Please. Not this again. Now now.
That fluttering heart feeling wells me up. Not the nice one. The horrid one which makes me feel out of breath, which entangles itself around my heart, winding itself about and choking me.
This was meant to be the holidays! But a queer nausea-like feeling overcome me. I don't know how to describe it. I really don't. It flashes up from my heart to my head and wells over me, floods it, and I'm left all weak and clammy. Unpleasant. Like a shock up to my head, and making me feel all sick. Why.
Why!
And I can't find the reason, the underlying cause. And the very fact I can't makes it all the more worse, makes the feeling quake at my heart, leaving me unsettled and lost. Fluttering, quaking, trembling, quivering. From an unknown uneasy feeling, an giddiness nausea shoots up to my head.
This is more than I can take. Oh, let me curl up and ignore how time is slipping slipping through my fingers.
December 17, 2006
December 14, 2006
Burst into laugher,
hug yourself. Let the smile play at the corner of your lips as this pleasant feeling burst and well out in full force, in you, around you. Oh oh, hug yourself close.
This is the type of smile that will tug at your lips, that's gonna fill your heart with a happy jingle, that's gonna fill your thoughts. Oh oh, I could attack anything right now!
What is there to describe about this. It's, it's just welling, welling welling up. All the childish laugher and joy, shrieks and shouts right out there in the bright loud big sun. Radiant, shiny, laughs, chuckles, giggles.
Kiddy?
Yeah!
There are people whom you avoid, people whom you care about, people whom you respect, people whom would let you do.
And there are people who bring the sun into your life.
I don't understand any longer. I can't write anymore on this blog, nothing comes out really. What role has this blog really been playing? And why does a role not exist for it anymore.
Am I thinking less, or are there less knots to unravel. Or have I lost my passion, or found a new better one. Oh, I don't know.
For the moment I don't mind all that much.
Maybe later. Maybe later I'll come back to this.
hug yourself. Let the smile play at the corner of your lips as this pleasant feeling burst and well out in full force, in you, around you. Oh oh, hug yourself close.
This is the type of smile that will tug at your lips, that's gonna fill your heart with a happy jingle, that's gonna fill your thoughts. Oh oh, I could attack anything right now!
What is there to describe about this. It's, it's just welling, welling welling up. All the childish laugher and joy, shrieks and shouts right out there in the bright loud big sun. Radiant, shiny, laughs, chuckles, giggles.
Kiddy?
Yeah!
There are people whom you avoid, people whom you care about, people whom you respect, people whom would let you do.
And there are people who bring the sun into your life.
I don't understand any longer. I can't write anymore on this blog, nothing comes out really. What role has this blog really been playing? And why does a role not exist for it anymore.
Am I thinking less, or are there less knots to unravel. Or have I lost my passion, or found a new better one. Oh, I don't know.
For the moment I don't mind all that much.
Maybe later. Maybe later I'll come back to this.
November 23, 2006
Late into the night, so late that it could be considered early, early morning. The light rays from the bulb glowed and illuminated the girl on the floor.
She was alone, in that big long room. Sitting in the corner she wrote, as her siblings, her parents, and perhaps all her friends lay in their bed, asleep, held comfortably in the secure arms of slumber. But the foolish girl gripped the fat black pencil and continued, for it seemed that the words, or more accurately, thoughts and emotions flowed only at this time. And though tired, her physical body yearning for sleep and blissful unconsciousness, she knew that now was the only time she could write, that in the morning it would be all gone, that the busyness and distractions of a day would quell the pushing force and motivation to write, for it would only seem to be a fancy, a mere inclination of the heart.
The turbulent flow of thoughts continued through her, and she knew that that itself was another reason. For it was only late at night than did she allow those emotions to well up, at night when she was alone, at night when there was no one to see, at night when there was no need to check them and keep them locked, bottled up. Only at night. She saw it flowed all around her body, and it had seemed to be all alright at first as she lay there in bed, and she thought the wound was healed and that it would hurt no more, and that she was released from it all, and her thoughts went on, “yes yes, he has been a treasured friend, and now he shall be missed, but that can’t be help, and the tide of time only flows one way, and you’re ok now”. But the very next moment proved her wrong as the flow went and concentrated itself in her heart again, and she felt it gave that gentle soft tremble, like the quiver of a cello string and that full mature graceful pain compelled her to shed tears - which she did, with no sniffling or violent heaves like the last time, but just streams of tears flowing out from a still body, delicate little rivulets of water.
As she cried she lamented her weakness in her head, chiding the tears and pain for welling up so easily. How long more, head said to heart. How long more will you mourn and shed your tears deep in the night. Has it not been long enough. The warm affectionate scolding went on, as familiar as the caring naggings of a mother, but it was all but a show of pretense, a brief moment of comfort…
For head knew as well as heart now that this seemed to be the kind of wound that was deep, and that all along it was but a really good bandage that wrapped it up and gave one the illusion that it was on its way to healing at the very least, if not healed. And as one slowly unwrap the bandage, one looked forward to seeing some kind of improvement, some closing up of wound.
But when it finally came off and revealed itself, one saw the deep red wound,
The quivering darkish-pink flesh, warm, soft, appearing glisteningly wet and sticky, sore and painful, on its achingly slow way to recovery,
An aching wound that would only heal faster with the admittance that there is a wound, that there is a hole in need of repair, and then begs to be taken and healed and sealed with a soft gentle kiss, the assurance of peace and warmth and care and love. The alive wound that gently licks itself for that bit of warm and pressure and comfort, and which asked to be aired, in the dark lonely nights, to inch it ways along the path of recovery. And no one knows how long that path is, but just that it seems to stretch on for quite a bit more yet.
Gently, gently, the wound quivered along with the heart, with every pulse, up down up down up down, constant, unwavering, genuine. And the girl felt her own heartbeat on her breast and her eyes closed.
A new bandage wrapped round the wound and fastened itself. Neatly.
She was alone, in that big long room. Sitting in the corner she wrote, as her siblings, her parents, and perhaps all her friends lay in their bed, asleep, held comfortably in the secure arms of slumber. But the foolish girl gripped the fat black pencil and continued, for it seemed that the words, or more accurately, thoughts and emotions flowed only at this time. And though tired, her physical body yearning for sleep and blissful unconsciousness, she knew that now was the only time she could write, that in the morning it would be all gone, that the busyness and distractions of a day would quell the pushing force and motivation to write, for it would only seem to be a fancy, a mere inclination of the heart.
The turbulent flow of thoughts continued through her, and she knew that that itself was another reason. For it was only late at night than did she allow those emotions to well up, at night when she was alone, at night when there was no one to see, at night when there was no need to check them and keep them locked, bottled up. Only at night. She saw it flowed all around her body, and it had seemed to be all alright at first as she lay there in bed, and she thought the wound was healed and that it would hurt no more, and that she was released from it all, and her thoughts went on, “yes yes, he has been a treasured friend, and now he shall be missed, but that can’t be help, and the tide of time only flows one way, and you’re ok now”. But the very next moment proved her wrong as the flow went and concentrated itself in her heart again, and she felt it gave that gentle soft tremble, like the quiver of a cello string and that full mature graceful pain compelled her to shed tears - which she did, with no sniffling or violent heaves like the last time, but just streams of tears flowing out from a still body, delicate little rivulets of water.
As she cried she lamented her weakness in her head, chiding the tears and pain for welling up so easily. How long more, head said to heart. How long more will you mourn and shed your tears deep in the night. Has it not been long enough. The warm affectionate scolding went on, as familiar as the caring naggings of a mother, but it was all but a show of pretense, a brief moment of comfort…
For head knew as well as heart now that this seemed to be the kind of wound that was deep, and that all along it was but a really good bandage that wrapped it up and gave one the illusion that it was on its way to healing at the very least, if not healed. And as one slowly unwrap the bandage, one looked forward to seeing some kind of improvement, some closing up of wound.
But when it finally came off and revealed itself, one saw the deep red wound,
The quivering darkish-pink flesh, warm, soft, appearing glisteningly wet and sticky, sore and painful, on its achingly slow way to recovery,
An aching wound that would only heal faster with the admittance that there is a wound, that there is a hole in need of repair, and then begs to be taken and healed and sealed with a soft gentle kiss, the assurance of peace and warmth and care and love. The alive wound that gently licks itself for that bit of warm and pressure and comfort, and which asked to be aired, in the dark lonely nights, to inch it ways along the path of recovery. And no one knows how long that path is, but just that it seems to stretch on for quite a bit more yet.
Gently, gently, the wound quivered along with the heart, with every pulse, up down up down up down, constant, unwavering, genuine. And the girl felt her own heartbeat on her breast and her eyes closed.
A new bandage wrapped round the wound and fastened itself. Neatly.
November 6, 2006
Like a sledgehammer to my heart.
You've hit it where it matters, where it hurt, where it's gonna to tremble and shake.
And it hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS.
I don't know why it hurts so much, how your words can affect me, how I am left stunned as the dearest of my fears are highlighted by your simple words. And an ache, a dull ache rises as I wonder how you seem to have changed and yet think of the same thing as me, and perhaps that's going to connect us, perhaps it isn't, and I'm not sure anymore.
You send me those invites asking me to join that network and I ignored it since there is no sign of something personal, something you thought out rather than a flippant let's just do it gesture. So I don't. But now I don't understand.
And it hurts so much, I don't understand why, I don't understand why.
I wish I could cry and just release it, but somehow the tears are not coming.
You've hit it where it matters, where it hurt, where it's gonna to tremble and shake.
And it hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS.
I don't know why it hurts so much, how your words can affect me, how I am left stunned as the dearest of my fears are highlighted by your simple words. And an ache, a dull ache rises as I wonder how you seem to have changed and yet think of the same thing as me, and perhaps that's going to connect us, perhaps it isn't, and I'm not sure anymore.
You send me those invites asking me to join that network and I ignored it since there is no sign of something personal, something you thought out rather than a flippant let's just do it gesture. So I don't. But now I don't understand.
And it hurts so much, I don't understand why, I don't understand why.
I wish I could cry and just release it, but somehow the tears are not coming.
November 1, 2006
-daydreams
He tells me I'm 4 and then holds my hand, firmly.
I'm trying to understand whether he's a caretaker, a father figure, or a friend, a casual brother; or the pal who'll lounge in my sofa, comfortable in my house; or the buddy that will support me no matter what, encouraging me to go for my dreams; or the mate, you know, the type who went through the same ups and downs with you, because you all were in the same team or something, but I'm already following him with no protest as he leads me on.
He tells me about his world, he shares his scenery with me. We pass by ferns and flowers and he points out the jagged leaf, the drop of dew, the soft splash of colour by a flower. He stops at the puddles and fallen leafs and we stand and admire the circle of life, nature loops. It's a slow walk.
And I feel safe.
He repeats his stories, his love and hates, his life, his past, his aspirations, his little thoughts, but I don't get bored, just listening, fascinated by how his words act like a window into his soul. He smiles at me and I smile back and I can't help but think how beautifully his eye crinkles up, how genuine that lovely arc of joy is, how good-looking he is, and I hold out my hand for him to hold.
He takes it and give it a gentle squeeze before saying, "now you know why I said you're 4" and my heart is filled with wonder as he points out the sky, the shapes of clouds, the things hidden within them... the galaxy of stars. I'm enchanted by the wonders and mysteries revealed to me by his words, the spell that one is in when encountering the new.
He tells me that the stars I'm seeing are not really stars, but just the light given out by them a few thousand years ago, that what I'm looking at now is some thousand, perhaps million year old light that has only managed to reach earth now after travelling a long long distance, and that the star itself might not really be there anymore, proving that things might not be what they seem.
I pluck up my courage to look into his eyes, and ask, just as he pauses for breath, "are you what are then?" He looks back at me, an expression of delicate surprise on his face, "well, what do you think I am in the first place?" I realise I don't know the answer and stutter out, "a person?" and he laughs and fondles my hair as he says teasingly, "aye, or maybe a figure of your imagination eh?"
The shadow of a doubt flits through my mind for the briefest of moments, flying off before I could even grasp it and realise what it could mean, but already we are moving off for more sights of birds and creatures. He holds my hand securely and don't let me fall so I follow on, putting my foot where he tells me to.
I become comfortable and start talking too, and he accepts every single syllabus, going, "oh really?" and launching off into his stories at the right times. It was a delightful hour, as though time itself has paused and we could go on telling stories forever, but I got sleepy, and my reaction slowed. He notice of course, and suggest that both of us rest. In my sleepiness I am strangled enchanted with the thought, at the magic of together and agrees.
He stays up for a while more though, just to make sure I get to sleep, humming away in a soft low voice. My eyes finally close and the last thought that flits through my mind as the tune of the guitar faded away was the last lines of Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale': Fled is that music: -- Do I wake or sleep
But by then I was asleep and that thought, like so many others, vanished into the night.
He tells me I'm 4 and then holds my hand, firmly.
I'm trying to understand whether he's a caretaker, a father figure, or a friend, a casual brother; or the pal who'll lounge in my sofa, comfortable in my house; or the buddy that will support me no matter what, encouraging me to go for my dreams; or the mate, you know, the type who went through the same ups and downs with you, because you all were in the same team or something, but I'm already following him with no protest as he leads me on.
He tells me about his world, he shares his scenery with me. We pass by ferns and flowers and he points out the jagged leaf, the drop of dew, the soft splash of colour by a flower. He stops at the puddles and fallen leafs and we stand and admire the circle of life, nature loops. It's a slow walk.
And I feel safe.
He repeats his stories, his love and hates, his life, his past, his aspirations, his little thoughts, but I don't get bored, just listening, fascinated by how his words act like a window into his soul. He smiles at me and I smile back and I can't help but think how beautifully his eye crinkles up, how genuine that lovely arc of joy is, how good-looking he is, and I hold out my hand for him to hold.
He takes it and give it a gentle squeeze before saying, "now you know why I said you're 4" and my heart is filled with wonder as he points out the sky, the shapes of clouds, the things hidden within them... the galaxy of stars. I'm enchanted by the wonders and mysteries revealed to me by his words, the spell that one is in when encountering the new.
He tells me that the stars I'm seeing are not really stars, but just the light given out by them a few thousand years ago, that what I'm looking at now is some thousand, perhaps million year old light that has only managed to reach earth now after travelling a long long distance, and that the star itself might not really be there anymore, proving that things might not be what they seem.
I pluck up my courage to look into his eyes, and ask, just as he pauses for breath, "are you what are then?" He looks back at me, an expression of delicate surprise on his face, "well, what do you think I am in the first place?" I realise I don't know the answer and stutter out, "a person?" and he laughs and fondles my hair as he says teasingly, "aye, or maybe a figure of your imagination eh?"
The shadow of a doubt flits through my mind for the briefest of moments, flying off before I could even grasp it and realise what it could mean, but already we are moving off for more sights of birds and creatures. He holds my hand securely and don't let me fall so I follow on, putting my foot where he tells me to.
