As an archaeologist and literary historian, I’m acutely aware of the power of culture and stories, both real and imagined. This act of defiance to find and protect these books could cost me everything, even the person I hold dearest, my husband. Together, we stand as a beacon of light, illuminating humanity in our fight for the right to knowledge, truth, and free dissemination of information. Despite the constant threat of discovery, the key to restoring our culture lies within the pages of these long, forgotten books.

In the early days of universal knowledge, we could possess any book, read, write, and learn without restrictions. Our internet connection granted us unlimited access to data, and we could even receive daily Bible passages on our smartphones. In 2076, the Bible was outlawed as the first book to be banned, despite being the most widely read and influential book ever written. Here, we hold the only pristine copy that once belonged to the last Pope, carefully preserved in the Vatican collection. This event marked the beginning of the end for the literary and religious worlds as we knew it, as it prohibited people from accessing their faith. All other religious texts were forbidden, choking off the only thing we had left: our beliefs and hopes. The freedom of speech, religion, and information, which had always kept society stable, was compromised.

******

Our troops swiftly unloaded the cargo, setting the chopper down and landing on the helipad. It was a treasure trove of fiction and self-help books unearthed by my husband, Dr. Benjamin Reynolds, and our team of rebels on the outskirts of New York. The Dusty Tome Archives were sanctuaries for works initially rejected by publishing houses or deemed unworthy by the government. The books were either burned or left to rot in these remote repositories, one in every state. It was a miraculous find—the fading handwritten notes, published works, and manuscripts of some of the world’s most revered authors. The collection contained the original works of female literary giants such as J.K. Rowling, Jane Austen, and Agatha Christie, all of whom were dismissed by publishers and critics at some point.

I gently removed the layers of dust and debris with my brush, holding my breath with expectation and curiosity. “Unbelievable,” I whispered to Benjamin in the glow of the brightly lit, clean chamber. “The world thought these works were lost forever, but here they are, waiting to be rediscovered.”

The first novel extracted from the container for restoration was ‘Dune,’ published in 1965; as I turned its yellowed pages with my gloved fingers, I felt an odd connection with a central character. Dr. Liet-Kynes, a planetary botanist and ecologist, becomes entangled in the natural processes he seeks to manipulate to aid the native population by altering the climate. The parallels between the planet Arrakis, our current political and natural environment, and this acclaimed sci-fi work were uncanny. I felt a profound kinship with this long-forgotten author, Frank Herbert, who writes that the character Dr. Liet-Kynes reflects while his planet was killing him that scientists had it all wrong, “The most persistent principles of the universe were likely accident and error.” Despite facing 23 rejections, Herbert’s commitment paid off, and it became the bestselling science-fiction novel ever, a testament to the power of the pen and imagination.

The next book pulled from the archives was “The Chronicles of Rejection.” I was stunned to discover that so many famous authors had obstacles and rejection in bringing their works to life, and I began to understand more about the journey of publishing and being an author.

“Wow, did you know that Margaret Mitchell had 38 rejections before ‘Gone With the Wind’ was published?” I asked Benjamin, shocked to learn she had struggled for so long.

“That’s impressive she stuck with it, especially considering the period. Margaret’s such an inspiring example of a strong female, just like you,” Benjamin said, grinning.

“Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen’s self-help book Chicken Soup for the Soul was rejected 144 times before publication. Incredibly, they didn’t give up,” I said, eagerly turning to the next page for more insights.

“We can sure relate to pushing forward in the wake of numerous setbacks. That’s exactly what we’ve been doing for the past ten years. It was a risky trip, but we made it back,” Benjamin said, sorting the inventory of books into categories.

I smiled at his enthusiasm, nodded, and said, “We have a monumental task ahead of us, my love. But I don’t doubt these books will find their place in the world again. We will ensure that they do.”

