Edmund Yeo

I'm now hanging out at Starbucks, supposedly trying to write. What I'm supposed to write: New script. A tale of two sisters told through multiple timelines, a merging of past and present, dream and reality. It is supposed to happen in Japan and Malaysia. What I am writing now instead: This journal entry. An observation of an old man seated next to me. For the past two hours, ever since I came in, the old man had been sitting here, his table covered entirely with newspapers. He had been staring at the papers, but I'm not sure whether he is reading it. He hasn't been flipping the pages, so I'm really curious whether he is reading or staring. There are two cups before him, paper cups from Starbucks. He was just drinking water, no coffee in sight. He had not been ordering anything at all. I think I've seen a similar old man in a Starbucks at a different mall, I wonder whether it's the same guy. I find myself remembering those sleepless nights tha

Whenever I'm in the midst of writing a new script, I often try to dig into my own memories. Either they are events from my past, or people I've met, or something I've read. It becomes some heightened state of awareness, where I begin remembering things I thought I remember. At the same time too, I wonder whether what I remember had really happened or were they just product of my imagination manifested because of my loneliness. There's always my memory of a person whose existence I gradually starting to question, as no one else seem to remember her at all. No sign of her on Facebook (her name was too common). No memory of her voice as we had never spoken to one another. (I was shy ...?) My last memory of her was my last day as the president of the English Language Club in high school. I was Form 5 and stepping down, my (handpicked) successor was someone from Form 6. (my choice was either a Form 4 junior whose work ethics I questioned, or a Form 6 outsi