I become comfortable and start talking too, and he accepts every single syllabus, going, "oh really?" and launching off into his stories at the right times. It was a delightful hour, as though time itself has paused and we could go on telling stories forever, but I got sleepy, and my reaction slowed. He notice of course, and suggest that both of us rest. In my sleepiness I am strangled enchanted with the thought, at the magic of together and agrees.
He stays up for a while more though, just to make sure I get to sleep, humming away in a soft low voice. My eyes finally close and the last thought that flits through my mind as the tune of the guitar faded away was the last lines of Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale': Fled is that music: -- Do I wake or sleep
But by then I was asleep and that thought, like so many others, vanished into the night.
October 27, 2006
He noticed how she had been looking at the little crystal dog, how her hands had gently picked it up, her finger sliding smoothly, gently across it, before putting it down wistfully, almost a little unwillingly. He looked on, as she moved on to other displays, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as she moved just the slightest bit such that her eyes could linger on the little crystal dog for a while more.
Hands in pocket, he sauntered to the aisle where the crystal dog was located, and picked it up, feeling the comforting weight in his hands. Fingers snugly wrapped around the little dog, he moved on to the counter, flashing a satisfied grin as the nimble fingers of the shop assistant wrapped it up in a lovely batik-patterned paper.
Whistling, he walked out of the store door, and scanned the area for a familiar figure. Spotting the red turtleneck sweater just ahead of him, he did a quick short run. His tunes slowly faded into silence as he got nearer, and his steps got slower and more hesitant.
One step away. "Um, hi"
She turned to meet him, her eyes holding the softest question mark. Before she had even said anything he had stumbled on, "I um, noticed that you were looking at this crystal dog just now. And um.. um. Um, may I be your friend?" He looked away, feeling a warm, almost uncomfortable but not quite sensation on his cheeks.
A gentle laugh greeted his ears, and he looked up to see a merry glow in her eyes, and a grin on her lips. "So, let's start this with me getting to know, at the very least, your name, shall we?"
It's his turn to be surprised, a little taken aback, that a stranger was so accepting to such a queer proposal on the streets. He looks on in wonder, dumb for a while, as he ponders the odds and mysteries of the world in a few fleeting thoughts, for one magical moment.
She smiles again. "Or perhaps, you would like me to start with my name first?"
He smiles back. "Yes please. Ladies first"
Hands in pocket, he sauntered to the aisle where the crystal dog was located, and picked it up, feeling the comforting weight in his hands. Fingers snugly wrapped around the little dog, he moved on to the counter, flashing a satisfied grin as the nimble fingers of the shop assistant wrapped it up in a lovely batik-patterned paper.
Whistling, he walked out of the store door, and scanned the area for a familiar figure. Spotting the red turtleneck sweater just ahead of him, he did a quick short run. His tunes slowly faded into silence as he got nearer, and his steps got slower and more hesitant.
One step away. "Um, hi"
She turned to meet him, her eyes holding the softest question mark. Before she had even said anything he had stumbled on, "I um, noticed that you were looking at this crystal dog just now. And um.. um. Um, may I be your friend?" He looked away, feeling a warm, almost uncomfortable but not quite sensation on his cheeks.
A gentle laugh greeted his ears, and he looked up to see a merry glow in her eyes, and a grin on her lips. "So, let's start this with me getting to know, at the very least, your name, shall we?"
It's his turn to be surprised, a little taken aback, that a stranger was so accepting to such a queer proposal on the streets. He looks on in wonder, dumb for a while, as he ponders the odds and mysteries of the world in a few fleeting thoughts, for one magical moment.
She smiles again. "Or perhaps, you would like me to start with my name first?"
He smiles back. "Yes please. Ladies first"
Unfinished songs.
I have not been listening to songs for a while. No, it wasn't a conscious choice made by me. Just circumstances. Just the media player refusing to play music clips. Just the names of songs scattered among my files.
I thought I would have liked some music to accompany me for a while. But turned out I survived without any. Work continued, fingers still typed (dare I say earnestly?) on the keyboard. They danced when I was excited, and knew exactly what I had to type out next. Like someone had burst back to life and now had to hurry, hurry to got all things done and said, because time is running running out.
But it's one thing to say hello to someone through messenger, and another to come to this page. To recount, or try to capture. To run people through events, or to try to focus on the emotions, and capture them fully.
I thought I would like to focus on emotions. The abstract. But lately the snapshots are turning out incomplete. I've clicked the shutter, I've tried, but my camera is never aimed right. And I'll miss the most significant.
Nothing seems right at this time. And it's all unfinished songs. Just unfinished songs.
And I'm trying not to cry whenever I hear them.
I have not been listening to songs for a while. No, it wasn't a conscious choice made by me. Just circumstances. Just the media player refusing to play music clips. Just the names of songs scattered among my files.
I thought I would have liked some music to accompany me for a while. But turned out I survived without any. Work continued, fingers still typed (dare I say earnestly?) on the keyboard. They danced when I was excited, and knew exactly what I had to type out next. Like someone had burst back to life and now had to hurry, hurry to got all things done and said, because time is running running out.
But it's one thing to say hello to someone through messenger, and another to come to this page. To recount, or try to capture. To run people through events, or to try to focus on the emotions, and capture them fully.
I thought I would like to focus on emotions. The abstract. But lately the snapshots are turning out incomplete. I've clicked the shutter, I've tried, but my camera is never aimed right. And I'll miss the most significant.
Nothing seems right at this time. And it's all unfinished songs. Just unfinished songs.
And I'm trying not to cry whenever I hear them.
October 21, 2006
"I'm bleeding," the child says.
He puts his arm out, extended fully, to show his mother.
It's a small wound, the kind that comes when you pick off your scabs gotten at the playground. There's but only the smallest trickle of blood, not flowing profusely like a deep cut.
Just a small wound.
But his mother doesn't know. She pushes her glasses up gently with one finger, from the side, and continue to gaze at the screen as her fingers flies on the keyboard. "Mmm, honey.. go put some cream on it?.."
There's a pause for a while, as the child looks up at the lady, his mother..
"I'm bleeding," he says again, this time a slight quaver in his voice, the softest hint of a trailing off towards the end.
This time his mother did not even seem to hear.
The child is quiet as he walks off, quiet as he wets a piece of tissue and wipes off the blood. Quiet, as he releases the tissue into the dustbin, and goes off to stand beside the window.
The roars of cars drowned him.
He puts his arm out, extended fully, to show his mother.
It's a small wound, the kind that comes when you pick off your scabs gotten at the playground. There's but only the smallest trickle of blood, not flowing profusely like a deep cut.
Just a small wound.
But his mother doesn't know. She pushes her glasses up gently with one finger, from the side, and continue to gaze at the screen as her fingers flies on the keyboard. "Mmm, honey.. go put some cream on it?.."
There's a pause for a while, as the child looks up at the lady, his mother..
"I'm bleeding," he says again, this time a slight quaver in his voice, the softest hint of a trailing off towards the end.
This time his mother did not even seem to hear.
The child is quiet as he walks off, quiet as he wets a piece of tissue and wipes off the blood. Quiet, as he releases the tissue into the dustbin, and goes off to stand beside the window.
The roars of cars drowned him.
October 14, 2006
\starts monologue
rosy rosy, a rosy glow!
=) hello! *waves hand*
the simple language of actions and smiles. *smiles. nods. waves hand*
I like you =)
There's no need to care about accuracy here. Whether I captured it right. Whether you can see it in your mind's eye. Not really. This one's for me. The sun's streaming in, it's so bright and cheery, your curtains are flung back, and light fills the room! I think sunlight is perfectly lovely.
I'm starting to fall in love with the colour yellow. Not that I never liked it before. But just more than ever.
I don't understand Hokkien. But it's ok. We'll communicate using smiles and actions. Love and joy. Colours and sound. Chinese =)
yes, I'll sing karaoke with you if you want to too.
/ends monologue
That look in her eyes captured me. Like those of a child. So trusting. She looks on and listens, as the adult gently tells her, and advice her. I can't help but gaze on. This woman, this woman who must have seen much of life to live to such an age, where her hair is pure white, how is it that there seems to be still such a.. vulnerability. Yet the general frailness was still.. lightened up, with the magical spark of something. I don't know what it is, but it felt like.. life. Life.
Her gaze flickers from me, back to the adult, as she lies so gently on the bed. She nods, quietly. The adult urges her, "it's not always good to lie down. see, she fell, and you fell too, but she's up and around. you can too! you be guai lar, join in. you be guai then we will bring you out".
I just look on. Her gaze flickers back to me and I do what instinct asks me to: smile. I smile and nod, I listen to the conversation, I add in, I join in. What else could I do? Keep silent? When the atmosphere is so open, where there's life, and the sunlight streaming in through the window only brightens me up? I don't think so.
Yet I can't help, I can't help but compare it with the nursing home when my kim-po stays at. And I'm left amazed. This place is so cheery and bright, full of light and well.. warmth. A kind of laid-back home setting. I can feel festivals and celebrations going on here. I can imagine people carrying lanterns, and it does not matter whether they're in wheelchairs, cuz in the dim light all one can see is the bright warm glow of lanterns, the twinkling friendly flames chuckling happily among themselves. How sweet, how lovely.
Compared to the.. the other nursing home. I remember asking my dad why she had to stay there... and my dad's answer had left me with a kind of muted horror. I remember stepping in into the old builing with my family on Chinese New Year, cracked tiles, isolated desks, old steps. The colours of grey and dirty white being the predominant colours. No sign of green, the colour of life. Or yellow, or pink, or blue, or even a reassuring solid brown.
I remember it being dark. The general sense of distaste of nursing homes. Dim corners. I remember being hushed, and us standing silently at one corner. Hearing a language my brain could not translate. Oh, what a great relief it was to see my cousins! The friendly, inquisitive, light-hearted chatter of my cousins with kim-po, and though I still didn't understand the dialect, it was so bright, so lovely. I smiled, I rested my hand on my cousin's shoulder and jumped up, pushing myself higher by his shoulders. Perhaps in the end it's just the atmosphere. But how.. no, why, why is there such a difference in two nursing homes?
We continue talking, and finally she says, "xie xie". Almost hesistant, but earnest. She looks at the adult, and then looks at me. In the eye, sincerely. Unflinchingly. There seemed to be only one thing left for me to do.
I gave her a smile.
rosy rosy, a rosy glow!
=) hello! *waves hand*
the simple language of actions and smiles. *smiles. nods. waves hand*
I like you =)
There's no need to care about accuracy here. Whether I captured it right. Whether you can see it in your mind's eye. Not really. This one's for me. The sun's streaming in, it's so bright and cheery, your curtains are flung back, and light fills the room! I think sunlight is perfectly lovely.
I'm starting to fall in love with the colour yellow. Not that I never liked it before. But just more than ever.
I don't understand Hokkien. But it's ok. We'll communicate using smiles and actions. Love and joy. Colours and sound. Chinese =)
yes, I'll sing karaoke with you if you want to too.
/ends monologue
That look in her eyes captured me. Like those of a child. So trusting. She looks on and listens, as the adult gently tells her, and advice her. I can't help but gaze on. This woman, this woman who must have seen much of life to live to such an age, where her hair is pure white, how is it that there seems to be still such a.. vulnerability. Yet the general frailness was still.. lightened up, with the magical spark of something. I don't know what it is, but it felt like.. life. Life.
Her gaze flickers from me, back to the adult, as she lies so gently on the bed. She nods, quietly. The adult urges her, "it's not always good to lie down. see, she fell, and you fell too, but she's up and around. you can too! you be guai lar, join in. you be guai then we will bring you out".
I just look on. Her gaze flickers back to me and I do what instinct asks me to: smile. I smile and nod, I listen to the conversation, I add in, I join in. What else could I do? Keep silent? When the atmosphere is so open, where there's life, and the sunlight streaming in through the window only brightens me up? I don't think so.
Yet I can't help, I can't help but compare it with the nursing home when my kim-po stays at. And I'm left amazed. This place is so cheery and bright, full of light and well.. warmth. A kind of laid-back home setting. I can feel festivals and celebrations going on here. I can imagine people carrying lanterns, and it does not matter whether they're in wheelchairs, cuz in the dim light all one can see is the bright warm glow of lanterns, the twinkling friendly flames chuckling happily among themselves. How sweet, how lovely.
Compared to the.. the other nursing home. I remember asking my dad why she had to stay there... and my dad's answer had left me with a kind of muted horror. I remember stepping in into the old builing with my family on Chinese New Year, cracked tiles, isolated desks, old steps. The colours of grey and dirty white being the predominant colours. No sign of green, the colour of life. Or yellow, or pink, or blue, or even a reassuring solid brown.
I remember it being dark. The general sense of distaste of nursing homes. Dim corners. I remember being hushed, and us standing silently at one corner. Hearing a language my brain could not translate. Oh, what a great relief it was to see my cousins! The friendly, inquisitive, light-hearted chatter of my cousins with kim-po, and though I still didn't understand the dialect, it was so bright, so lovely. I smiled, I rested my hand on my cousin's shoulder and jumped up, pushing myself higher by his shoulders. Perhaps in the end it's just the atmosphere. But how.. no, why, why is there such a difference in two nursing homes?
We continue talking, and finally she says, "xie xie". Almost hesistant, but earnest. She looks at the adult, and then looks at me. In the eye, sincerely. Unflinchingly. There seemed to be only one thing left for me to do.
I gave her a smile.
October 6, 2006
The city's covered with haze, and one can only discern a faint shroudy silhouette of buildings in the distance. The kindly weather frog which adorned the daily weather forecast of the city in the chinese newspaper was depicted as down and gloomy today, fitting, with the scene that greets one eye as one gazes from the window.
Yea, the sunny island has gone all hazy, like a mirage of the desert, at times there, at times not. And it's rather sad that the haze has chose to come and settle on such a beautiful day.
For this day was meant to be beautiful, a legend of great tales, of the lady up in the moon. Of grace and beauty, gentle smooth motion, soft sways and dances. A gentle arch of body, a graceful turn, a little smile that tugs at the corner of the dancer's lips.
To be spent in laugher and joy, of merry chases, the bright chuckles and squeals from children. The warm rosy glow of lanterns, their flickering lights cast gently on the grass.
"Mummy, can you light up my lantern for me?"
A striking of matches against a year-old match box, and a flame is lighted up, burning brightly with a zealous passion. Slowly it touches down on the candle wick, and kisses its own flame into the cold drab stick of wax, and then a burst, a glow of warm fire, and the candle is lighted, and it feels almost like a magic show.
And you know fire hurts, and fire burns, but right now fire is nestling deep inside your paper lantern. Your little flame that you can almost.. almost hold and call your own, claiming supremacy over the elements of nature.
