Ming’s Random Thought of the Day (How a fortune cookie changed everything)

Yesterday evening, I paid a long overdue visit to the gym!

My little secret workout spot, is located along the beautiful Singapore river, and this is the view.

I find the river a really enchanting bit of Singapore, so having completed my workout, I thought taking a stroll by myself alongst its banks would be a wonderful way to cap the day.

I ambled along the banks of the river, with no agenda, taking in the sights and sounds. Joggers n their ipods, alfresco dinner dates, tourists plying the excursionist route, doggies meeting other doggies, a random catch up with an old friend … the walk continued till I found my spot.

I think you can see why I chose it.

It was completely isolated, save a woman, sitting in a far corner by herself, under the boughs of a tree, pensive in her own thoughts as I was.

I was transported for a moment to a random summer afternoon years ago, when I had visited Cafe De Flore in St Germain De Pres, Paris.

I sat there sipping my coffee, imagining Hemingway, scribbling notes as an anonymous observer of the world, creating his masterpiece, “A moveable feast”.

The random thought of the day started crystallising as cursive words started forming on the edge of my tongue.


As quickly as the thought appeared, it was destroyed in a poof! And I was transported from Paris back to a dingy dark chinese restaurant in San Francisco Chinatown at least 10 years back now.

I was a young student studying in Cambridge, on holiday with my family, and I had started writing poems. Alot of the day, my random thoughts would turn into prose, and I would try it out on my friends, fancying that perhaps I would one day be a modern Wordsworth.

Having just enjoyed some mediocre chinese fare (sense the bitterness), I got one of these on my table. Rubbed my hands together, and cracked it open anticipating some inspirational message.

Maybe something like this one would have been appropriate.

I cant remember exactly what it said, because my brain has no space for bad shit, but the jist of it was, “You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think you’re going¬† to be a poet.”

I believe in signs, and it is in that instant, I stopped writing poems.

I sat there for a moment more, wistful that a poets life would never be for me, then I brightened up and thought to myself, enjoying the moment with myself and another is good enough.

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