gravel. It was all so hopeless - a rhythm that wouldn't stop, the only change is that it got louder and louder, closer and closer. Were we prepared?

I reached the MRT, crawling up the stairs instead of my usual jog, two steps at a time. No motivation, I guess.

The day didn't get any happier; I was still worried and wondering how things were going to turn out. For the first time I wished the MRT would arrive later instead. With my luck, it arrived in two minutes, full and packed with commuters.

I squeezed my way in, fortunate enough to find a corner where i wouldn't be threatened by the sliding doors. The people shuffled in and out, and soon, it was mostly clear of people.

I gave a sigh, picking my spot right at the corner, facing away from the train station. I leaned my head against the glass, ignoring the cold touch, and closed my eyes, praying.

I do pray. Often. But seldom do I pray with a worried thought in my head. Seldom do I pray with desperation gripping me and tightening slowly, almost as if I was drowning.

A sign, God. That's all I ask. Just a sign to know that you're with me, that you haven't abandoned me to be alone. A sign that I can hold onto so that I can be sure you will help me along for the next few days.

Yet I had to admit I was afraid. For a few stops I kept repeating those words, and kept hestitating to open my eyes - What if there was nothing? I couldn't face it.

But after awhile, I had mustered up enough courage to peek. Slowly my eyelids lifted, and light poured through the windows. Hearing the speaker announce the station, I realised the train moved quickly - Faster than I'd thought. I was at queenstown.

I looked out the window. I'd passed this place almost every schooling day for the past 2 years, but I got a shock. Right at the window, directly within my line of sight were three words. They were not anything amazing or inspirational, but what was amazing was how I somehow only saw the first word.

"Faith Methodist Church."

I prayed again, but with a different purpose.