Until of course, the wind decides to throw you off the throne, and blows it gust of air at your lantern, such that it tilts and the kiss of the flame lands lightly on the paper too. Lightly I say, but in one moment, that paper is burning burning burning, brightly, and the fragile papers are turning into but crinkled black edges that disintegrate at the slightest force. And all is but ashes.
Though now it's all haze.
Yea, the sunny island has gone all hazy, like a mirage of the desert, at times there, at times not. And it's rather sad that the haze has chose to come and settle on such a beautiful day.
For this day was meant to be beautiful, a legend of great tales, of the lady up in the moon. Of grace and beauty, gentle smooth motion, soft sways and dances. A gentle arch of body, a graceful turn, a little smile that tugs at the corner of the dancer's lips.
To be spent in laugher and joy, of merry chases, the bright chuckles and squeals from children. The warm rosy glow of lanterns, their flickering lights cast gently on the grass.
"Mummy, can you light up my lantern for me?"
A striking of matches against a year-old match box, and a flame is lighted up, burning brightly with a zealous passion. Slowly it touches down on the candle wick, and kisses its own flame into the cold drab stick of wax, and then a burst, a glow of warm fire, and the candle is lighted, and it feels almost like a magic show.
And you know fire hurts, and fire burns, but right now fire is nestling deep inside your paper lantern. Your little flame that you can almost.. almost hold and call your own, claiming supremacy over the elements of nature.
Until of course, the wind decides to throw you off the throne, and blows it gust of air at your lantern, such that it tilts and the kiss of the flame lands lightly on the paper too. Lightly I say, but in one moment, that paper is burning burning burning, brightly, and the fragile papers are turning into but crinkled black edges that disintegrate at the slightest force. And all is but ashes.
Though now it's all haze.
I come back to this page, wondering if I still can write. My fingers goes tap tap on the keyboard, and for a moment, it seems like words are flowing out again. Like I am able to write again.
Yet I do not know whether this be an illusion or not. Ironically, the only way to know if I can or not is to continue writing. And see where I can go. How long I can go. How long can my finger do their little dance on the keyboard before it stops, confused, for the brain has not sent any more orders down the nerves for it to run to this letter, or that letter.
I'm tired. My eyes are drooping down again. Seems like the past few afternoons I have just gave my all for my papers, then come back home, eat lunch and then fall onto my bed. For sleep and rest, only to be shaken awake by my brother or sister, to wake up daze, head spinning, giddy, still tired, still numb from want of sleep.
But I can't take any afternoon naps see. When I do I don't feel tired at night. And then I'll stay up till twelve plus, nearly one. Standing beside the window in this silent home. The rest of my family members are but soundly in sleep, their bodies in deep rest. Oblivion perhaps, but peaceful. They're not tossing and turning with nightmares.
And I'm the pathetic person who stands there. Standing there, waiting, waiting until my eyes tear. One drop by one drop of salty water wells up, and then flow, like a mini stream, down. No. I'm not sad. I'm not upset. I'm not crying. I'm just tired.
Yet sometimes the wait can get too long. A little too long. The little ghost that slowly wells up has a name. Restlessness, aye, that's what it's called. I fancy that it's related to desire and longing. Maybe second cousins. Maybe. For it tumbles about in the same way, and your thought flies, I tell you. Flies flies, spinning, turning, twirling, diving, somersaults! And you wish you could be somewhere else. Perhaps, around a campfire! Singing songs and laughing and telling stories. Or just out there, lying on the grass, looking at the stars with a friend. Or or, just lying on the slide of the playground, looking at the blocks of flat way up here, and then shifting the angle of your head so you can see the big vast sky, with great puffy clouds! Or taking a taxi and just driving past past everything. Or travelling, being elsewhere. Hong Kong, Japan, Malaysia, America, England, France, New Zealand, Australia! Anywhere! To run off and see the Louvre, or Sydney Opera House, or Hong Kong Wetland Park once again, or the Petronas Towers! Travel, see the world! Cycle around with a backpack, feeling the wind on your face.
Doing something rather than thinking about something.
Because there's a strange feeling of being lost without stuff to do. And I've changed changed again! From the girl who didn't care much about her work except for those subjects which she liked, to being willing to put in work and effort into every piece! Actually doing her work. Doing stuff. Busy with stuff. Learning, understanding, practising.
"You need to learn to be consistent. Your grades are like my heartbeat. Mountains and valleys you know." And comments are taken seriously into account. They've actually become a thing of concern, a thing I take into consideration!
Great changes. And with every change of such, there seems to be something good that comes with it.
But there's also something lost...
In the broad sense, it's of how something that was always there is gone. You've changed, and the old is gone.
Yea, in the broad sense.
Yet I do not know whether this be an illusion or not. Ironically, the only way to know if I can or not is to continue writing. And see where I can go. How long I can go. How long can my finger do their little dance on the keyboard before it stops, confused, for the brain has not sent any more orders down the nerves for it to run to this letter, or that letter.
I'm tired. My eyes are drooping down again. Seems like the past few afternoons I have just gave my all for my papers, then come back home, eat lunch and then fall onto my bed. For sleep and rest, only to be shaken awake by my brother or sister, to wake up daze, head spinning, giddy, still tired, still numb from want of sleep.
But I can't take any afternoon naps see. When I do I don't feel tired at night. And then I'll stay up till twelve plus, nearly one. Standing beside the window in this silent home. The rest of my family members are but soundly in sleep, their bodies in deep rest. Oblivion perhaps, but peaceful. They're not tossing and turning with nightmares.
And I'm the pathetic person who stands there. Standing there, waiting, waiting until my eyes tear. One drop by one drop of salty water wells up, and then flow, like a mini stream, down. No. I'm not sad. I'm not upset. I'm not crying. I'm just tired.
Yet sometimes the wait can get too long. A little too long. The little ghost that slowly wells up has a name. Restlessness, aye, that's what it's called. I fancy that it's related to desire and longing. Maybe second cousins. Maybe. For it tumbles about in the same way, and your thought flies, I tell you. Flies flies, spinning, turning, twirling, diving, somersaults! And you wish you could be somewhere else. Perhaps, around a campfire! Singing songs and laughing and telling stories. Or just out there, lying on the grass, looking at the stars with a friend. Or or, just lying on the slide of the playground, looking at the blocks of flat way up here, and then shifting the angle of your head so you can see the big vast sky, with great puffy clouds! Or taking a taxi and just driving past past everything. Or travelling, being elsewhere. Hong Kong, Japan, Malaysia, America, England, France, New Zealand, Australia! Anywhere! To run off and see the Louvre, or Sydney Opera House, or Hong Kong Wetland Park once again, or the Petronas Towers! Travel, see the world! Cycle around with a backpack, feeling the wind on your face.
Doing something rather than thinking about something.
Because there's a strange feeling of being lost without stuff to do. And I've changed changed again! From the girl who didn't care much about her work except for those subjects which she liked, to being willing to put in work and effort into every piece! Actually doing her work. Doing stuff. Busy with stuff. Learning, understanding, practising.
"You need to learn to be consistent. Your grades are like my heartbeat. Mountains and valleys you know." And comments are taken seriously into account. They've actually become a thing of concern, a thing I take into consideration!
Great changes. And with every change of such, there seems to be something good that comes with it.
But there's also something lost...
In the broad sense, it's of how something that was always there is gone. You've changed, and the old is gone.
Yea, in the broad sense.
October 1, 2006
September 27, 2006
September 26, 2006
-Colours
She gingerly felt for the tap, and upon finding it, gave it a quick twist. A gush of hot steamy water fell upon her and she gasped at the sudden shock of it.
“Hey Gwen, are you ok?” a voice echoed through the bathroom. She frowned and replied, “Yes Jess, I’m fine. Now can you get out of my room please?”
“Oh… sure, I’ll leave. Um…I left the sky blue turtleneck sweater and a pair of long black pants on the bed for you,” Jessica replied. The gentle click of the door signalled her absence from the room, and Gwendolyn let out the air she had unknowingly held in. The water was still beating down on her, but she welcomed it. It was comforting, like a therapeutic massage, easing frustrations away. She closed her eyes, enjoying the melody of water meeting earth. But the tranquillity was shattered as thoughts flew to that of her sister, Jessica. Unwelcomed thoughts flowed and as images of the accident flooded her mind, her eyes opened…
To darkness.
Disabled - that was what she was; a girl with sightless eyes due to a car accident two years ago. A scream threatened to erupt from her throat as her eyes prickled with tears. She shook her head wildly, finished her shower, and groped for her clothes on the bed. Finding her sweater, she fingered it critically. “The sky blue turtleneck sweater and a pair of long black pants”, the words swirled around in her mind, repeating itself.
She laughed, a soft bitter laugh. It was so typical of her sister, to add in descriptions of the colours, mocking her disability. “Oh, to your right Gwen, there’s this gorgeous rose bush. The roses are such a deep rich maroon.” she mimicked in a falsetto voice.
Remembering what all the colours looked like did not help matters. She could see it now, a luminous maroon rose; each petal delicately defined by Mother Nature herself in its greyish shadow among the green of the rose bush. With a poof, as though it was a magician’s trick, the image disappeared into the darkness. Gwendolyn clenched her hands tight into little balls and slowly exhaled. She refused to let herself focus on that.
But the memories came, poignant memories of holding a paintbrush, dipping it into the paint, swirling it with other colours to produce brilliant hues and shades. She remembered observing fruits thoughtfully, carefully curling the paintbrush to mirror the curve of the rosy pink peach dappled with yellow. She remembered lovingly applying colours to the white canvas, filling up an empty blank with something beautiful.
Once, she had painted this sunflower. Painstakingly, she had mixed colours to get the exact dusky shade of yellow for the shadows of each petal. Crafting out details people might not even see was so much work, but she loved it. The satisfaction and joy she had when she finished it was indescribable. She had been an artist, adoring man’s ability to be captivated by meanings and raw emotions in colours splashed onto canvas, giving shape to otherwise meaningless colours.
Never could she capture beauty in its fleeting moment now. To be able to paint was a lust that haunted her. She could see it in her mind’s eye now, of a paintbrush slowly blending the colours, of applying pressure to the canvas – how she hated her disability then! Without sight, what was she? What was she?
The sound of her name snapped her out of her thoughts. “Gwen? Are you done? I would like to bring you somewhere,” Jessica said.
“Just give me a moment,” Gwendolyn replied. “I would like to bring you somewhere.” - How many times had her sister said that ever since she was blind? It seemed like a kind of ritual, in which her sister would drag her off to “somewhere” and then start describing the places. The last time they went on vacation, Jessica was dragging her to a new place every day. “Oh, there’s the sea lapping at your toes in front of you. It’s this beautiful greenish-blue with purples. There are shells too. Oh this shell, it’s seems to be a lighter shade of coral red with bands of white in between. It’s so pretty. Here, feel the shell. Can you picture it? ”
“Gwen? Are you ready now?” Jessica rapped on the door.
They went out, Jessica guiding her along. Fiery red-hot rage bubbled up within Gwendolyn then, with a hue of bluish depression mixed into it. Why her? Why was she the one who was in the car which crashed, sinking into oblivion as she lost consciousness, only to wake up to eternal darkness? The one who tore at her bandages, fearful of what this pitch-black darkness might bring? Subjected to the realisation that she would never see the colours of this world, her life had indeed been shrouded in blackness.
They stumbled up a gentle slope. Soon, the trickling of water was heard and as they both sat down, Jessica launched into a detailed sketch.
“There, in front of you is a little stream, bubbling. Oh, its waters are clear and there are little pebbles and rocks scattered on the stream’s bed. You can actually go wade in it if you want to; it’s a gentle shallow stream. Try picturing it, it’s like the stream on Aunt Lucy’s farm, only smaller. You can see little fishes darting around, they are a silvery white. Their scales actually gleam and glitter when they catch the sun! There are trees to our right, and they are flowering! Ooh, I like the flowers. They’re so interesting. It’s like several little joined stems, white at the bottom and slowly changing into fuchsia. And at the very top, there’s this small cheeky-yellow ball. It smells lovely. Here, take it and feel it. Can you picture it?”
Gwendolyn could. And it gave her so much pain, not to be able to capture the flower’s likeness, its grace and elegance. The pain smarted, and all of a sudden, the words spurted out of her mouth. “Why Jessica why?! Why do you always describe these beautiful things, and cause me pain? Do you know how much it hurts not being able to see, not being able to capture grace with paper and brush anymore? To be good at something but have it taken away… Why do you make it harder? Do you find joy in that!”
She could hear the ragged beating of her heart in the stunned silence that followed. The silence itself seemed to yawn bigger and bigger, like a great gaping abyss. And then her sister’s voice came – sound waves that crept apprehensively to her ears: “I… I didn’t know I was making it harder.” Jessica mumbled. The silence was broken.
Yet after that simple short statement, the silence resumed with full vigour, as thought it was never before interrupted. Gwendolyn opened her mouth to speak as she realised the truth of Jessica’s words, but there were no words on her tongue. She closed her mouth again.
The birds twittered in the trees.
“Jessica… can you see the birds? Would you describe them to me?” Gwendolyn asked tentatively. There was no knowing what could happen next, whether her sister would be angry at this invitation, or take it and try to patch things up. And then as her sister’s exuberant voice rose again after an agonising pause, Gwendolyn smiled.
She gingerly felt for the tap, and upon finding it, gave it a quick twist. A gush of hot steamy water fell upon her and she gasped at the sudden shock of it.
“Hey Gwen, are you ok?” a voice echoed through the bathroom. She frowned and replied, “Yes Jess, I’m fine. Now can you get out of my room please?”
“Oh… sure, I’ll leave. Um…I left the sky blue turtleneck sweater and a pair of long black pants on the bed for you,” Jessica replied. The gentle click of the door signalled her absence from the room, and Gwendolyn let out the air she had unknowingly held in. The water was still beating down on her, but she welcomed it. It was comforting, like a therapeutic massage, easing frustrations away. She closed her eyes, enjoying the melody of water meeting earth. But the tranquillity was shattered as thoughts flew to that of her sister, Jessica. Unwelcomed thoughts flowed and as images of the accident flooded her mind, her eyes opened…
To darkness.
Disabled - that was what she was; a girl with sightless eyes due to a car accident two years ago. A scream threatened to erupt from her throat as her eyes prickled with tears. She shook her head wildly, finished her shower, and groped for her clothes on the bed. Finding her sweater, she fingered it critically. “The sky blue turtleneck sweater and a pair of long black pants”, the words swirled around in her mind, repeating itself.
She laughed, a soft bitter laugh. It was so typical of her sister, to add in descriptions of the colours, mocking her disability. “Oh, to your right Gwen, there’s this gorgeous rose bush. The roses are such a deep rich maroon.” she mimicked in a falsetto voice.
Remembering what all the colours looked like did not help matters. She could see it now, a luminous maroon rose; each petal delicately defined by Mother Nature herself in its greyish shadow among the green of the rose bush. With a poof, as though it was a magician’s trick, the image disappeared into the darkness. Gwendolyn clenched her hands tight into little balls and slowly exhaled. She refused to let herself focus on that.
