A Swarmer’s Epiphany
2026
Resin, aluminium, UV print on cellulose acetate
1.8 x 0.8 x 0.5cm
10:33 min
It’s been four days. I still haven’t found a suitable mate. “When the one comes, you would know in that moment that it is meant to be.” That’s what they all say.
But I’ve started wondering if a moment like this even exists. Maybe the idea of a moment only feels important because everything before feels so ordinary. Maybe that’s why they talk about love the way they do. They wait through so much repetition, so much stillness, so much dullness, that when something finally disrupts it, they call it “fate”.
What if I am not meant to be with anyone. Maybe I’m meant to be alone forever. Well, what am I supposed to do now? What is the meaning of it all if there’s no one to share it with? What more is there to life if I have not contributed to the future of our kind?
All I’ve tried to do my whole life is to follow the light. It’s usually towards some sort of shelter. Most of the times I end up in houses where humans seek shelter in whenever it rains. And while I am in these spaces, I can’t help but watch and listen to these humans. They are interesting creatures. But it seems like humans spend so much time thinking about whether their lives mean something.
You know, there was once I snuck into a house and I saw a human reading something about this during a rainy day. It was a book called “The Critique of Everyday Life”. I don’t remember who wrote it. I flew above the human and managed to read a few pages before they went to bed.
If I recall right, it stated that a moment cannot be defined by the everyday, nor can it be defined by what is exceptional and external to the everyday. That a moment gives shape to ordinary life, but taken on by itself, it becomes empty. I didn’t fully understand it.
I suppose the moment does not appear simply anywhere at just any time, and that meaning only exists because of everything surrounding it. It is like a festival. It only makes sense when its brilliance lights up the sad hinterland of everyday dullness, and it disappears when used up. The everyday cannot be reduced to 'empty moments', They place themselves apart from everyday life; or rather, they try to live apart, and this is precisely how they miscarry, in all their splendour. Thus, moments present themselves as duplicates of everyday life, magnified to tragic dimensions.
I remember I flew into a house about three days ago. I was hiding in the corner, and I saw a man having a headache that day. Actually, it seemed like humans get them often, but why did his last the whole day? He didn’t do anything to remedy it. He just waited for it to subside before doing anything else. He could have taken painkillers, but didn’t. Maybe it was because he felt like he had been taking them too often and I heard… it’s bad for your liver. Then he tried lying down on the sofa, but the streetlights shone directly into his eyes. He was too stubborn to move, so he just laid there motionless, hoping he would eventually get used to the discomfort. But I guess he couldn’t. He made his way to the bed and tried to sleep, but the headache had already worsened. Lingering. Pulsing. He couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t fall asleep. And I remember wondering how strange humans are. They don’t always move away from discomfort. Sometimes they just wait inside it. As if enduring something quietly might somehow transform it. Maybe hope is just another form of waiting. Or maybe they are afraid that changing something will make things worse.
The next day, I went to another nearby house.It was late. A man had just gotten home. He seemed guilty for being tired. Guilty because he felt like he hadn’t done anything. He grumbled and sighed. He opened his curtains and the light from the street lamps smeared themselves across the walls of his room, casting the shape of the windows onto everything around him. Then, suddenly, he heard music faintly playing. It sounded something like this:
Met you by surprise,
I didn't realize
That my life would change forever
Tell me that it's true,
Feelings that are cue
I feel something special about you
Dreams are my reality,
A wondrous world where I like to be
Illusions are a common thing
I try to live in dreams
Although it's only fantasy
He thought his tired mind was playing tricks on him. But later he realised the music was coming from earphones plugged into his phone. As he reached for the phone, the music stopped. A friend from far away was calling him. They started chatting. They were on opposite sides of the world, in different time zones. There was a lot of silence between them though. They were tired, but they understood each other. One lived in a place where he felt trapped and wanted freedom. The other lived in a place that celebrated freedom, yet he only knew the feeling of being trapped. They spoke about people who seemed certain of themselves. People who fought for things they believed in. It wasn’t that they were ashamed of their own lives.
