Chin Swee Road
A Half-Heard Fragment from Chin Swee Road
A November walk toward a friend's dinner. Talk on the street stopped mid-sentence. I listened from the pavement — no scene, no names, only the hush that followed.
Read nowA personal blog · Singapore
The little stories that drift past — caught before they float on.
I am Farah. I live on Cantonment Close in Everton Park and temp at a small office near Tanjong Pagar. This site is my notebook in public — not a magazine, not a service, just one person collecting the half-heard lines and small exchanges that pass through an ordinary week.
I write about teh at the coffeeshop downstairs, snatches of talk from Duxton lanes, bus rides that feel like the middle of someone else's chapter, and one line copied into a notebook each night. The city speaks in fragments; I am trying to hold a few without pretending I know the whole plot.
Most entries are light. One longer piece records an evening near Chin Swee Road when the street went quiet — I say what reached my ears and leave the rest empty. Everything else stays kindly, close, and rooted in real neighbourhoods I walk without a press badge.
About Farah
I keep a notebook for lines I did not mean to hear — radio between shops, aunties at Maxwell, echoes down five-foot ways.
Recent entries
From the journal
Fragments from Maxwell Food Centre
A stall auntie's tale arrived in pieces between ladles — I wrote down what I could.
One Overheard Line Before Bed
Each evening one sentence from the day — nothing more, nothing less.
The Middle of Someone Else's Story
A small exchange at the bus stop that felt like page forty of a book I will never read.
Snatches from the Duxton Lanes
Murals, open windows, and talk that drifted down from floors above.
The Line That Drifted from the Next Table
Teh tarik and a conversation I only caught the middle of.