But the memories came, poignant memories of holding a paintbrush, dipping it into the paint, swirling it with other colours to produce brilliant hues and shades. She remembered observing fruits thoughtfully, carefully curling the paintbrush to mirror the curve of the rosy pink peach dappled with yellow. She remembered lovingly applying colours to the white canvas, filling up an empty blank with something beautiful.
Once, she had painted this sunflower. Painstakingly, she had mixed colours to get the exact dusky shade of yellow for the shadows of each petal. Crafting out details people might not even see was so much work, but she loved it. The satisfaction and joy she had when she finished it was indescribable. She had been an artist, adoring man’s ability to be captivated by meanings and raw emotions in colours splashed onto canvas, giving shape to otherwise meaningless colours.
Never could she capture beauty in its fleeting moment now. To be able to paint was a lust that haunted her. She could see it in her mind’s eye now, of a paintbrush slowly blending the colours, of applying pressure to the canvas – how she hated her disability then! Without sight, what was she? What was she?
The sound of her name snapped her out of her thoughts. “Gwen? Are you done? I would like to bring you somewhere,” Jessica said.
“Just give me a moment,” Gwendolyn replied. “I would like to bring you somewhere.” - How many times had her sister said that ever since she was blind? It seemed like a kind of ritual, in which her sister would drag her off to “somewhere” and then start describing the places. The last time they went on vacation, Jessica was dragging her to a new place every day. “Oh, there’s the sea lapping at your toes in front of you. It’s this beautiful greenish-blue with purples. There are shells too. Oh this shell, it’s seems to be a lighter shade of coral red with bands of white in between. It’s so pretty. Here, feel the shell. Can you picture it? ”
“Gwen? Are you ready now?” Jessica rapped on the door.
They went out, Jessica guiding her along. Fiery red-hot rage bubbled up within Gwendolyn then, with a hue of bluish depression mixed into it. Why her? Why was she the one who was in the car which crashed, sinking into oblivion as she lost consciousness, only to wake up to eternal darkness? The one who tore at her bandages, fearful of what this pitch-black darkness might bring? Subjected to the realisation that she would never see the colours of this world, her life had indeed been shrouded in blackness.
They stumbled up a gentle slope. Soon, the trickling of water was heard and as they both sat down, Jessica launched into a detailed sketch.
“There, in front of you is a little stream, bubbling. Oh, its waters are clear and there are little pebbles and rocks scattered on the stream’s bed. You can actually go wade in it if you want to; it’s a gentle shallow stream. Try picturing it, it’s like the stream on Aunt Lucy’s farm, only smaller. You can see little fishes darting around, they are a silvery white. Their scales actually gleam and glitter when they catch the sun! There are trees to our right, and they are flowering! Ooh, I like the flowers. They’re so interesting. It’s like several little joined stems, white at the bottom and slowly changing into fuchsia. And at the very top, there’s this small cheeky-yellow ball. It smells lovely. Here, take it and feel it. Can you picture it?”
Gwendolyn could. And it gave her so much pain, not to be able to capture the flower’s likeness, its grace and elegance. The pain smarted, and all of a sudden, the words spurted out of her mouth. “Why Jessica why?! Why do you always describe these beautiful things, and cause me pain? Do you know how much it hurts not being able to see, not being able to capture grace with paper and brush anymore? To be good at something but have it taken away… Why do you make it harder? Do you find joy in that!”
She could hear the ragged beating of her heart in the stunned silence that followed. The silence itself seemed to yawn bigger and bigger, like a great gaping abyss. And then her sister’s voice came – sound waves that crept apprehensively to her ears: “I… I didn’t know I was making it harder.” Jessica mumbled. The silence was broken.
Yet after that simple short statement, the silence resumed with full vigour, as thought it was never before interrupted. Gwendolyn opened her mouth to speak as she realised the truth of Jessica’s words, but there were no words on her tongue. She closed her mouth again.
The birds twittered in the trees.
“Jessica… can you see the birds? Would you describe them to me?” Gwendolyn asked tentatively. There was no knowing what could happen next, whether her sister would be angry at this invitation, or take it and try to patch things up. And then as her sister’s exuberant voice rose again after an agonising pause, Gwendolyn smiled.
September 25, 2006
I'm in love.
Yes, allow me to capture this moment in time, this phrase of simple feelings and emotions, with hardly any worries or doubts.
I'm in love, as much as I think or feel I ever could. Or, at least I think it's love. I'm not too sure. Perhaps I'm using the wrong word. If that is so, someone please correct me, such that this be more accurate, for others to understand fully.
But it seems like each day is so beautiful, that the sun is all bright, and the overcast sky is but only tinted with a soft grey glow that has a shimmering quality of its own.. And the clouds are passionately beautiful, with soft rolls and curls tucked into themselves.
I'm in love with my family, though they do strain and tired me out at times. But they also have their beautiful loving times, where everyone laughs, and is all smiles. Where teasings are kindly made, with a twinkle in the eye. Oh, they really really really do strain me out immensely, and sometimes my temper feels frayed just by looking at them. But still, I have to love them. So I try. I keep my voice down, I try to ask them to leave me alone whenever my temper starts getting too bad, so I won't scream at them and fly off into a really bad rage.
Though eh, it'll be a little nice to have a break from siblings. Um. Long enough for me to miss them? =\ Though I didn't miss them at all during the one week in Hong Kong, so I probably need a really long break. Oh no!
And I'm in love with school, though some may think me mad to even love such a thing. But the deadlines are over, and it seems I can see the nicer things in school. A friendly hello, a kind word, a gaze of concern, from friends, classmates and teachers alike. I'm in love with the smiles and laughers, with huge grins and the friendly crinkles at the eyes. How beautiful!
A patter of footsteps, a shriek of laugher, and yes, who can forget the little kids I am so fond of? The wild little tempers and tantrums, but whose rare, almost cherubic-side which has somehow captured my heart so tightly, who I'll be willing to carry and hold on to, if only I could. So fond of them, yes I am.
But yea, I know not whether is it right to be in such a state, where all transgressions are forgotten, or, cast to the back of my mind.
So is this love?
Or am I drowned in my own delusions, a lie by which my own hand has helped to craft ever so carefully, and growing bigger and bigger till it overpowers my own will, and leave me in an almost fantasy-like kind of bliss.
I know not.
Yes, allow me to capture this moment in time, this phrase of simple feelings and emotions, with hardly any worries or doubts.
I'm in love, as much as I think or feel I ever could. Or, at least I think it's love. I'm not too sure. Perhaps I'm using the wrong word. If that is so, someone please correct me, such that this be more accurate, for others to understand fully.
But it seems like each day is so beautiful, that the sun is all bright, and the overcast sky is but only tinted with a soft grey glow that has a shimmering quality of its own.. And the clouds are passionately beautiful, with soft rolls and curls tucked into themselves.
I'm in love with my family, though they do strain and tired me out at times. But they also have their beautiful loving times, where everyone laughs, and is all smiles. Where teasings are kindly made, with a twinkle in the eye. Oh, they really really really do strain me out immensely, and sometimes my temper feels frayed just by looking at them. But still, I have to love them. So I try. I keep my voice down, I try to ask them to leave me alone whenever my temper starts getting too bad, so I won't scream at them and fly off into a really bad rage.
Though eh, it'll be a little nice to have a break from siblings. Um. Long enough for me to miss them? =\ Though I didn't miss them at all during the one week in Hong Kong, so I probably need a really long break. Oh no!
And I'm in love with school, though some may think me mad to even love such a thing. But the deadlines are over, and it seems I can see the nicer things in school. A friendly hello, a kind word, a gaze of concern, from friends, classmates and teachers alike. I'm in love with the smiles and laughers, with huge grins and the friendly crinkles at the eyes. How beautiful!
A patter of footsteps, a shriek of laugher, and yes, who can forget the little kids I am so fond of? The wild little tempers and tantrums, but whose rare, almost cherubic-side which has somehow captured my heart so tightly, who I'll be willing to carry and hold on to, if only I could. So fond of them, yes I am.
But yea, I know not whether is it right to be in such a state, where all transgressions are forgotten, or, cast to the back of my mind.
So is this love?
Or am I drowned in my own delusions, a lie by which my own hand has helped to craft ever so carefully, and growing bigger and bigger till it overpowers my own will, and leave me in an almost fantasy-like kind of bliss.
I know not.
September 17, 2006
-defeated by thy own hand
I scrawled the message I wanted to tell you on my arm. With a yellow highlighter. Fluorescent cool ink on my skin, and I thought back to what my classmate once told me when I used a green marker to draw all over the palm of my hand. "You're gonna get skin cancer like this!" she said. "It's toxic!"
I wondered if I was slowly killing myself with the toxicity of yellow highlight ink. I wondered if it will really get me skin cancer, and turn me into a monster. But only for a while. Just as quickly my mind focused on the message, the importance of it all, and how it had to get to you. Who cares about me contracting skin cancer at this time??
Not me. The message I was going to tell you was more important than the risk of me getting skin cancer.
I dashed out into the streets, and tried to flag down a taxi. They zoomed past me, on call signs blinking away. Oops. Peak period. My hands feel around my pants and jackets for my phone. None. I had forgot to bring it out. Well, it didn't matter. It was only one kilometre to your house. I could run it, easily.
So I ran, fast, hard, running to you, bursting to tell you my message. I reached your door, I raised my hand to press the doorbell.
Only to see that the words were gone.
Sweat mingled with ink, swirls of yellow ink. The words gone gone.
I scrawled the message I wanted to tell you on my arm. With a yellow highlighter. Fluorescent cool ink on my skin, and I thought back to what my classmate once told me when I used a green marker to draw all over the palm of my hand. "You're gonna get skin cancer like this!" she said. "It's toxic!"
I wondered if I was slowly killing myself with the toxicity of yellow highlight ink. I wondered if it will really get me skin cancer, and turn me into a monster. But only for a while. Just as quickly my mind focused on the message, the importance of it all, and how it had to get to you. Who cares about me contracting skin cancer at this time??
Not me. The message I was going to tell you was more important than the risk of me getting skin cancer.
I dashed out into the streets, and tried to flag down a taxi. They zoomed past me, on call signs blinking away. Oops. Peak period. My hands feel around my pants and jackets for my phone. None. I had forgot to bring it out. Well, it didn't matter. It was only one kilometre to your house. I could run it, easily.
So I ran, fast, hard, running to you, bursting to tell you my message. I reached your door, I raised my hand to press the doorbell.
Only to see that the words were gone.
Sweat mingled with ink, swirls of yellow ink. The words gone gone.
September 8, 2006
How do I say this?
Yea, how do I say this without sounding angsty, or whiny? For that is not my point. But what then. What's the point, what's the purpose? Oh, if I knew, that would be the driving force for me to continue writing, for it's something to write for.
But seemingly there's none. Oh yes, throw out possible reasons at me like multiple choice. To remember, to record, to express, for others to relate, for something to look back on, all of the above. But this is not some final year exam in which there is a definite universally correct answer. For there's none.
Different people are driven for different reasons. And it seems like my reasons are but a whirling mess of emotions and ambiguity. And it's my mess. My own.
And yet when I write of it, it comes out as some stuff that teenagers all over the world are talking about. And I fear that. I fear that what I'm saying is gonna be shoved away into someone's brain as oh-so-typical, and that my words do not reflect myself, but a warped version of it.
How do you write of such stuff without sounding too shallow, and yet not elevating to a state which it isn't. Or have my fancies always pushed things up higher, make it seem more invisible and untouchable...
It is tiring to think of such stuff. But still I do. Still I do.
And then I don't write.
Someone see through the order of words into the real chaos of thoughts please..
Yea, how do I say this without sounding angsty, or whiny? For that is not my point. But what then. What's the point, what's the purpose? Oh, if I knew, that would be the driving force for me to continue writing, for it's something to write for.
But seemingly there's none. Oh yes, throw out possible reasons at me like multiple choice. To remember, to record, to express, for others to relate, for something to look back on, all of the above. But this is not some final year exam in which there is a definite universally correct answer. For there's none.
Different people are driven for different reasons. And it seems like my reasons are but a whirling mess of emotions and ambiguity. And it's my mess. My own.
And yet when I write of it, it comes out as some stuff that teenagers all over the world are talking about. And I fear that. I fear that what I'm saying is gonna be shoved away into someone's brain as oh-so-typical, and that my words do not reflect myself, but a warped version of it.
How do you write of such stuff without sounding too shallow, and yet not elevating to a state which it isn't. Or have my fancies always pushed things up higher, make it seem more invisible and untouchable...
It is tiring to think of such stuff. But still I do. Still I do.
And then I don't write.
Someone see through the order of words into the real chaos of thoughts please..
September 3, 2006
There are some experiences that are so pleasant.
Like sitting on the stairs, alone, away from the rest. Where there's something sturdy to lean against. And you're crouched low, in this place you can call your own for a little while. Warm warm, the sun shines on you and you can feel the comfortable sensation of heat crawling along your arms, around your neck, almost down to the small of your back. Tingly. Comforting. And your anger is dissolving, seeping away. You know without a doubt that right now, at this very moment, the sun is your friend. And you wonder how long you can stay there. It feels so delicious, so glorious. Still as you are, you could almost close your eyes now, surrendering yourself to this sensation, and fall asleep bathed in warmth and light. Peace.. it feels so safe.
But you shake yourself awake, and know you need to get back. Get back so that others won't be worried. So you stand up and walk back, slowly. Into a whole crowd of noisy youths. Vibrant atmosphere, a birthday cake lies on the table. Pretty, with puffs of white cream.
You take your place and sit down.
And then, you realise you are shivering here.
Like sitting on the stairs, alone, away from the rest. Where there's something sturdy to lean against. And you're crouched low, in this place you can call your own for a little while. Warm warm, the sun shines on you and you can feel the comfortable sensation of heat crawling along your arms, around your neck, almost down to the small of your back. Tingly. Comforting. And your anger is dissolving, seeping away. You know without a doubt that right now, at this very moment, the sun is your friend. And you wonder how long you can stay there. It feels so delicious, so glorious. Still as you are, you could almost close your eyes now, surrendering yourself to this sensation, and fall asleep bathed in warmth and light. Peace.. it feels so safe.
But you shake yourself awake, and know you need to get back. Get back so that others won't be worried. So you stand up and walk back, slowly. Into a whole crowd of noisy youths. Vibrant atmosphere, a birthday cake lies on the table. Pretty, with puffs of white cream.
You take your place and sit down.
And then, you realise you are shivering here.
August 21, 2006
Waking up at the sound of 6am everyday.
It doesn’t matter what time you’ve slept the day before. It’s just time to take the wheel. So you may sleep at the wheel, crash through the day, end up in a wreck. But, it’s time to take the wheel.
