It drizzles in a melancholy way, and somewhere in the neighbourhood, there will be someone or some people who will look forlornly at the rain from a window, remembering the past, of the happiness it holds. The trees sway, buffeted by the gentle breeze, and with it, the rustle of the leaves. Somewhere in the neighbourhood, there will be someone who will be looking at the swaying trees and hear the rustling leaves, and he will remember the past and the peace it holds. For most people, like myself, the present is a blur until it becomes a memory which ferments, throwing off the sludge of misery and pain to finally coagulate into a refined, sharp and sepia past which can be remembered as if life has been a breeze that rustles the leaves of the trees. Over yonder, where the trees sway and the leaves rustle and rain drizzles, a bird sings. And when a bird sings, it tells of the present. For someone who has been watching the rain through the window, he will be returned from his happiness of the past to the present by the whistle of the bird. For someone who has been watching the trees and the leaves, he will be returned from the peace of his past to the present by the song of the bird. More birds cackle and whistle amongst the trees and the sounds are beautiful to hear. The gentle rain has receded and only the breeze remains. Somewhere in the neighbourhood, there will be someone who stands just by the window and who feels the cool breeze as it sweeps past the curtains to the skin and for him, there will only be the happiness and the peace of the present. Selamat Hari Raya.