"There is no such thing as a utopia!" Grandpa fumed with indignation upon hearing

her words. He simply lunged forward from his chair behind the table to gesture his

complete dismissal of Angela's naive opinions. She bit her lip with a deep frown

before stepping back a little.

"But Grandpa, I am referring to emotions," Angela reaffirmed forcefully, risking herself

of being lashed at again by the stern old man. "And if utopia is a world of its own,

then we humans have got to be involved in it one way or another...And the way this

whole new society works is going to affect us through our senses directly! Then it

seeps into our souls...and soon we get to experience the mystical 'emotional utopia',

don't you understand?"

"Why you obnoxious little girl!" he blasted at her right away in an attempt to call off

this nonsensical debate. She boldly glared at him. The unfortunate result was that

the infuriated grandpa slammed his hand strongly on the table, which shook from

the impact and his cup of steaming white coffee clumsily splattered all over the

surface.

Angela gasped. The next minute, he rushed over and pressed for her to leave him

alone. Dragging her along to the door, she was too dumbfounded to retort. Thus,

she was sent out without further explanation on his part. He then shut the heavy

door before her with a deafening thud.

Left standing outside, she sighed in exasperation. It was a naturally futile attempt of

hers to voice out bizarre ideas, especially to an elderly who could not care less about

mind-stimulating subjects. Slipping her hands into her pockets, she gave up and

headed out into the open.

Venturing past the backyard, she finally reached the clean beach behind their

bungalow. Angela breathed in hard as the endearing breeze sent her long tresses flying

like agitated waves in the air. After a stroll of leaving a long trail of footprints in the

sand, she stooped down to pick up a nice find. It was a stray, interestingly clear

empty bottle, which was worth a keep. Thoughts drifting back to the reason which

brought her here at this hour, she dug out a pen and a sheet of scrap paper from her

big pockets. Within a second or two, she already figured what she would write and

scribbled yearningly, "If only I would believe..."

Upon finishing, her ironic mood sunk as she glanced around every angle of the

place about her. On this auspicious day, she was supposed to deliver all her tough

views on the elusive topic of 'emotional utopia' and yet now, she ended up

abandoned and isolated on a beach emptied of people. A tinge of self-pity pierced

her heart. Recalling a love letter she had written a while ago but was not replied to,

she continued to write on the paper, "You will reciprocate my feelings..."

In the ensuing moment, Angela laughed aloud at her own silly notion. She stuffed the

note into the bottle and buried it under the sands instead of letting it float along over

the seawaters, sending her precious wish to oblivion. Sitting back down, she

wondered back again to the little bicker she had with her grandfather and tried to

conceptualise all the bits and pieces of ideas held dearly from her own standpoint.

Perhaps he was right, that there can never be a state of perfection in love. Yet, deep

inside, everyone wishes for it to be so. "Ah, stiff-necked people will only keep

denying that until the end of times," she muttered stubbornly, refusing defeat.

However, she was struck by the reality of her pathetic situation right now, all alone

by herself in a deserted environment, which made her stared wistfully over at the

spot of her buried bottle. Had there been a utopia, she would not need to experience

such unrequited love. This world is filled with ceaseless unpredictables and

possibilities. As much as humans worked so hard to create order and expectations of

rational patterns, randomness will always be a part of this chaotic life. And this is

basically just the opposite of utopia, as Angela decided. That kind of imaginary world

in her mind, she now realised must have demanded so much of automated thoughts

and feelings, actions and reactions, in order to survive the esteemed idealistic living.

Merely picturing the extent to which all the processes of life will be thoroughly

controlled, Angela cringed with disgust. Coming to this point, she doubted how she

came up with the definition of 'emotional utopia' in the first place. How can one end

up gripped with such elation without getting in touch with the physical beforehand?

If any sensation or feeling is supposed to be utterly free-flowing, unrestrained like

the forces of the roaring waves and wandering seas, why is it so distant from her

version of 'perfection'? Flaws are inborn in us that they attach intimately to us like

the skin enveloping our bodies. Imperfection will never leave this life or world no

matter how much one despises so. All the mysteries of pain and hardships may well

have to be kept sealed in the vicious Pandora's Box, to be cautiously guarded

through the defensive locks of time.

Getting up, Angela brushed off particles of sand from her blouse and skirt, before

dashing back home. Her fantasy-craving mind earned much enlightenment and she

decided that she would take charge of cooking for supper, as a humble way of

apologising to her hard-headed grandfather. Beyond the far-off horizon, the setting

sun cast faint shimmers on the half-buried bottle laid to rest on the golden shore.