It was more that they didn’t know what their lives were pointing toward. “I guess we were just brought up like this.” They knew they needed to change something. Maybe they already had. But they still found themselves asking:
“Why does it feel like I didn’t do anything at all?”
By then, the sadness in their voices had disappeared and there was a different tone. No disappointment. No guilt. Just a quiet frustration. Like wanting to become more than who they were but not knowing where to begin. It was like there was only one human in the room, but there were two voices. He was talking about something missing in his life. And I think I understood that feeling. But they kept using this word.
“Freedom.”
I still don’t fully understand what it means. Humans speak about freedom as if it is both frightening and necessary. As if making a choice also means accepting that you may not know where it leads. Maybe that is why they sound so uncertain all the time.
Wait, actually… where am I? Is this a tunnel? Why are there street lamps inside a tunnel? I don’t feel so good. You know… I don’t have much time as a flying termite. I only have a few days in this world. And now I am all alone. But maybe being alone is what allowed me to notice all of this in the first place. Nothing changes much in the landscape of life. It seems like it is usually consistent. But I suppose re-living the same space with the right awareness can bring out meaning and purpose out of the mundane. Perhaps there is more to life than just finding a mate.
You know, a few minutes ago, I overheard a conversation between a man and a woman sitting on a bench across me/I overheard a conversation between a man and a woman across me. “He asked if she had experienced an earthquake. I’ve experienced it so many times,” she said, “and now I think I’m starting to miss it.” Back in 2008, a massive earthquake struck her hometown. She slept in a car for a month afterwards. He asked why. She said, “Once a big earthquake happens, there will be many smaller ones afterwards. So everything kept shaking for months. It was dangerous to sleep inside buildings.”
He didn’t say much after that. He could only listen.
2026
Resin, aluminium, UV print on cellulose acetate
1.8 x 0.8 x 0.5cm
10:33 min
It’s been four days. I still haven’t found a suitable mate. “When the one comes, you would know in that moment that it is meant to be.” That’s what they all say.
But I’ve started wondering if a moment like this even exists. Maybe the idea of a moment only feels important because everything before feels so ordinary. Maybe that’s why they talk about love the way they do. They wait through so much repetition, so much stillness, so much dullness, that when something finally disrupts it, they call it “fate”.
What if I am not meant to be with anyone. Maybe I’m meant to be alone forever. Well, what am I supposed to do now? What is the meaning of it all if there’s no one to share it with? What more is there to life if I have not contributed to the future of our kind?
All I’ve tried to do my whole life is to follow the light. It’s usually towards some sort of shelter. Most of the times I end up in houses where humans seek shelter in whenever it rains. And while I am in these spaces, I can’t help but watch and listen to these humans. They are interesting creatures. But it seems like humans spend so much time thinking about whether their lives mean something.
You know, there was once I snuck into a house and I saw a human reading something about this during a rainy day. It was a book called “The Critique of Everyday Life”. I don’t remember who wrote it. I flew above the human and managed to read a few pages before they went to bed.
If I recall right, it stated that a moment cannot be defined by the everyday, nor can it be defined by what is exceptional and external to the everyday. That a moment gives shape to ordinary life, but taken on by itself, it becomes empty. I didn’t fully understand it.
I suppose the moment does not appear simply anywhere at just any time, and that meaning only exists because of everything surrounding it. It is like a festival. It only makes sense when its brilliance lights up the sad hinterland of everyday dullness, and it disappears when used up. The everyday cannot be reduced to 'empty moments', They place themselves apart from everyday life; or rather, they try to live apart, and this is precisely how they miscarry, in all their splendour. Thus, moments present themselves as duplicates of everyday life, magnified to tragic dimensions.