This was meant to be a new day, a better tomorrow. But I hear no birds and see no sun. All I see are snapshots of the yesterdays; and you pull a heavy bag towards you, and slung it onto your shoulders.
Stand tall, back straight, even if the weight of the bag is pulling you down. Even when the heaviness lies in the heart. And don’t say I don’t understand, for I’ll tell you this: you may want to crouch up into a little ball, knees tucked under your chin, thighs pulled towards your chest, and hug yourself tight, but you can’t provide warmth to yourself.
Let the tears flow if you want, but tears are no manifestations of the troubles that ail your heart. The relief it provides is for a period of time, only. A short period of time that is but a strand of fiber on the translucent veil of time.
So lean your head against the hard cold glass of the bus's windows, and close your weary eyes. Just remember to wake up. For it'll be your turn at the wheel soon.
It doesn’t matter what time you’ve slept the day before. It’s just time to take the wheel. So you may sleep at the wheel, crash through the day, end up in a wreck. But, it’s time to take the wheel.
This was meant to be a new day, a better tomorrow. But I hear no birds and see no sun. All I see are snapshots of the yesterdays; and you pull a heavy bag towards you, and slung it onto your shoulders.
Stand tall, back straight, even if the weight of the bag is pulling you down. Even when the heaviness lies in the heart. And don’t say I don’t understand, for I’ll tell you this: you may want to crouch up into a little ball, knees tucked under your chin, thighs pulled towards your chest, and hug yourself tight, but you can’t provide warmth to yourself.
Let the tears flow if you want, but tears are no manifestations of the troubles that ail your heart. The relief it provides is for a period of time, only. A short period of time that is but a strand of fiber on the translucent veil of time.
So lean your head against the hard cold glass of the bus's windows, and close your weary eyes. Just remember to wake up. For it'll be your turn at the wheel soon.
July 22, 2006
-The Swan Song?
If I want to mock myself, I would say here, right now, that this blog has been a journey. A journey filled with pain and aches, with some pebbles of joy and happiness scattered along the way.
It started as an impulse, a novelty. A, "hmm. everyone is doing it. should I?" floating around in my brain. Oh, and I was encouraged to when I voiced out that little thought. I started. Basic recounts of the day. People came to tag, I said hi, we had fun. A change of blog templates now and again. Playing around with html codes, wasting hours, sending seconds into the fabric of the past.
And then on yet another impulse, I deleted the blog. Only to start a new one after a few weeks.
Ahh yes, this time I did not make it public. It was a private blog, my own blog, an outlet for some rantings here and there. Then I started to enjoy writing. And I would play around with words, play around with structure. I had fun. I won't deny that. It was somehow strangely satisfying to be able to express the nuances of something, to write something out and feel a strange sense of pride. To be happy and content with one's work. I was a player. Playing around with words, toying them, slotting, rearranging, finally in a position where everything seemed picture-perfect.
But things change, don't they? Time passed, and I wrote more often. I'm writing to clear my thoughts, I told myself. And I expressed every nuances of my thoughts, my purpose. And then after I wrote them out, seeing them in letters, in form. In something almost tangible. And I'll admit this. It was satisfying to be able to express. Why? Perhaps it was due to that element of control. Of being able to put a word here, or choose not to, or put a word there, and then look at it, and felt that indeed, that was what I wanted to say. Perhaps. What I do know, is that I often then argued with myself. I tried to qualify the reason for writing. I tried to evaluate why I write. In the midst of examining, I continued to wrote. Short stories, small quotes, dedications etc.
Friends started asking me to help them in their essays. For some others, I was their real life walking dictionary. Throw something to me, and I will willingly edit it. Into something that pleases my eyes. And it apparently pleased them too. I enjoyed editing as much as I enjoyed writing. But yes, I continued writing.
Seconds trickled and turned into minutes, which in turn became hours. And those hours made up days, which became weeks. And many weeks became months.
And now, can I still write?
Somehow, along the way, the blog link was given out. Things happened, and I gave the url to even more people. And then some more things and, "um, ok, I'll tell you my blog url". And then it was, "fine, I can give you my blog url. But would you mind not linking me?"
And in a sense I became a snob. A blog-snob, if there is such a thing. I could not bear leet langauge, I could not bear blogs that simply recouted their days. If your day was interesting, special and memorable, fine, record it then. But if you're going to blog stuff like, "oh today right, woke up at 8am. Then brush teeth lor. Then it was raining lar! So cannot go out. Haiya, stay at home, so sian leh. So I call my friend lar. But haiya, she very what lor. Never picked up her phone. So irritaing can? But never mind, I'm a nice person. Hee. Ok, nothing else to say le. Buaix Buaix"... well, I get irritated reading it halfway through.
And I don't think that's right. Who am I, to look down on people? Others, can come to my blog, and realise behind every pretty word, behind every elegant sentence, there is an immature rant by a teenager. "Written form of life tainted with romantic ideals." Yes. If the meaning of the word "life" is defined as rants and complaints, that blog description couldn't be more apt. Sheer genius in fact.
And as my link gets passed out to more and more people, some who are not even close to me, it seems like once again, I am writing just to please the random readers who comes. Just like what I did with my previous blog. I am forcing myself to write. Partly due to the readers that do come.
Partly due to the fact that somehow, some emotions are not meant to be written down at this current moment. Partly due to the fact that there are people who should not realise what I'm thinking. Partly due to the fact that somehow, even if I do try, I feel that I don't do the matter justice.
This is my struggle. And then I tell myself, fine, stop blogging. But still, at times, I find myself coming back to the blogger posting page. I find myself trying to compose, trying to put down into words what I'm thinking and feeling.
I end up finding it disjointed. I end up feeling that somehow, I am just unable to capture it. And then I force some random scribble and rant out, and hit "Publish Post".
So I thought, let's delete the blog. But no, I cannot bear to do it, somehow. It is like looking at something that has accompanied you for part of your journey, and feeling that little unwillingness in your heart to get rid of something that meant something to you. That was a little significant, somehow, though you can't explain it.
But at the same time, leaving this blog there, would see me often coming back to the create entry page.
So, this is the final decision. The compromise I need to come to, for now.
Maybe one day I will 'revive' this blog. Or maybe I would finally be able to cut the strings and bonds, and have the courage to delete it. But for now, this is it.
And if anyone ridicules me at still posting this one last final entry as I stopped showing my posts, they're free to.
But in truth, part of the reason is because I finally found something I can really truly write once again.
Though, in the end, perhaps I do have this little narcissist lurking in my heart. This little pride, a load of vanity. Which is detestable. And which is why, this first step had to be taken.
the end.-
If I want to mock myself, I would say here, right now, that this blog has been a journey. A journey filled with pain and aches, with some pebbles of joy and happiness scattered along the way.
It started as an impulse, a novelty. A, "hmm. everyone is doing it. should I?" floating around in my brain. Oh, and I was encouraged to when I voiced out that little thought. I started. Basic recounts of the day. People came to tag, I said hi, we had fun. A change of blog templates now and again. Playing around with html codes, wasting hours, sending seconds into the fabric of the past.
And then on yet another impulse, I deleted the blog. Only to start a new one after a few weeks.
Ahh yes, this time I did not make it public. It was a private blog, my own blog, an outlet for some rantings here and there. Then I started to enjoy writing. And I would play around with words, play around with structure. I had fun. I won't deny that. It was somehow strangely satisfying to be able to express the nuances of something, to write something out and feel a strange sense of pride. To be happy and content with one's work. I was a player. Playing around with words, toying them, slotting, rearranging, finally in a position where everything seemed picture-perfect.
But things change, don't they? Time passed, and I wrote more often. I'm writing to clear my thoughts, I told myself. And I expressed every nuances of my thoughts, my purpose. And then after I wrote them out, seeing them in letters, in form. In something almost tangible. And I'll admit this. It was satisfying to be able to express. Why? Perhaps it was due to that element of control. Of being able to put a word here, or choose not to, or put a word there, and then look at it, and felt that indeed, that was what I wanted to say. Perhaps. What I do know, is that I often then argued with myself. I tried to qualify the reason for writing. I tried to evaluate why I write. In the midst of examining, I continued to wrote. Short stories, small quotes, dedications etc.
Friends started asking me to help them in their essays. For some others, I was their real life walking dictionary. Throw something to me, and I will willingly edit it. Into something that pleases my eyes. And it apparently pleased them too. I enjoyed editing as much as I enjoyed writing. But yes, I continued writing.
Seconds trickled and turned into minutes, which in turn became hours. And those hours made up days, which became weeks. And many weeks became months.
And now, can I still write?
Somehow, along the way, the blog link was given out. Things happened, and I gave the url to even more people. And then some more things and, "um, ok, I'll tell you my blog url". And then it was, "fine, I can give you my blog url. But would you mind not linking me?"
And in a sense I became a snob. A blog-snob, if there is such a thing. I could not bear leet langauge, I could not bear blogs that simply recouted their days. If your day was interesting, special and memorable, fine, record it then. But if you're going to blog stuff like, "oh today right, woke up at 8am. Then brush teeth lor. Then it was raining lar! So cannot go out. Haiya, stay at home, so sian leh. So I call my friend lar. But haiya, she very what lor. Never picked up her phone. So irritaing can? But never mind, I'm a nice person. Hee. Ok, nothing else to say le. Buaix Buaix"... well, I get irritated reading it halfway through.
And I don't think that's right. Who am I, to look down on people? Others, can come to my blog, and realise behind every pretty word, behind every elegant sentence, there is an immature rant by a teenager. "Written form of life tainted with romantic ideals." Yes. If the meaning of the word "life" is defined as rants and complaints, that blog description couldn't be more apt. Sheer genius in fact.
And as my link gets passed out to more and more people, some who are not even close to me, it seems like once again, I am writing just to please the random readers who comes. Just like what I did with my previous blog. I am forcing myself to write. Partly due to the readers that do come.
Partly due to the fact that somehow, some emotions are not meant to be written down at this current moment. Partly due to the fact that there are people who should not realise what I'm thinking. Partly due to the fact that somehow, even if I do try, I feel that I don't do the matter justice.
This is my struggle. And then I tell myself, fine, stop blogging. But still, at times, I find myself coming back to the blogger posting page. I find myself trying to compose, trying to put down into words what I'm thinking and feeling.
I end up finding it disjointed. I end up feeling that somehow, I am just unable to capture it. And then I force some random scribble and rant out, and hit "Publish Post".
So I thought, let's delete the blog. But no, I cannot bear to do it, somehow. It is like looking at something that has accompanied you for part of your journey, and feeling that little unwillingness in your heart to get rid of something that meant something to you. That was a little significant, somehow, though you can't explain it.
But at the same time, leaving this blog there, would see me often coming back to the create entry page.
So, this is the final decision. The compromise I need to come to, for now.
Maybe one day I will 'revive' this blog. Or maybe I would finally be able to cut the strings and bonds, and have the courage to delete it. But for now, this is it.
And if anyone ridicules me at still posting this one last final entry as I stopped showing my posts, they're free to.
But in truth, part of the reason is because I finally found something I can really truly write once again.
Though, in the end, perhaps I do have this little narcissist lurking in my heart. This little pride, a load of vanity. Which is detestable. And which is why, this first step had to be taken.
the end.-
July 20, 2006
Moaning. A very very powerful word. The very sound of it, soft, low, dragged out cries. That deep low sound that sends chills down your very spine, a tremble that grabs your body, tight and close. A warm embrace of air around your neck, damp with the moisture that comes from the mouth of a creature as it lets out another, and another... and another moan.
And your neck tingles, your hands tense, your whole body cold, knowing fully well how vulnerable you are. The moans continue, getting softer and softer. But one can only stand stock-still, and ears strain to catch the moans. In fear perhaps, but partly in awe. To catch that celestial sound of sorrows, that beautiful grievous sound.
Time seems to halt to a stop as the song that speaks of the finer details in human nature, that coax the subtle hues of resignation out, ebbs and flows. Soft and quiet, you stand alone, a sense of dread creeping through your body. But all you can do is to listen on, your very soul long ago bound and trapped as though in an enchantment, cursed forever to listen to that sweet low sound, to drink the wine of others' sorrow, that deeply savoury bitter wine.
***
And is your heart breaking? Are your lips protesting, sealed shut, refusing to swallow any more of that liquid, tears flowing out, head shaking, sweat dripping from the sheer exertion to turn yourself away? Cry on dearest, cry on. No use keeping those tears in. Swallow what's in your mouth, and take more of it. You're able to handle it. Drink on drink on. Don't let the moans get you down, dampen your spirits, though cursed you are, to have to drink this wine.
***
And you can't see, thoughts disjointed, your only conscious memory is the moans swimming around you, above you, below you, and in you. Images swirl. Of the inside thrown to the outside. Of the expression of emotions. Of the cries, the tears, the sweat, a blur, the redness of necks and faces, eyes, ears and open mouths. The humour gone, the forced smiles and laughs of courtesy thrown to the wind, cast all aside.
***
The moans are so soft.
The moans are so loud.
And your neck tingles, your hands tense, your whole body cold, knowing fully well how vulnerable you are. The moans continue, getting softer and softer. But one can only stand stock-still, and ears strain to catch the moans. In fear perhaps, but partly in awe. To catch that celestial sound of sorrows, that beautiful grievous sound.
Time seems to halt to a stop as the song that speaks of the finer details in human nature, that coax the subtle hues of resignation out, ebbs and flows. Soft and quiet, you stand alone, a sense of dread creeping through your body. But all you can do is to listen on, your very soul long ago bound and trapped as though in an enchantment, cursed forever to listen to that sweet low sound, to drink the wine of others' sorrow, that deeply savoury bitter wine.
***
And is your heart breaking? Are your lips protesting, sealed shut, refusing to swallow any more of that liquid, tears flowing out, head shaking, sweat dripping from the sheer exertion to turn yourself away? Cry on dearest, cry on. No use keeping those tears in. Swallow what's in your mouth, and take more of it. You're able to handle it. Drink on drink on. Don't let the moans get you down, dampen your spirits, though cursed you are, to have to drink this wine.
***
And you can't see, thoughts disjointed, your only conscious memory is the moans swimming around you, above you, below you, and in you. Images swirl. Of the inside thrown to the outside. Of the expression of emotions. Of the cries, the tears, the sweat, a blur, the redness of necks and faces, eyes, ears and open mouths. The humour gone, the forced smiles and laughs of courtesy thrown to the wind, cast all aside.
***
The moans are so soft.
The moans are so loud.
July 8, 2006
I'm quiet. You're screaming. Right in my ear. The screams are loud. Deafening. I'm pretending I can't hear you. But these yells are so true. So alive. So painful.
I'm numb and dumb. Head cuddled up in a mummy wrap. My eyes are shut tight. You think I can't hear, and you go on. The sound can travel through my mummy wrap. I don't move. I lie on the white bed, and wait for fate.
