As the aircraft makes its gradual descent from the skies, the image of Singapore gradually comes into focus - we see a huge island, followed by masses of greenery, and by roads and numerous high-rise buildings, HDB flats, skyscrapers etc, then the airport looms into view, then other planes berthed at their gates like a mouth waiting to be fed. The last thing I see before closing my eyes is the tarmac and its blinking lights guiding the plane to land - a father welcoming its overgrown son into his embrace...
In the picture I just described all is serene and tranquil, and Singapore from a plane looks pretty much like Singapore. But in that very same picture, the roads were empty, the buildings vacant, and not a single thing moved. I could feel it even when I was in the plane - the air outside had a certain stifling heaviness to it that can only be described as a deafening silence that hung over it.
Strange as it is, for all of a few split seconds I was gripped by a sudden irrational fear that when I step out of the plane, everything would be empty, as though every creature that lived had simply... gone. Yet more terrifyingly, everything was the epitome of orderliness - cars were still parked in their lots, breakfast was on the table, clothes hung out to dry, but everyone had just... disappeared.
My fear is a fear of nothing-ness, the state where every morsel of life had been sucked out of its bodies, leaving behind empty shells without a soul. In this state, cigarettes do not light, petrol does not combust and voices do not echo.
My fear was too terrifying for me to bear. And my eyelids jerked open.