I continued reading aloud from the pages, finding a fascinating rejection letter dated back to 1925. Moberley Luger of the publishing house Peacock & Peacock addressed the 26-year-old author, Ernest Hemingway, expressing critical feedback on his work, “The Sun Also Rises.” The letter dripped with Luger’s disdain for the author’s writing style, “If I may be frank—you certainly are in your prose—I found your efforts tedious and offensive. You really are a man’s man, aren’t you? I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that you had penned this entire story locked up at the club, ink in one hand, brandy in the other. Your bombastic, dipsomaniac, where-to-now characters had me reaching for my own glass of brandy.”

Benjamin said, “It proves that success in writing often comes after facing uphill battles and punctuated by lots of rejection.”

“It’s all so fascinating,” I said, realizing that “The Sun Also Rises” alludes to Ecclesiastes 1:5: Generations come, and generations go, but the earth remains forever. The sun rises and sets and hurries back to where it rises. The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning on its course. We seek contentment in things that don’t provide it. By nature, entertainment, lust, and wine provide only a momentary dulling of our senses, leaving us longing for something more meaningful.”

“It’s beautiful like you, Jaden; you mean everything to me. You’re the reason behind everything I do,” Benjamin whispered as he gently caressed my face before tenderly kissing my lips.

I hugged him tight, feeling his strength, warmth, and passion. Looking into his eyes, I said, “Recovering these precious books has inspired me to pen our story, the Archaeology Of Enlightenment. I hope that long after we’re gone, explorers will stumble upon the Library Of Lost Knowledge, discover our history, and understand why we created it here.”

******

Two hundred years later…..

As the sun blazed down onto the rocky faces of the Markagunt and Kolob plateaus, a group of Librarian explorers made their way through the wild terrain of southwestern Utah. Their quest had led them to this remote landscape, where towering sandstone cliffs and alien rock formations surrounded them.

After days of trekking and climbing, the team finally found a hidden artificial grotto within Zion National Park. They discovered an archaic library, its shelves lined with weathered tomes etched with the patina of time. The air was thick with the musty redolence of age-old papers. The only sound was the faintest howl of the wind against the mountains.

This secret library, silenced by the government, was a fossil frozen in time, its stillness echoing the knowledge left behind. The remnants of literary history are illuminated by tiny shafts of sunlight filtering through the natural fissures in the cavern walls. The first book they unearthed was “Archaeology Of Enlightenment” by Dr. Jaden Reynolds, who co-founded the Library Of Lost Knowledge. As they pored over the mysteries hidden within the rocky chambers, the explorers realized they had stumbled upon a Garden Of Eden, a repository from long-past civilizations that had lost and found enlightenment.

Authors note: This story is dedicated to my niece Aja, who just graduated with a Master’s in Archeology.

The door yielded to his touch with a whisper. “Department of Emotional Regulation,” he announced, voice carrying the practiced chill of winter frost. The couple jerked apart, but their fingers remained intertwined—a detail his trained eye caught and cataloged. The woman’s emerald dress rustled as she shifted closer to her companion, seeking shelter in his shadow.

“Please,” the man started, his free hand raised in supplication. “We can explain—”

“There’s nothing to explain.” Elias stepped into the light, his badge catching the lamp’s glow. The silver surface reflected their terror back at them, multiplying it in fractals across the room’s peeling wallpaper. “Section 47 of the Public Safety Act clearly states that any display of romantic affection is punishable by immediate branding and exile.”

He’d performed this speech hundreds of times, each word worn smooth like river stones. But tonight, something caught in his throat—a hesitation, brief as a hummingbird’s heartbeat. The woman’s eyes, deep brown and glistening with unshed tears, held something he’d never seen in his targets before. Not fear, not desperation, but pity.

“You poor man,” she whispered.

Elias’s hand twitched toward his neck, where smooth skin testified to his lifetime of compliance. The movement betrayed him; her gaze followed it, understanding blooming across her features like a time-lapse flower.

