The lights go fading to the underground, and if you see it all you'd understand what I mean

Walking along the old beaten track that runs along a major road (pardon the cliche, but it's as overused as the path) between purgatory and hell, Buona Vista MRT and school. My very own highway to hell.

It's that time in the morning, if you're familiar with mornings, when the day has yet to begin, but the night has ended, and there's a vague light coming over the horizon, but the glowing orb is no where to be seen. Its the time when all the vampires and monster under your bed and in your closet have gone to sleep already, to await another day. Meanwhile, mine is just beginning. And besides, I was miles away from my bed.

Yet, it doesnt feel like the end of the night, and one doesnt notice the absence of the sun. Because, all around, were LIGHTS. Artificial no doubt, but lights all the same. Representations, effigies of the big boy in the sky. Edison's genius enthroned in glass.

In fact it was so bright, I thought for a split second, that it might have been christmas on Orchard road. Lights from the headlights of oncoming cars. Lights from the taillights of passing cars. Lights from overhead, on the streetlamps. Light across the road from the biopolis park and the MOE building and the walking way to the bus-stop. Like a giant display of stars. A constelliation perhaps.

But just as I saw these whole plethora of white and yellow, my eye was drawn inexplicabilly to a fault. Just as critics always manage to find imperfection in any art, so was I, so quick to judge what was beautiful. There was a little bulb, on the bus-stop across the road, that was faulty. And its bulb kept flashing, intermittenly, irregularly. Flash flashflashflash Flash. Morse code perhaps? a cry for help. A cry for attention. For release? A lighthouse?

Looking at the bulb, i used its light to examine and probe my own darkness. The distress call, in so many ways, mirrored my own situation, as I walked along that path to doom, and temporal damnation that lasted from 7.30 to 4.30 daily.

Far off in the distance, my eye could see, at the end of the road. There was a burning brightness, red gates of school. And looking closer, I saw Saddam himself. Condemned forever, his moustache and horns to stand by patiently at the gate, waiting for hell's new arrivals, as they crossed the styx.