1. an erotic dream

Dreamlog: Tues, 5th Dec 2017


Last night, I dreamt about copulating at the back of an empty and dark train, chugging ahead to a destination unbeknownst to me.

My partner in love was a stranger, not modeled after anyone I know irl. We cuddled, foreplayed and had intercourse, his body curled up like a fist atop of mine which lay stretched out across five passenger seats while his rock hard projection wore me like a glove.

This exact sequence of sex occurred twice, once bareback, once protected by latex, both got me actual arousal, fire in my loins irl. The waves of sensations propelled me into consciousness, hearing my gasps of breath while squinting from the blue light of dawn seeping in through my curtains.

I fall back into slumber again, hoping for pleasure yet was denied a third coitus. The gravity of ramifications from unprotected sex begat an intense panic within me. I spent the remainder of my dream running around clinics, frantically searching for plan B pills, racing against the stranger’s imaginary sperms waggling their tiny tails, circling my helpless ovules like sharks.

Pharmacists after pharmacists, anxiety rising high with the threat of tsunami, the plan B pills were dangled beyond my reach with their $400-$500 price tags (this is false, irl 2 pills cost max. USD $100).

On the verge of breakdown, dejected, I returned home to find my mom at the door, holding up our used condom from the second act with a look on her face which I couldn’t complete reading before I awoke irl, now my 12th month of celibacy, relieved to be vindicated of all that worries and flashbacks from my harlot lifestyle 2016.

This also mean one thing: it’s the return of my libido after one year in exile!


Riding on the long tail of depression, anxiety rode atop, its tendrils entangled within the black fur of the dog. The harder you shake, the tighter it constricts upon the flesh, blood vessels squeezed up against one another. In contrast, tufts of hair growing further apart, ultimately breaking free to mingle in a haze of grey in the air.

In the fog, it is hard to decide what is real. Within the chamber of shadows, harsh words, criticisms, lies, hatred echo, bouncing off, amplifying one another. Yet every inhalation results in hairballs, futile grasps at the outlines of precipices to pull myself out of the pits.

I can’t decide which is better, depression or anxiety.


[Photo: Diana]

The MacRitchie Reservoir trail is one refuge from the hustle and bustle of the Singapore city life I enjoy escaping to. It’s also where I go on walks with friends to talk, to enjoy their company in the depths of nature. Extremely therapeutic I must say.

The whole trail (up and down) takes about 3 hours.