“Backup units are three minutes out,” he said, forcing steel back into his voice. The words tasted metallic, like blood from a bitten tongue. “You won’t feel the brand for long. The nerve endings cauterize almost instantly.”

The man finally released the woman’s hand, and Elias noticed his fingers trembling. Not with fear—with rage. “How many?” the man demanded. “How many lives have you destroyed?”

Elias met his gaze steadily. “I don’t destroy lives. I preserve order.” But even as he spoke, his camera felt heavier in his hands, its memory card laden with captured moments of transgression. Each photo a life redirected, each click a love story ended before its middle chapter.

The sound of boots on stairs echoed through the building. The couple heard it too, their bodies tensing like prey animals scenting a predator. The woman straightened her dress, dignity settling around her shoulders like a cloak. The man squared his jaw, tears tracking silent paths down his cheeks.

Elias found himself studying their faces with an intensity that went beyond professional duty. He would remember them, he knew—not as case number 2,749, but as people who had dared to feel something real in a world of carefully constructed artifice.

The backup team burst through the door, efficient and emotionless in their black uniforms. As they secured the couple, Elias began his standard report. But his voice faltered when he reached the word “evidence.” In his mind, the camera’s shutter clicked again and again, capturing not crimes, but moments of genuine human connection.

For the first time in his career, Elias Ward, the infamous Kiss Collector, wondered if he was standing on the wrong side of the door.

***

Three days after the arrest, Elias found himself watching the Starlight Bookshop from across the rain-slicked street. The target—Maris Evans—moved between the towering shelves like a ghost, her dark hair catching the glow of antique reading lamps. Intelligence suggested she was involved with the owner, but two weeks of surveillance had yielded nothing concrete.

The bell above the shop door chimed as he entered, bringing with it the scent of aging paper and leather bindings. Maris looked up from behind the counter, her fingers paused mid-motion as she sorted through what appeared to be contraband: pre-Regulation romance novels, their spines cracked and faded.

“We’re closing soon,” she said, but made no move to hide the books.

Elias approached, noting how she squared her shoulders—subtle, but there. “These are restricted texts.” He lifted one, its pages whispering secrets of forgotten passions. “Section 23 clearly—”

“Clearly states that pre-Regulation literature must be properly licensed for academic study,” she finished, producing a document from beneath the counter. “Which we are. Though I suspect you knew that before you walked in, Agent…?”

“Ward.” He studied her face, searching for fear, for guilt, for any of the tells he’d cataloged over years of investigations. Instead, he found something worse—curiosity.

“The Kiss Collector himself.” She smiled, and it transformed her face from merely pretty to something that made his chest ache. “Your reputation precedes you. Tea?”

Before he could refuse, she’d produced two cups from somewhere behind the counter. Steam rose between them like a barrier, or perhaps a bridge. The scent of jasmine filled the space where protocol dictated he should be reading her rights.

“You’re not afraid,” he observed, accepting the cup against his better judgment.

“Should I be?” Maris sipped her tea, watching him over the rim. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Unless appreciation for classical literature has been criminalized while I wasn’t looking.”

“Your relationship with Marcus Foster—”

“Is purely professional.” She set down her cup with a soft clink. “Though I suppose ‘purely’ anything is what you’re looking for these days.”

The tea burned his tongue, but he welcomed the pain. It gave him something to focus on besides the way her fingers traced the spine of a weathered copy of “Pride and Prejudice.”

“These books,” she continued, “they remember what we’re trying so hard to forget. That love isn’t a disease to be eradicated. It’s not a crime to be photographed and filed away.”

“Love is inefficient,” he recited. “It leads to unstable decision-making, decreased productivity—”

“And poetry,” she interrupted. “And art. And music that makes your soul ache.” She pushed the book toward him. “When’s the last time you felt your soul ache, Agent Ward?”

The question hit him like a physical blow. He found himself reaching for his camera, a reflex action, but his fingers met empty air—he’d left it at the office, and the realization troubled him more than it should.

