A Facebook page, Singapore Stories, shared an anecdote written by a Singaporean, who described living in Singapore as being boring, but loves it because there is no pressure for them to do “something cool”.
The Facebook Post
My country, it is very boring.
But don’t misunderstand me: I am not writing about the boredom of unimaginative tourists who have seen 33 countries.
No, I am celebrating the glorious boredom of being home.
It is stressful to be studying in Honolulu, with so many eyes watching. I always feel like I have to be doing something. Mauka to makai, climbing mountains or catching waves. Even on weekends, rushing to finish work, there was a niggling feeling I needed to be Doing Something Cooler.
And so studying in Paradise can be a little stressful, because I know that one day, i won’t be there anymore. (What, you haven’t been to North Shore? Or Maui? Or Mauna Kea??)
In Singapore? In Singapore, nobody asks if i’ve been to Pulau Samulun, or Sungei Api-Api, or demands to know why I haven’t followed the Mandai River to its mouth. In Singapore, nobody asks me how come I came all the way to eat caifan, or why I never go to the East Coast.
In Singapore, I can be boring. I don’t have to always be doing something.
Because, as everyone knows, all there is to do here is eat and entertainment, right?
My country, it is very boring. Even my countrymen don’t know what there is to do here.
And so I can eat my laksa, bakchormee, Saizeriya, rotiprata in any order I want. I can amble along the Kallang or the Kranji peaceably. I can admire the sun-dappled shoulders of an old building quietly. I can wake up and savour the soft song of the heartland morning all for myself.
I can take my time. After all, I am home, and it is boring.
I can slip into the soft rhythm of a past life, like the PE t-shirt I have worn since 17.
In my boring heartland, there is no rush. No rush to do something cool, because there is nothing cool.
After dinner, maybe I will take the bus, have some tauhuey with friends. Walk home in the half-light, wearing shadow like some old pajamas.
Do you understand? Like my snug nightclothes, I have worn Singapore to bits, until there are holes in the fabric of my memory.
You must. My country, so very boring, gloriously banal.
For once, there is nothing new. I can recognise it: in my eyes, skin, and soul.
Finally, it is good to be boring. It is good to be home.
Source: Singapore Stories on Facebook