I remember I flew into a house about three days ago. I was hiding in the corner, and I saw a man having a headache that day. Actually, it seemed like humans get them often, but why did his last the whole day? He didn’t do anything to remedy it. He just waited for it to subside before doing anything else. He could have taken painkillers, but didn’t. Maybe it was because he felt like he had been taking them too often and I heard… it’s bad for your liver. Then he tried lying down on the sofa, but the streetlights shone directly into his eyes. He was too stubborn to move, so he just laid there motionless, hoping he would eventually get used to the discomfort. But I guess he couldn’t. He made his way to the bed and tried to sleep, but the headache had already worsened. Lingering. Pulsing. He couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t fall asleep. And I remember wondering how strange humans are. They don’t always move away from discomfort. Sometimes they just wait inside it. As if enduring something quietly might somehow transform it. Maybe hope is just another form of waiting. Or maybe they are afraid that changing something will make things worse.
The next day, I went to another nearby house.It was late. A man had just gotten home. He seemed guilty for being tired. Guilty because he felt like he hadn’t done anything. He grumbled and sighed. He opened his curtains and the light from the street lamps smeared themselves across the walls of his room, casting the shape of the windows onto everything around him. Then, suddenly, he heard music faintly playing. It sounded something like this:
Met you by surprise,
I didn't realize
That my life would change forever
Tell me that it's true,
Feelings that are cue
I feel something special about you
Dreams are my reality,
A wondrous world where I like to be
Illusions are a common thing
I try to live in dreams
Although it's only fantasy
He thought his tired mind was playing tricks on him. But later he realised the music was coming from earphones plugged into his phone. As he reached for the phone, the music stopped. A friend from far away was calling him. They started chatting. They were on opposite sides of the world, in different time zones. There was a lot of silence between them though. They were tired, but they understood each other. One lived in a place where he felt trapped and wanted freedom. The other lived in a place that celebrated freedom, yet he only knew the feeling of being trapped. They spoke about people who seemed certain of themselves. People who fought for things they believed in. It wasn’t that they were ashamed of their own lives.
It was more that they didn’t know what their lives were pointing toward. “I guess we were just brought up like this.” They knew they needed to change something. Maybe they already had. But they still found themselves asking:
“Why does it feel like I didn’t do anything at all?”
By then, the sadness in their voices had disappeared and there was a different tone. No disappointment. No guilt. Just a quiet frustration. Like wanting to become more than who they were but not knowing where to begin. It was like there was only one human in the room, but there were two voices. He was talking about something missing in his life. And I think I understood that feeling. But they kept using this word.
“Freedom.”
I still don’t fully understand what it means. Humans speak about freedom as if it is both frightening and necessary. As if making a choice also means accepting that you may not know where it leads. Maybe that is why they sound so uncertain all the time.
Wait, actually… where am I? Is this a tunnel? Why are there street lamps inside a tunnel? I don’t feel so good. You know… I don’t have much time as a flying termite. I only have a few days in this world. And now I am all alone. But maybe being alone is what allowed me to notice all of this in the first place. Nothing changes much in the landscape of life. It seems like it is usually consistent. But I suppose re-living the same space with the right awareness can bring out meaning and purpose out of the mundane. Perhaps there is more to life than just finding a mate.
You know, a few minutes ago, I overheard a conversation between a man and a woman sitting on a bench across me/I overheard a conversation between a man and a woman across me. “He asked if she had experienced an earthquake. I’ve experienced it so many times,” she said, “and now I think I’m starting to miss it.” Back in 2008, a massive earthquake struck her hometown. She slept in a car for a month afterwards. He asked why. She said, “Once a big earthquake happens, there will be many smaller ones afterwards. So everything kept shaking for months. It was dangerous to sleep inside buildings.”
He didn’t say much after that. He could only listen.
Shown as part of Reflections at Esplanade, Singapore
Photograph documentatation by Toni Cuhadi
Image courtesy of Esplanade Singapore
Photograph documentatation by Toni Cuhadi
Image courtesy of Esplanade Singapore