“You should be more careful,” he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended. “Not everyone who comes in here is interested in academic discussion.”

“No,” she agreed, holding his gaze. “Some are interested in much more dangerous things. Like truth. Like feeling.”

As he turned to leave, she called after him: “You forgot your evidence, Agent Ward.”

The book sat on the counter between them, its pages holding generations of impossible love stories. He left it there, but carried something else with him into the night—a sensation in his chest that felt dangerously like his soul beginning to ache.

***

The evidence room hummed with the soft whir of dehumidifiers, protecting thousands of documented transgressions from decay. Elias sat at his terminal, the blue light of the screen casting shadows across case file #2,751—Maris Evans and Marcus Foster, suspected violation of Section 47.

His fingers hovered over the keys as surveillance footage played on a loop: Maris laughing at something Marcus said, their bodies maintaining regulation distance but their eyes telling a different story. Two weeks of watching had yielded nothing actionable, yet his superiors were growing impatient. The Kiss Collector never took this long to build a case.

“Still obsessing over the bookshop?”

Agent Rivera materialized from between the towering shelves of physical evidence, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could smell her regulation-approved unscented shampoo.

“Not obsessing. Building a case.” Elias minimized the footage of Maris. “It’s delicate.”

“Since when do you do delicate?” Rivera’s laugh held no warmth. “You’re losing your edge, Ward. First that couple last month—don’t think I didn’t notice your hesitation—and now this endless surveillance.” She tapped his screen. “The old you would have branded them both by now.”

The old him. When had that version of himself begun to feel like a stranger?

“Sometimes,” he said carefully, “a longer observation reveals deeper truths.”

“Deeper truths?” Rivera’s eyebrows arched. “Listen to yourself. You sound like one of those pre-Reg poets.” She straightened, adjusting her perfectly pressed collar. “You have 48 hours to close this case, or I’m reassigning it. We can’t have people thinking the Kiss Collector’s gone soft.”

After she left, Elias pulled up another file: a couple two blocks from the bookshop, their crime documented in high-resolution detail. Young, attractive, caught in an embrace that left no room for doubt. He began to type, his fingers moving with mechanical precision as he wove their story into Maris’s case file, replacing surveillance photos, adjusting timestamps.

“Agent Ward?”

He jerked at Maris’s voice, but the terminal showed only his own reflection in the darkened screen. He was alone in the evidence room, surrounded by the ghosts of interrupted loves. Yet he could still smell jasmine tea, could still see the way she looked at him over those forbidden books.

His fingers resumed their dance across the keyboard. In thirty minutes, he had constructed a perfect case against the other couple, complete with forged timestamps and doctored surveillance footage. Another fifteen minutes erased all traces of Maris from the system.

As he pressed “enter” on the final command, he felt the weight of his career, his certainties, his carefully constructed worldview dissolving like sugar in hot tea. The Kiss Collector was committing his own crime of passion—not with lips or embrace, but with keystrokes and deleted files.

The evidence room’s lock clicked behind him with the finality of a closing book. In his pocket, his badge seemed to burn against his thigh, a brand of a different kind. He had forty-eight hours to get Maris out of the city before Rivera discovered his deception. Forty-eight hours to prove that love wasn’t just inefficient—it was worth burning everything to protect.

He never saw the camera lens glinting from behind the shelves, recording his betrayal in the same high definition he had used to document so many others.

***

Elias had arranged everything meticulously. New identities, untraceable credits, and a route out of the city through the old maintenance tunnels. All that remained was to collect Maris from the safe house—a defunct record storage facility in the industrial district where he’d hidden her after fabricating the evidence. In twelve hours, they would be beyond the reach of the Department of Emotional Regulation.

But something was wrong. He knew it even before he saw the extra shadow beneath the door, before he noted the slight displacement of the welcome mat he’d deliberately misaligned. Still, he inserted his key, each tumbler’s click echoing like distant thunder.