It gets a little tiring lying so still. I open my eyes a little, almost dream-like. You're still screaming. I see your wet red mouth open and shut, open and shut so quickly. Your eyes are red too. Eyebags hang from your lower lid, big and puffy. I wonder when you had grown so old. The signs of aging are suddenly so apparent on your face. Your eyes betray weariness. Your yells continue.
Someone stop this noise. Someone please help drown out your voice.
I close back my eyes. And I'm cold. My legs feel like jelly. I wonder if I'm invisible. Whether you're actually screaming at air. A mirage of me. That will be cool.
Or not.
I'm numb and dumb. Head cuddled up in a mummy wrap. My eyes are shut tight. You think I can't hear, and you go on. The sound can travel through my mummy wrap. I don't move. I lie on the white bed, and wait for fate.
It gets a little tiring lying so still. I open my eyes a little, almost dream-like. You're still screaming. I see your wet red mouth open and shut, open and shut so quickly. Your eyes are red too. Eyebags hang from your lower lid, big and puffy. I wonder when you had grown so old. The signs of aging are suddenly so apparent on your face. Your eyes betray weariness. Your yells continue.
Someone stop this noise. Someone please help drown out your voice.
I close back my eyes. And I'm cold. My legs feel like jelly. I wonder if I'm invisible. Whether you're actually screaming at air. A mirage of me. That will be cool.
Or not.
July 5, 2006
Your smile, your laugher. The beautiful way your eyes crinkle up as you laugh hard from amusement. As my eyes meet your eyes I can't help but to smile and laugh helplessly too. Oh you silly boy.
So often does your smile appear, the friendly crinkling of bright eyes. I see the reflection of it; in all different places, on the faces of others. I see your smile on others and recognise it as yours. With a tiny ache at my heart, I can recall that beautiful curve. I see it on anyone who smile.
And I believe I can stop time by placing the hourglass on its side. I can escape into this little world I've weaved in my mind. I can lose myself in words, in reading, in remembering.
Bright, soft, tender laugher.
I can lose myself in fantasy.
Your smile continues to shimmer at the back of my mind.
The crash back to reality hurts a lot with no cushions to soften the fall. The cushion has been gone for so long, you'll think I would have gotten used to it already, but apparently I have not.
So this hurts.
But oh, who cares?!
"hello! yes I'm fine"
Someone stop this noise.
So often does your smile appear, the friendly crinkling of bright eyes. I see the reflection of it; in all different places, on the faces of others. I see your smile on others and recognise it as yours. With a tiny ache at my heart, I can recall that beautiful curve. I see it on anyone who smile.
And I believe I can stop time by placing the hourglass on its side. I can escape into this little world I've weaved in my mind. I can lose myself in words, in reading, in remembering.
Bright, soft, tender laugher.
I can lose myself in fantasy.
Your smile continues to shimmer at the back of my mind.
The crash back to reality hurts a lot with no cushions to soften the fall. The cushion has been gone for so long, you'll think I would have gotten used to it already, but apparently I have not.
So this hurts.
But oh, who cares?!
"hello! yes I'm fine"
Someone stop this noise.
July 4, 2006
-Of self control.
Dearest dearest, I drowned in words today. I couldn't stop myself. It felt so much like the old days of the past, and I read on and on, drawn into a new world. Of spells and magic, fantasy and love, secrets, mysteries. And I forgot about time, forgot about burdens, forgot about duties, forgot about struggles and conflicts. In one moment I had cast away all of these without a care.
I knew that I had things to do, but fatigue and temptation was too overwhelming. And I threw myself out, and the book caught me safely in its trap. And I read on and on, my shallow heart beating in sync with the book.
And when the book ended I was thrown back into reality.
Harsh cold world it is.
Oh, this is cruel.
Dearest dearest, I drowned in words today. I couldn't stop myself. It felt so much like the old days of the past, and I read on and on, drawn into a new world. Of spells and magic, fantasy and love, secrets, mysteries. And I forgot about time, forgot about burdens, forgot about duties, forgot about struggles and conflicts. In one moment I had cast away all of these without a care.
I knew that I had things to do, but fatigue and temptation was too overwhelming. And I threw myself out, and the book caught me safely in its trap. And I read on and on, my shallow heart beating in sync with the book.
And when the book ended I was thrown back into reality.
Harsh cold world it is.
Oh, this is cruel.
June 29, 2006
The song has ended.
She stood there, as the notes slowly faded off. Her heart still strummed those tender notes, and she closed my eyes, pulling the notes in, closer to her. And the melody was alive in her heart, in her blood, rushing through every nerve of her being. Memories came, bright and clear. Flashing. Going. She never had them so vivid before. And she drowned in the clarity as she embraced those notes.
Eyes opened to see a world of grimy grey. Night had fallen, spreading her wings of darkness across the cities. The dim orange glow of the street lamps was the only light source, but even then, it was a dusky kind of light. Sounds of shuffling shoes, hurried garbled voices on the phone. Her eyes were bright black against white, but for an instant, sadness and pain clouded it. She shook her head, cleared her vision. Hair flew into her eyes, and hands swept it away. And then she heard the tinkling of coins.
Her eyes moved down, and right before her eyes lay a man. Dressed in rags, tattered and torn, with wrinkles all over his body. So very old, almost like a fossil, fading into the pavement, into the cracks of the grey slab of cement. A rust-stained harmonica lay by his side as his tired hands stretched for his treasure - his money of the day. Cradling the bowl to his chest, he picks up his harmonica, and rises.
He was not shaven. Hair, meat, dirt, rags rose up, tall but defeated. She stood a distance away, gazing. Their eyes connected.
And she realised with a jolt the music played in him too. It was different, yet the same, and for that one instance, they swirled together. Looks never did kill. They only connected two souls and send them flying, shaken out of their world. Their music played in beat, her heart ached and heaved, and she could not breathe. The man was so colourful and deep, but the colours was not a bright myraid swirl. It was deeper than that, but still as bright, as vivid, as clear.
Lights flashed, stars shone, moon gleam. They disconnected, but the notes and colours stayed. She walked towards him. Steps that were small, but not hesistant, holding an unknown purpose. She came to him. She held his hands. And then she broke contact. Her hand went deep into her purse, and she pulled out a fifty. She folded it up, and placed it in the bowl. And she left.
And the world had one more person alive with sorrow.
She stood there, as the notes slowly faded off. Her heart still strummed those tender notes, and she closed my eyes, pulling the notes in, closer to her. And the melody was alive in her heart, in her blood, rushing through every nerve of her being. Memories came, bright and clear. Flashing. Going. She never had them so vivid before. And she drowned in the clarity as she embraced those notes.
Eyes opened to see a world of grimy grey. Night had fallen, spreading her wings of darkness across the cities. The dim orange glow of the street lamps was the only light source, but even then, it was a dusky kind of light. Sounds of shuffling shoes, hurried garbled voices on the phone. Her eyes were bright black against white, but for an instant, sadness and pain clouded it. She shook her head, cleared her vision. Hair flew into her eyes, and hands swept it away. And then she heard the tinkling of coins.
Her eyes moved down, and right before her eyes lay a man. Dressed in rags, tattered and torn, with wrinkles all over his body. So very old, almost like a fossil, fading into the pavement, into the cracks of the grey slab of cement. A rust-stained harmonica lay by his side as his tired hands stretched for his treasure - his money of the day. Cradling the bowl to his chest, he picks up his harmonica, and rises.
He was not shaven. Hair, meat, dirt, rags rose up, tall but defeated. She stood a distance away, gazing. Their eyes connected.
And she realised with a jolt the music played in him too. It was different, yet the same, and for that one instance, they swirled together. Looks never did kill. They only connected two souls and send them flying, shaken out of their world. Their music played in beat, her heart ached and heaved, and she could not breathe. The man was so colourful and deep, but the colours was not a bright myraid swirl. It was deeper than that, but still as bright, as vivid, as clear.
Lights flashed, stars shone, moon gleam. They disconnected, but the notes and colours stayed. She walked towards him. Steps that were small, but not hesistant, holding an unknown purpose. She came to him. She held his hands. And then she broke contact. Her hand went deep into her purse, and she pulled out a fifty. She folded it up, and placed it in the bowl. And she left.
And the world had one more person alive with sorrow.
June 27, 2006
Suddenly you feel so much like a little child again.
The world is spun new with colours. Deep swirly colours. Perspiration gets into the eye, and it stings, the world blurs, and it is oh so very beautiful. And I think back about how things make me feel special. Warm, comforted, cosy. Like being the only priviledged person to hear that one special concert, to see those precious words meant for you. No one else can steal that away from you.
And I remember how he freed time up for me among his chaos, his busy life of deadlines and work, and listened to me. Somehow I am nuzzling that thought, nursing it close to my heart, and it's of such comfort. Like the baby blanket you grew up with, thick and familiar with your very own scent.
Be it one day, one month, one year. And I remember. How a greeting can make me happy. How an enquiry about my well-being would be an instant balm, a soothing spell that makes everything all right for that one moment.
And I think, and I remember. And I feel like a little child.
It's bedtime now.
The world is spun new with colours. Deep swirly colours. Perspiration gets into the eye, and it stings, the world blurs, and it is oh so very beautiful. And I think back about how things make me feel special. Warm, comforted, cosy. Like being the only priviledged person to hear that one special concert, to see those precious words meant for you. No one else can steal that away from you.
And I remember how he freed time up for me among his chaos, his busy life of deadlines and work, and listened to me. Somehow I am nuzzling that thought, nursing it close to my heart, and it's of such comfort. Like the baby blanket you grew up with, thick and familiar with your very own scent.
Be it one day, one month, one year. And I remember. How a greeting can make me happy. How an enquiry about my well-being would be an instant balm, a soothing spell that makes everything all right for that one moment.
And I think, and I remember. And I feel like a little child.
It's bedtime now.
June 26, 2006
I am scared. 10 weeks of school loom ahead of me. 50 days of actual school. 70 days of extreme stress. But even as I fear the coming weeks, the sun still shines. Ever so brightly. And the sky is of such a clear clear blue. So brilliant, so startling a blue. And I look on, and it's almost as if I can drown my heart in the colour, pour my sorrows out to the sky. It will accept my cries. I just know it. And maybe this trembling heart can stop trembling for just a little while. And I can breathe deeply and freely. For just a little while.
For the reality which I once believe in has gone with the passing away of belief. But at least I once had that reality.
Yep.
For the reality which I once believe in has gone with the passing away of belief. But at least I once had that reality.
Yep.
June 20, 2006
ooh. Sickness comes, like a great beast. Its tendrils crawl around me, going round my body, grabbing me, and tossing me around. I've been immune to it for so long, but now it finally has me, and what fun it has, juggling me around and around.
And I spin, giddy, sick. Hurting hurting and thirsty. That thirst burns in my throat. HARD. SEARING. What I would do for a drink that would soothe this aching aching dryness. It hurts so much. My throat feels so very very dry.
Thrice in a night I have woken up to get a long drag of water that is unable to soothe the dryness of my throat. The water runs down my throat, and I fell full. My stomach is bloated, and refuses anymore water. Still it aches on. Oh, it hurts to talk. Very very much. My nerves tremble with pain as air moves through it. They are silent in their protest, but their silence is deafening.
Cold. So very very cold. Sneeze. Once. Twice. Thrice. My numb brain struggles to work on. On and on. My hand struggle to write down the words. My brain tries to compose.
So very sick.
And I spin, giddy, sick. Hurting hurting and thirsty. That thirst burns in my throat. HARD. SEARING. What I would do for a drink that would soothe this aching aching dryness. It hurts so much. My throat feels so very very dry.
Thrice in a night I have woken up to get a long drag of water that is unable to soothe the dryness of my throat. The water runs down my throat, and I fell full. My stomach is bloated, and refuses anymore water. Still it aches on. Oh, it hurts to talk. Very very much. My nerves tremble with pain as air moves through it. They are silent in their protest, but their silence is deafening.
Cold. So very very cold. Sneeze. Once. Twice. Thrice. My numb brain struggles to work on. On and on. My hand struggle to write down the words. My brain tries to compose.
So very sick.
June 12, 2006
Days pass and pass. The sun was supposed to stay and last a little longer, but somehow it’s dying out in my world. It’s a brilliant ruby, and it’s slowly fading away. Everywhere I see, it's tainted with that reddish, bloodish glow. Homes are filled with chaos and agitation. The garden ain't a relaxing place anymore. Ice cream melts away.
The scent of disasters is strong in the air. It's thick and heavy, and it's pressing down on me. Hard. I can hardly breathe. There's too much assignments, too little time.
And I have no more energy. Limp. Like a rag doll. Thrown aside. In a city of grown-ups, there's no child to spot a treasure in me. None. I'm torn, broken. Burnt out. This feels like the end. I'm nonchalant. It starts raining. I'm all wet now. Oh well.
And so it's been 3 days of troubled sleep. I can't think. I mean, if I'm thinking, they're one whole bunch of disjointed stuff. They don't link up. Tossing and turning. Turning and tossing. Why am I waking up in the middle of the night? Huh? I'm up again? Oh yea, I am. I can see light coming in from under the door. My parents must be up. I need to go back to sleep. How many times have I woken up now? Three, four times? I've lost track.
The scent of disasters is strong in the air. It's thick and heavy, and it's pressing down on me. Hard. I can hardly breathe. There's too much assignments, too little time.
And I have no more energy. Limp. Like a rag doll. Thrown aside. In a city of grown-ups, there's no child to spot a treasure in me. None. I'm torn, broken. Burnt out. This feels like the end. I'm nonchalant. It starts raining. I'm all wet now. Oh well.
And so it's been 3 days of troubled sleep. I can't think. I mean, if I'm thinking, they're one whole bunch of disjointed stuff. They don't link up. Tossing and turning. Turning and tossing. Why am I waking up in the middle of the night? Huh? I'm up again? Oh yea, I am. I can see light coming in from under the door. My parents must be up. I need to go back to sleep. How many times have I woken up now? Three, four times? I've lost track.
June 10, 2006
Strange textures. Her hand flung out and brushed across strange unfamiliar textures. Here a sudden sharp corner greeted her finger. There a sudden smooth soft thing. They were the most unfamiliar things. And they were in her house.
She was really quite scared. A soft gasp escaped from her heart and flew to her closed lips, and then the next second her lips opened to let it out. Was this really her home? Yes, indeed, it was. But it was suddenly so strange, so unfamiliar. So detached…
She huddled into that one small corner she was familiar with. The corner which she would run to when she was scared, or when she was crying. But it had changed. It was not the soft pastel green. It was suddenly murky. And somehow, she could not crouch into it as comfortably as she once could.
The harsh light glared onto her. 5 bright fluorescent white light bulbs. Where was the warm orange tone she was so used to? Gone, gone, all gone in a sudden second. So there she was left in a strange remote place that was her home and yet was not.