Maris stood in the center of the room, illuminated by a single lamp. She wore her regulation uniform now, not the flowing dresses of the bookshop. The silver badge at her hip wasn’t just for show—he recognized the slight indentation on her trigger finger, the way she held herself with the practiced ease of someone who’d worn that uniform far longer than he’d been watching her.

“You’re early,” she said, and her voice held none of the warmth it had in the bookshop. “We weren’t supposed to move on you until tomorrow.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click. He didn’t need to turn to know Rivera was there, her service weapon trained on the space between his shoulder blades. The weight of his own gun seemed impossible now, like trying to lift a mountain.

“How long?” The question scraped his throat raw.

“From the beginning.” Maris—if that was even her name—moved closer, each step precise and measured. “The hesitation with the couple in the apartment. That’s when we knew you were vulnerable. We just needed to apply the right pressure.” Her fingers brushed his cheek, professional, clinical. “Love makes us do terrible things, doesn’t it, Kiss Collector?”

The irony tasted like ashes in his mouth. “There was no Marcus Foster.”

“Oh, he exists.” Rivera’s laugh rippled through the darkness. “Currently serving twenty years for actual emotional crimes. We just… borrowed his narrative. Added some details. The kind of tragic love story that would appeal to someone who was starting to question everything he believed in.”

Maris produced a folder—physical evidence, how quaint—and began reading. “Agent Elias Ward. Fifteen years of service. Eight hundred and forty-three successful prosecutions. Zero infractions.” She looked up, and for a moment, he saw something like regret cross her features. “Until now.”

“The books,” he said. “The tea. The conversations about feeling…”

“All calculated.” She closed the folder. “We needed to know if even our most dedicated agents could be compromised. Love is a virus, Agent Ward. It mutates. Adapts. Sometimes it infects even those who think they’re immune.”

The handcuffs were regulation issue, their bite familiar from countless arrests. But he’d never understood until now how cold they were, how the metal seemed to leech not just warmth but hope from your skin.

“Your sentence will be announced tomorrow,” Rivera said from behind him. “But I think we both know it will be more severe than mere branding. The Kiss Collector becoming a love criminal? The public will demand exemplary punishment.”

As they led him away, Maris fell into step beside him. Her fingers absently traced her neck where a brand should have been, had any of it been real. “You know what the truly tragic thing is?” She leaned close, her whisper meant for him alone. “You never asked why I wasn’t afraid of you in the bookshop. A woman in love would have been terrified of the Kiss Collector. But I had nothing to fear, because I’ve never loved anything in my life.”

The hallway stretched before them, sterile and white, like the pages of a book wiped clean of its love stories. Somewhere in the evidence room, a dehumidifier hummed its monotonous song, protecting the records of all the moments he’d stolen, all the loves he’d ended. And now, finally, his own.

Anyway, I was talking about the library. I -think- it was a library, at any rate. There were a lot of books. I was curious, so I took a gander at them. Some of them were in English, but there were quite a few in other languages. I think I saw some Greek in there, definitely some Latin, and some Japanese, or Chinese or something. I don’t know, I couldn’t read them.

What I could read was mostly philosophy, science and other intellectual things. Theater, I think I saw a Shakespeare and a ‘Molière’. Again with the look! Just ‘cause I’m a working man doesn’t mean I don’t know nothing. Anyway, there was nothing remotely new. I think the most recent thing I saw down there was The Secret Garden.

Love that book. My mom used to read it to me when I was small. Wasn’t the most well kid myself, so I felt a real… kinship? Yeah, kinship with Colin, the sick boy. I wanted a friend like Mary. Named my daughter Mary. Told my wife it was after the blessed virgin, but begging her pardon, it was more for little miss Lennox.

So yeah, when I saw the book, I was kinda entranced. It was a weird coincidence, right? But I guess it’s not, like, the most unlikely book to find in an old library. Still, it was weird. So I took it off the shelf and opened it up. There wasn’t even any dust on it! Good thing, too, I’m not the best with dust. Sneeze something terrible.

The book was old, and I was kinda afraid to hurt it, so I turned the pages like really slowly. That was how I noticed the publication date, 1911. That’s when it came out! It was a first edition. I was like, holy crap! I’ve got real history in my hands, right? I looked at a couple other books, and sure, they were old, like some of them were handwritten, like the Shakespeare and stuff, but there weren’t any first editions apart from The Secret Garden.

It was like fate almost, my favorite book when I was a kid, a first edition and all. Mary was three, and I wanted to start reading longer things to her, and I’d thought about The Secret Garden as an option, and boom! There it was, on a job.

I didn’t want to just take it though. I mean, this was clearly someone’s collection, so I snooped about a bit more to see if I could find an exit. I figured anyone with a library like this had to be wealthy, right? Maybe I could trade some exterminator work for the book, or hey, I knew some construction guys that could patch the hole in the wall. I figured they’d be grateful for that, at least!

But I tell you, I couldn’t find a single exit! It was super strange, the place must have been huge, but no matter what, there was not a sign of any kind of door or staircase or what-have-you. I must have gotten turned around a lot though, ‘cause I kept finding the hole again. It was a bit creepy, to tell the truth. It was very quiet in there, and dark, of course. There were no lights or candles or anything, just the shelves with the books in ‘em.

In the end I threw in the towel. The place was so big, it wasn’t as if no one would know about it… why are you asking about that again? I told you, just a moth… yes, just one. Can I finish the story now, please? What? Har-har, very funny. Fine, may I finish the story?

Let’s see… right, it wasn’t as if it could be secret or anything. It was probably some rich folk’s private library. Now, I’m no thief, so even though it was painful, I put the book back and I left out the hole.

Now here’s the real strange part. When I got back, I realized I must have been gone a while, and I was kicking myself over having left Eric to do all the work while I was mucking about in a library. So as soon as I could stand up I started running. Must’ve been about then that I missed the pyrethrin, ‘cause I don’t remember seeing it after that.

At any rate, I got out of the hole and rushed up the stairs. I was full out of breath when I got back to the foyer. Eric was still there, and when I apologized for being so long, he gave me a funny look. We joke around a lot, him and me, I mean, what buddies don’t? But I’m not the joking type when I’m at work, and that was how he took my apology. As a joke, one he didn’t get.

Y’see, while I was sure, certain! I’d swear on my mom’ s grave I was down there a good hour or two, Eric told me I was only gone ten minutes. I didn’t believe him at first, but he showed me the time, and sure enough we’d been there maybe twenty minutes total, half of which was spent hacking at weeds and mint.

So I took him down to the basement to show him the library, asking him as we went if he knew where it might be. It hadn’t occurred to me at the time, but the house wasn’t the most central. It was a little ways off one of the old highways, all by itself in the middle of nowhere. The only reason the renovators had bought it was because the land around it had been got by developers, and they wanted something to sell.

Why they didn’t just tear it down, I don’t know. Regardless, he didn’t know about a library, or even another house anywhere out there, so wherever the hole lead must have been part of the property. He was none too pleased about that. The renovators didn’t say a thing about a library, and surely they must have known, right?

Only, when we got down to the basement, the hole wasn’t there. It was straight up gone. It was by far the spookiest sh… stuff, sorry, that’s ever gone down in my life. But it doesn’t end there! I checked around the basement again, and there were bugs everywhere. I’ve seen my share of infestations, and this one was ba-ad. That was about the time I realized the pyrethrin was gone.

I wasn’t happy about that, and neither was Eric. He seemed to think it was some kinda practical joke, and he didn’t appreciate it at all. We made up later, but he was mighty mad for a while. Anyway, I had to go back home to pick up more roach-killer, ‘cause boy was I gonna need it. Luckily I didn’t live too far, close enough that Eric wouldn’t be done with his survey before I could get back, the house being big and all.