So the ghost of insecurity came upon her and materialized into something tangible. And she could feel it traveling round her, and skipping around in her very heart, making a playground out of her treasure. It built up such a pressure, such a very painful ache, but it was not one she could get rid of. Not when the ghost was having his fun. Not when there was no one to slay the ghost.
She was really quite scared. A soft gasp escaped from her heart and flew to her closed lips, and then the next second her lips opened to let it out. Was this really her home? Yes, indeed, it was. But it was suddenly so strange, so unfamiliar. So detached…
She huddled into that one small corner she was familiar with. The corner which she would run to when she was scared, or when she was crying. But it had changed. It was not the soft pastel green. It was suddenly murky. And somehow, she could not crouch into it as comfortably as she once could.
The harsh light glared onto her. 5 bright fluorescent white light bulbs. Where was the warm orange tone she was so used to? Gone, gone, all gone in a sudden second. So there she was left in a strange remote place that was her home and yet was not.
So the ghost of insecurity came upon her and materialized into something tangible. And she could feel it traveling round her, and skipping around in her very heart, making a playground out of her treasure. It built up such a pressure, such a very painful ache, but it was not one she could get rid of. Not when the ghost was having his fun. Not when there was no one to slay the ghost.
June 3, 2006
I've gone too deep. Too deep, too fast. And I made the mistake of telling him. I started, and then the ball of string rolled away from me, all of a sudden, my thoughts and emotions were unraveled. It burst out of control, and became one messy tangle when I tried to pick it up.
And this conversation feels like a chess game. I've spilled myself out, I think I'm ready for the killing, but all of a sudden the game falls away from me, and I'm making moves on impulse without realising. And he stops his own moves, he's taking a longer time to consider. And that gives ME time to think. And I stand up to get a drink of water and suddenly I realised I can't make a move anymore, that all that is done has been done, and I went so deep I didn't even know it. Now I'm waiting for his move. He's not replying though.
I know his style, know how he work. I know how sometimes he leaves a conversation, just say bye, and go offline. Sometimes he does not even bother to leave you a message. He just go off.
I don't know which is more preferable. Him not replying and just signing off without a note. Or him saying, "oh oh, I gtg" and then sign off. Or actually, actually replying.
This is an idiotic chess game. But I initiated it. And I can't relax till he has made his move, struck his blow. Till he has claimed full victory.
Perhaps, it will end differently. But I remember the last time I played this chess game with someone else. 2 years back. Things I never knew spilled out. Some smart-aleck stuff came tumbling. Then he gives me one short look, and told me I was cynical.
Me, Rebecca, cynical. I never knew that. So in a way, somehow he won, because he sent a blow that crushed me, that sent me reeling.
Checkmate.
And this conversation feels like a chess game. I've spilled myself out, I think I'm ready for the killing, but all of a sudden the game falls away from me, and I'm making moves on impulse without realising. And he stops his own moves, he's taking a longer time to consider. And that gives ME time to think. And I stand up to get a drink of water and suddenly I realised I can't make a move anymore, that all that is done has been done, and I went so deep I didn't even know it. Now I'm waiting for his move. He's not replying though.
I know his style, know how he work. I know how sometimes he leaves a conversation, just say bye, and go offline. Sometimes he does not even bother to leave you a message. He just go off.
I don't know which is more preferable. Him not replying and just signing off without a note. Or him saying, "oh oh, I gtg" and then sign off. Or actually, actually replying.
This is an idiotic chess game. But I initiated it. And I can't relax till he has made his move, struck his blow. Till he has claimed full victory.
Perhaps, it will end differently. But I remember the last time I played this chess game with someone else. 2 years back. Things I never knew spilled out. Some smart-aleck stuff came tumbling. Then he gives me one short look, and told me I was cynical.
Me, Rebecca, cynical. I never knew that. So in a way, somehow he won, because he sent a blow that crushed me, that sent me reeling.
Checkmate.
Oh hello. The world is stormy.
And it's raining raining all around me.
These droplets of fluid are able to sting like rock-solid ice. Sting like fire. They penetrate my clothing and I'm all cold on the outside. I'm shivering, I'm a pathetic bundle of nerves. Inside I'm feverish, sweating, the burden hard and heavy on my shoulders. I'm taking all the wrong steps apparently. Stuck in a maze.
Thankfully, even the hardest of maze has at the very least, one exit.
So that's a nice comfy thought, the kind of thought that makes you feel all fuzzy and warm, and you're able to lean back into soft cushions. You're wearing comfortable clothing, the temperature is nice and cool, your stuffed toys never looked more adorable or sweet. Your shoulders are relaxed..
In actual truth, the weather's been hot. My shoulders are tensed up. I have 4 stuffed toys, and they are lying on my bed with a bedsheet of a rather pretty shade of light green, but I am not on my bed. I am sitting in this rock hard chair, and I'm wondering if I should ask you for updates of the progress. But all of a sudden I am sick and tired
And the feeling seems never-ending. And that's how a maze brings you down. It traps you in, it gives you the feeling of never-ending twists and turns that lead to dead ends.
So the sun shines brightly, so bright and sunny, but it only heightens the shadows cast by all the obstacles. The dead end seems so much bigger.
I do not know how to handle that feeling of raw naked skin meeting fresh air.
And it's raining raining all around me.
These droplets of fluid are able to sting like rock-solid ice. Sting like fire. They penetrate my clothing and I'm all cold on the outside. I'm shivering, I'm a pathetic bundle of nerves. Inside I'm feverish, sweating, the burden hard and heavy on my shoulders. I'm taking all the wrong steps apparently. Stuck in a maze.
Thankfully, even the hardest of maze has at the very least, one exit.
So that's a nice comfy thought, the kind of thought that makes you feel all fuzzy and warm, and you're able to lean back into soft cushions. You're wearing comfortable clothing, the temperature is nice and cool, your stuffed toys never looked more adorable or sweet. Your shoulders are relaxed..
In actual truth, the weather's been hot. My shoulders are tensed up. I have 4 stuffed toys, and they are lying on my bed with a bedsheet of a rather pretty shade of light green, but I am not on my bed. I am sitting in this rock hard chair, and I'm wondering if I should ask you for updates of the progress. But all of a sudden I am sick and tired
And the feeling seems never-ending. And that's how a maze brings you down. It traps you in, it gives you the feeling of never-ending twists and turns that lead to dead ends.
So the sun shines brightly, so bright and sunny, but it only heightens the shadows cast by all the obstacles. The dead end seems so much bigger.
I do not know how to handle that feeling of raw naked skin meeting fresh air.
June 2, 2006
I wanted the best, though it was out of my reach, I aimed straight for the moon, the light flashed, my hand shook, thus I failed, and you would have thought I would land among the stars, but no I did not, instead back to earth I fell, and boy was it a heavy fall.
He stood from the ground, he took it easy, he did best what he knew he could, and the scene was captured, and it’s so much more pretty, with that small crescent of a moon grinning at me, and as I watched the moon lit up his path, so he was brought to the stars, and that’s the end of this whole short story.
He stood from the ground, he took it easy, he did best what he knew he could, and the scene was captured, and it’s so much more pretty, with that small crescent of a moon grinning at me, and as I watched the moon lit up his path, so he was brought to the stars, and that’s the end of this whole short story.
June 1, 2006
She's a secret, the rare gem that only that 30plus number of people know. She's their secret. Her identity remains known only to that select group. They were brought together due to the random sorting done by computers, and together, they entered into that new room. Here in the space of one classroom, in a small little school along Dunearn road, up there at the fourth storey, and later, at the second storey, they shared in laugher and joy, went through teachers like a whirlwind, found a common love in literature, had good old times with star wars, and blossomed. The year was unique and they grabbed hold of every chance. 3 was their number, and 3 it stayed, till sec 3 where the were separated. She left, but they kept her, and no one else is to know the existence of her little stuff, of those sides and faces of her. Her blog is kept as an almost sacred secret. Wild lightning in their eyes, oh will you ever meet another like them. But shall I weep? No I won't. I'll just take that bottle of water from you, and gulp some down, before wiping off the droplets off my lips.
--
Random rants. Sorry. And and, I can't bear this.
--
My confidence in communicating/writing in chinese is totally wrecked. How nice.
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Random rants. Sorry. And and, I can't bear this.
--
My confidence in communicating/writing in chinese is totally wrecked. How nice.
May 25, 2006
The heart, that pulsating muscle which pumps blood. Sending that precious red liquid of life and vitality to all parts of the body. The source of life, the only machine, the generator, the continuous pump to push those nutrient and oxygen rich fluid out, to all parts of the body.
Diseased waste-filled blood flows back from the body to that bestower, the one which takes the waste gas, replacing it with much-needed oxygen, O2. And it continues pumping, replacing, pumping, replacing. That internal machine so delicate it's protected by cages of raw white bones. Pump pump pump.
How do you stop it from pumping?
If somehow, if somehow, just somwhow, I managed to put the heart into the straightjacket, and tightened it so it will not move, will it cease then? Or will all its innner muscles still seek to suck and push, pull and expel, bit by bit, every small muscle working together to work inside that limited space.
I don't know.
For a straightjacket won't contain the insane yearnings of the heart anyway.
Diseased waste-filled blood flows back from the body to that bestower, the one which takes the waste gas, replacing it with much-needed oxygen, O2. And it continues pumping, replacing, pumping, replacing. That internal machine so delicate it's protected by cages of raw white bones. Pump pump pump.
How do you stop it from pumping?
If somehow, if somehow, just somwhow, I managed to put the heart into the straightjacket, and tightened it so it will not move, will it cease then? Or will all its innner muscles still seek to suck and push, pull and expel, bit by bit, every small muscle working together to work inside that limited space.
I don't know.
For a straightjacket won't contain the insane yearnings of the heart anyway.
May 19, 2006
Yes. I’ve been blogging a lot. I know. It’s not because lately there’s more things happening. Mmm mm, no. But it is only lately, have I been more free, to be able to find time to be quiet, to be alone.
It is also only recently, when I am able to pen down words, and not be too overwhelmed, choked with those. Emotions. I took the first step with that piece. I dived back in into that ocean deep inside me, and allowed myself to drown, absolutely drown in ambiguity, and I wrote that piece. I did it in the afternoon, I continued it on at night, late into early morning. It was short, 500 plus words, and I gave it to her.
I detached myself from it. I think. But I'm not sure.
And private entries remain private. Locked and sealed with 8*2 characters. Some aspects are still too dear, too close to my heart.
I don’t have an affinity with words. It is with those tangled live wires of emotions that I am stuck with, live jolting current, every single one of them. But words are the only best way I’m able to vent it away. I can’t draw. I can’t make art. I can’t exhaust myself in physical exertion for that is only but a temporary high, a blissful dream when my brain focus on getting those muscles to work. But with words, they are slowly let out. Somehow.
But oh, how vain I am, to actually sometimes feel that need for an audience. To have someone else piece the various characters, various words like a jigsaw picture, fitting the scattered thoughts in, to have just that slightest slightest inkling of what I’m going through.
I am going to have to change my blog url once again soon.
Words words. Words I construct on this blog. Words I construct speaking to an acquaintance. Yet a trap.
And afterwards, I skipped half an hour of cca, to have my lunch, and talk to this acquaintance of mine. I thought before I talked, I measured the weight of my words, and I told her all
And suddenly I was free.
It is also only recently, when I am able to pen down words, and not be too overwhelmed, choked with those. Emotions. I took the first step with that piece. I dived back in into that ocean deep inside me, and allowed myself to drown, absolutely drown in ambiguity, and I wrote that piece. I did it in the afternoon, I continued it on at night, late into early morning. It was short, 500 plus words, and I gave it to her.
I detached myself from it. I think. But I'm not sure.
And private entries remain private. Locked and sealed with 8*2 characters. Some aspects are still too dear, too close to my heart.
I don’t have an affinity with words. It is with those tangled live wires of emotions that I am stuck with, live jolting current, every single one of them. But words are the only best way I’m able to vent it away. I can’t draw. I can’t make art. I can’t exhaust myself in physical exertion for that is only but a temporary high, a blissful dream when my brain focus on getting those muscles to work. But with words, they are slowly let out. Somehow.
But oh, how vain I am, to actually sometimes feel that need for an audience. To have someone else piece the various characters, various words like a jigsaw picture, fitting the scattered thoughts in, to have just that slightest slightest inkling of what I’m going through.
I am going to have to change my blog url once again soon.
Words words. Words I construct on this blog. Words I construct speaking to an acquaintance. Yet a trap.
So what happened today? What led to today? You want to know?
Well! I'll tell you! Even. if it kills me. I'll look into your eyes, I'll look right at them, meeting you right their at the window of souls, I'll look at those black orbs, and I'll tell you, "I am sick of ambiguity." And if anything in your eyes hints just the slightest sense of not understanding, I would scream, shout out loud and bold, "I AM SICK OF AMBIGUITY."
(But of course, that is just the response I wish I would give. But formality, and manners, years of grooming from parents would just cause me to smile at you as I shrug my shoulders. But in words, in words, I have the power to create that scene. It's crazy, it's mad, it's insane. But oh, let's continue on. Indeed, let us continue on!)
And so I went to him. I went to him, I said my piece and I didn't really look into his eyes. It took pure crazy courage to even approach him, but that's what I did. Looking into his eyes would have killed me, dissolving all my guts.
(But have you ever looked into a person's eyes. To look at the person in the eye, really directly into those black orbs, and not just in the person's general direction. One-on-one. I have. For a few seconds. The world disappears. It's intense, too much for me to bear, and I looked away again, back onto my shoes. That's all I have done before, to look directly. I cannot imagine searching a person's eyes. I wonder how it will be like)
He agreed. And thus you have today.
And afterwards, I skipped half an hour of cca, to have my lunch, and talk to this acquaintance of mine. I thought before I talked, I measured the weight of my words, and I told her all
And suddenly I was free.
It was but one single conversation I was seeking. Not a conversation with any one specific, but just that one single conversation for me to be able to measure my words, find expressions, let it out. To have another living person, listening to me. To be calmed down by that, and thus think.
But Oh! Who am I to desire for that!
May 17, 2006
Let's talk about passion again.
Great dreams DASHED to the ground.
Today afternoon, my mind was filled with incredible wondrous ideas. It felt good. It felt like a reaaally nice idea to start working on all these ideas. To do everything. I had plucked up courage, and things felt good. I could skip, I could jump. I could laugh. Oh my, what a world of possibilites. The rainbow sparkle with mirth and chance.
The clouds seemed beautiful, fluffy, large, powerful, amazing. I love those huge puffy clouds. Wispy feather strands of clouds? Little tufts of clouds? Others can have them. I belong to those huge great swelled-up cloud.
Oh my very own beautiful day. What many things I can do. Something's not burning, but it's certainly sparkling sparkling in my heart.
But.
Great dreams DASHED to the ground.
Today afternoon, my mind was filled with incredible wondrous ideas. It felt good. It felt like a reaaally nice idea to start working on all these ideas. To do everything. I had plucked up courage, and things felt good. I could skip, I could jump. I could laugh. Oh my, what a world of possibilites. The rainbow sparkle with mirth and chance.