But the weirdest part of the whole thing was this: I got in my truck, and I was halfway home, when I noticed there was something in the shotgun seat. Y’know what it was? That’s right, it was The Secret Garden!

Now I was all shook up. I was one-hundred percent sure I’d left the book back in the library, even though I wasn’t sure the library was even real any more. It must have been though, cause I sure as hell didn’t buy a first edition of The Secret Garden on exterminator pay.

So there it was, the book I’d wanted for my little girl. Well, I said three hail Marys’ and chalked it up to a bit of a hallucination. I mean, there were a bunch of shelves down in that basement, maybe I just thought I’d seen a library. I must’ve found the book there.

Well, I’m not a thief, but I couldn’t bear to leave it in that basement. I figured, no-one’s gonna be missing it, the previous owners being dead and gone, so I took it, and I left it at home.

What else? Oh yeah, there was one more weird thing: when I got back to the house with more pyrethrin, the mint was all gone, except what we’d cut. I was sure that it had surrounded the whole place, but I must’ve been wrong, huh? I worked long hours back then, way too long. I was tired as hell, and I must’ve been seeing things.

Anyway, that’s the end of the story. Why’d you want to hear it? You putting it in the paper or something? If you do, leave my name off it- this whole thing’s embarrassing. The mint we cut? I took a bit, Eric took the rest. It was mighty strong stuff, I tell you what, it could ring your head like a bell if you put it in tea. Oh, you need a surveyor? Here’s his card, tell him I sent you, he’ll give you a good deal.

Well if that’s all, ma’am, I’ll take my leave. What’s that? Mary? Oh, right, I read the book to her, she really likes it. We’re teaching her to read with it. Whatever miracle preserved it in that stink-pit, I’m grateful. It’s made my little girl very happy.

Sorry Singaporeans… my comment will be mean hehehehe…

1. They have been instilled with the “Lee Kuan Yew” way since playgroup. One of Lee’s ways is to queue, queue, queue. It’s good.. but because it’s ingrained, it becomes funny. Example: One day after lunch, a Singaporean friend and I were walking back to the office. There was a queue in front, I don’t know what kind of queue. Suddenly my friend joined the queue behind. I was confused and ended up queuing too.

*image from google

After a while I asked,

“Bro, what kind of queue is this actually?”

My friend answered while playing with his cellphone

“I’m not really sure. People are queuing, I’ll just join in.”

I like it

2. Accustomed to high standards. They do not understand that in other parts of the world there are other standards. Example: one day my Singaporean friend and I went to Indonesia. When lunch time came, I invited him to eat at the mall. But he said he wanted to eat at an exotic local food stall. So, I invited him to eat at a catfish pecel stall.

First comes the rice, then the catfish complete with chili sauce.

“Wow..spicyyy….” he said while swallowing his saliva.

“Are you sure you can eat that bro?” I asked.

“Relax bro..I’m normal.”

“Okay then”

Then take out the hand washing basin

“Ok, let’s brush the food” he said while… pouring the basin of water onto the rice….

I was stunned.

“It’s like Hainanese rice in my opinion, bro… only this is orange juice, not broth,” he said while putting the rice into his mouth…

Again, I was like

3. They are very dazzled by the ground.

In Singapore, if you already have a landed house, meaning a house that is not an apartment or condo, yes… a regular house in Indonesia, if they have a house like this it means they are super rich. Understandably, land is super duper expensive in Singapore.

One day I invited my Singaporean friend to attend the wedding of an Indonesian coworker in his village. You know yourself that the land of the villagers is vast.

“Is this Roni’s parents’ land?”

“Yes”

“All this?” he said while looking to the right and left which were ordinary rain-fed cassava gardens.

“Yes”

“Holy sh*t… I didn’t think Roni was a billionaire”

Again, I was like

Enough already… the monkey said that if the photo appears one more time, I will be given a beautiful umbrella.

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