The clouds seemed beautiful, fluffy, large, powerful, amazing. I love those huge puffy clouds. Wispy feather strands of clouds? Little tufts of clouds? Others can have them. I belong to those huge great swelled-up cloud.
Oh my very own beautiful day. What many things I can do. Something's not burning, but it's certainly sparkling sparkling in my heart.
But.
May 16, 2006
C5 for chinese.
Right. So as you were saying, I was the girl whose english was so bad my mom decided to send me to a speech and drama class? That I could score a 100 marks for chinese? Oh, oh yeah, that was in the pastttt wasn't it.
I feel like laughing. A lot. But nothing is really that funny.
I don't have a flair for language. My ears aren't sensitive to the nuances of sound. I remember. I remember my dad saying church in chinese, "jiaO hui" and I would looked up immediately because I thought he was calling me. I remember never being able to pronounce aunt in hokkien, "ah mm", and kept saying, "ah mu". The day I got the mm sound, they rejoiced. They wow-ed and ooh-ed.
---
rarh.
grah!
roooaar.
frustrated lor.
thanks.
Right. So as you were saying, I was the girl whose english was so bad my mom decided to send me to a speech and drama class? That I could score a 100 marks for chinese? Oh, oh yeah, that was in the pastttt wasn't it.
I feel like laughing. A lot. But nothing is really that funny.
I don't have a flair for language. My ears aren't sensitive to the nuances of sound. I remember. I remember my dad saying church in chinese, "jiaO hui" and I would looked up immediately because I thought he was calling me. I remember never being able to pronounce aunt in hokkien, "ah mm", and kept saying, "ah mu". The day I got the mm sound, they rejoiced. They wow-ed and ooh-ed.
---
rarh.
grah!
roooaar.
frustrated lor.
thanks.
May 15, 2006
Passion, is a deceptively simple word. What ignites that burning flame, that sudden desire. Indeed, success is transient. You know that. But you stretched it only as far to that failure will come. But can't you see, in the fabric of time, in that word eternity and infinity, in that very fact of ceaseless time, that success matters not.
Yet it's thrilling is it not? To be able to work for that which seems to fill your whole life up with meaning, that adds colour and vibrancy to your life. Sit still breathe, remember that joy, that joy, that certain almost filling satisfaction that struck you, as all other things drown out, and you're safe amid running and training, and savouring that feeling of speed.
Of being the best, of excelling, of being fast - the fastest. Of being known, accepted, of being popular, having fans, being a model for others, boosting your self-image, thinking "hey, this is rather cool." And so what? It seems satisfying, it seems like you are doing something - achieving your personal best, but when you die, does it matter.
But we are not animals. We are not the wolves who bray long and loud into the full luminous moon of the night, whose basic instinct is to hunt, to eat, to grow, to survive. We are not the rats that scamper around, scavenging for food, seeking to survive.
We have that mind, and that soul. Our body is but an exterior shell, but filled with lusts. Tainted, if you will. Our mind seeks for that purpose. We don't just survive, we seek for more. Because we are already capable of surviving, we have manipulated all resource to ensure that we'll survive. We have invented and established a new system outside nature, that system of education and academics, and papers - certificates and those multi-coloured notes of currency - will then get you basic needs of water, food and space.
Wow. What an incredible progress.
And I myself do not know whether there's meant to be sarcasm in that statement.
Yet it's thrilling is it not? To be able to work for that which seems to fill your whole life up with meaning, that adds colour and vibrancy to your life. Sit still breathe, remember that joy, that joy, that certain almost filling satisfaction that struck you, as all other things drown out, and you're safe amid running and training, and savouring that feeling of speed.
Of being the best, of excelling, of being fast - the fastest. Of being known, accepted, of being popular, having fans, being a model for others, boosting your self-image, thinking "hey, this is rather cool." And so what? It seems satisfying, it seems like you are doing something - achieving your personal best, but when you die, does it matter.
But we are not animals. We are not the wolves who bray long and loud into the full luminous moon of the night, whose basic instinct is to hunt, to eat, to grow, to survive. We are not the rats that scamper around, scavenging for food, seeking to survive.
We have that mind, and that soul. Our body is but an exterior shell, but filled with lusts. Tainted, if you will. Our mind seeks for that purpose. We don't just survive, we seek for more. Because we are already capable of surviving, we have manipulated all resource to ensure that we'll survive. We have invented and established a new system outside nature, that system of education and academics, and papers - certificates and those multi-coloured notes of currency - will then get you basic needs of water, food and space.
Wow. What an incredible progress.
And I myself do not know whether there's meant to be sarcasm in that statement.
May 13, 2006
Sometimes dreaming means extinguishing yourself-
Open the drawer, let everything spill. I see your face. The past and present, it mingles together, swirl around and vanish into each other. You’ve changed and yet you have not. Are you still the boy I used to know. 6 years has passed. I didn’t ask for your contact. Should I have? This feels like a movie.
When I was younger, I would float off into lazy day dreams. High among clouds, I wondered what it would be like to meet you again. I remember how you smiled at me, bringing your finger to your lips, signaling for me to keep quiet. That’s the most vivid memory I have of you.
I wonder what you are like now. So close, yet so far. How did you recognise me? I did not recognise you. But you saw me, your mind spun around, you saw the little girl of 6 years ago, and you spoke to me. You said hi.
My hazy mind searched for your face. All I got was a faint misty image. But I remember what you did. In words, I can describe. I see no pictures though. But I remember what you did.
I remember thinking about you.
You’re quite good-looking. Quite.
It is funny how things work. How you got into hwa chong institution. How I got into nanyang girls’ high. I could have gotten into raffles. But I landed in nanyang, and I met you.
You’re a miracle. You're my miracle.
You don't know, but you're the lighter that light up my flame of hope, the hand which blocked the wind, and thus supported it to go strong. Gently, just by being there, for thus allowing the day to be better than what I expected, than what I had hoped for.
I don't mind not getting your contact in the end.
Open the drawer, let everything spill. I see your face. The past and present, it mingles together, swirl around and vanish into each other. You’ve changed and yet you have not. Are you still the boy I used to know. 6 years has passed. I didn’t ask for your contact. Should I have? This feels like a movie.
When I was younger, I would float off into lazy day dreams. High among clouds, I wondered what it would be like to meet you again. I remember how you smiled at me, bringing your finger to your lips, signaling for me to keep quiet. That’s the most vivid memory I have of you.
I wonder what you are like now. So close, yet so far. How did you recognise me? I did not recognise you. But you saw me, your mind spun around, you saw the little girl of 6 years ago, and you spoke to me. You said hi.
My hazy mind searched for your face. All I got was a faint misty image. But I remember what you did. In words, I can describe. I see no pictures though. But I remember what you did.
I remember thinking about you.
You’re quite good-looking. Quite.
It is funny how things work. How you got into hwa chong institution. How I got into nanyang girls’ high. I could have gotten into raffles. But I landed in nanyang, and I met you.
You’re a miracle. You're my miracle.
You don't know, but you're the lighter that light up my flame of hope, the hand which blocked the wind, and thus supported it to go strong. Gently, just by being there, for thus allowing the day to be better than what I expected, than what I had hoped for.
I don't mind not getting your contact in the end.
The happiness we know is fleeting. Is it even happiness?
These past few days have been good. Yet my definition of good is defined by what I know of it, from day 1 when I started experiencing life, from where a day filled with trouble and pain was known to me as bad, and things going rather well being good.
I have been looking forward to Thursday all this week. I expected it to be good. It was good. It turned out wonderful. And there is no one to share it with. Not really..
Amid all these happy happy feel-good things, the truth of eternity is still very real, and is the only reality that truly matters.
Fluency of words? Beauty of phrases? Eloquent and elegant, smooth and soothing?
I never. had a power with words.
They do not come as a sudden impulse of overwhelming feelings. Not usually. They come from a SEARCH, where I go deep and deeper and STRUGGLE to find the words.
They are forced.
So let this reflect truly what this is like. CHOPPY. MESSY.
My hands are SHAKING as I type this.
I hate looking at others and wondering about why. I hate to look at others and wonder why they have such messy messy crushes and infatuations on each other. I hate this because I don’t look back at myself.
But at least yesterday, I managed to find something that describes one of my failings.
Vanity.
These past few days have been good. Yet my definition of good is defined by what I know of it, from day 1 when I started experiencing life, from where a day filled with trouble and pain was known to me as bad, and things going rather well being good.
I have been looking forward to Thursday all this week. I expected it to be good. It was good. It turned out wonderful. And there is no one to share it with. Not really..
Amid all these happy happy feel-good things, the truth of eternity is still very real, and is the only reality that truly matters.
Fluency of words? Beauty of phrases? Eloquent and elegant, smooth and soothing?
I never. had a power with words.
They do not come as a sudden impulse of overwhelming feelings. Not usually. They come from a SEARCH, where I go deep and deeper and STRUGGLE to find the words.
They are forced.
So let this reflect truly what this is like. CHOPPY. MESSY.
My hands are SHAKING as I type this.
I hate looking at others and wondering about why. I hate to look at others and wonder why they have such messy messy crushes and infatuations on each other. I hate this because I don’t look back at myself.
But at least yesterday, I managed to find something that describes one of my failings.
Vanity.
May 10, 2006
how do I express that calamity of a thing,
buzzing and ringing like a mad infuriated bee
loud shrill, shrieking like a nosiy bird
ahh! woe be unto the person who hears its peal
and that toll which stops only when answered
holds a not very enjoyable experience
far away, there's a guy with a yucky face,
yada yada blah blah blah goes he
decidedly, this invention should go down the drain
its piercing call only breaks the window pane
can someone throw it out into the rain
because it is indeed my life's ultimate bane
so many people didn't get the meaning
May 4, 2006
May 1, 2006
Conserve your energy, for you'll need lots and lots of it for school-
I'm sorry, but I do not want to go back to school. It’s tearing me up. I don’t want to go back to school and be reminded of all my struggles. I do not want to go back to a meaningless place.
Thel wanted to know the taste of reality. In the end though, the virgin started from her seat, & with a shriek, fled back unhinder'd till she came into the vales of Har.
All she had to do, was to enter the side gates of school with a heavy bag and pure white uniform, and there her innocence would shatter. There she'll be burdened by duties and obligations, by other's expectations. The stress of test, assignments and homework is constant. Rumours fly about.
She can try to be a peace-maker, solve others' problem, be a listener, and make her burdens all the heavier. But it's in her nature, she can't throw them aside and not care at all.
And so she kills herself slowly.
Everyone's dying every second.
I dread school.
Suffocating.
I'm sorry, but I do not want to go back to school. It’s tearing me up. I don’t want to go back to school and be reminded of all my struggles. I do not want to go back to a meaningless place.
Thel wanted to know the taste of reality. In the end though, the virgin started from her seat, & with a shriek, fled back unhinder'd till she came into the vales of Har.
All she had to do, was to enter the side gates of school with a heavy bag and pure white uniform, and there her innocence would shatter. There she'll be burdened by duties and obligations, by other's expectations. The stress of test, assignments and homework is constant. Rumours fly about.
She can try to be a peace-maker, solve others' problem, be a listener, and make her burdens all the heavier. But it's in her nature, she can't throw them aside and not care at all.
And so she kills herself slowly.
Everyone's dying every second.
I dread school.
Suffocating.
She laughs, bright twinkling laugher. Her feet patters excitedly around in her new wheels. This is a child, bright and joyful, able to bring a smile to everyone with her wide toothless grin.
She's short, she's cute, she holds an impish charm of her very own. She looks at you, and winks obviously. One large wink, served on a large platter, right up to you. Oh come on, don't tell me you're not going to wink back. Wink you shall, and break out into laugher. She'll run forward, and put her fingers to her lips. "Shush!" she'll whisper loudly. And you'll smile back, put your finger on your lips, nod and say "shush" back, softly.
Oh, how beautiful the day is. The cars are bright and merry, the noise and bustle adds to the excitement. "Toot toot" she says, so cheerful and full of glee. She hops, she skips, she jumps and bounce.
I dare you, to smile like her.
Everyone can do it. Really.
She's short, she's cute, she holds an impish charm of her very own. She looks at you, and winks obviously. One large wink, served on a large platter, right up to you. Oh come on, don't tell me you're not going to wink back. Wink you shall, and break out into laugher. She'll run forward, and put her fingers to her lips. "Shush!" she'll whisper loudly. And you'll smile back, put your finger on your lips, nod and say "shush" back, softly.
Oh, how beautiful the day is. The cars are bright and merry, the noise and bustle adds to the excitement. "Toot toot" she says, so cheerful and full of glee. She hops, she skips, she jumps and bounce.
I dare you, to smile like her.
Everyone can do it. Really.
April 29, 2006
Rebecca’s recount of the
Student Science Conference 2006
17th – 24th April
on
Conservation and Sustainable Development
Team: Alvina (1), Lihui (2), Nerissa (1), Melesa (2), Karene (1), Rebecca (2)
Writer’s note:
I hardly write recounts.
Really.
But after seeing my seniors’ entries, their recounts, a sudden pang arose in my heart. One that whispered to my head, gently pleading: “Won’t you record the events? Please?”
“Won’t you put the memories down in black and white? Make a permanent mark. To type out the words, to see the events flow out like fluidly, softly landing onto the paper, as if it had always belong there. That it was all planned for, prepared for.”
Head agreed.
**
A matter of chance. Or was it. Was it by luck that my name was picked first to go to this Science conference, or was it pre-destined? I would like to think it’s pre-destined. That seems to add a sense of purpose and meaning to it, an extra sense of special – where it was going to happen, no matter what. No matter whether I was poor or rich, and whether I was taller or shorter, no matter whether I was an extrovert or introvert. That regardless of anything, I would be going.
And be changed forever. At the very least, in some small way.
Monday, April 17th,
Early morning 4am, I was up. My dad drove the car; my mom took the front seat, I was at the back. There were few cars outside. We went along, the silver car moving smoothly and happily. The day was beautiful.
We reached the airport - the transit point, the point of intersection between countries. Teachers, seniors, peers and friends gathered together. We checked in. Jokes were made, sleepy laugher heard. Alvina had one huge orange and black bag. Melesa had two bags. And our teacher looks like a suspicious criminal. More laugher, more glee and joy.
The sky wanted to make my first flight special. I saw a country, a lovely world of clouds, spread up below me. Were those really little droplets of water? For 14 years, I had only see their underside. Today I was above them, I was looking down at them, and all I could see, was clouds, sky, clouds, sky and more white clouds and blue sky. There were no concrete buildings, neither were there trees. Just the world above.
The sun came up, and shone with its bright luminance, straight into my window. White piercing glaring light that shone with all its power. It hurt to look into it, and I turned my head away. Yet that unfamiliar power had enraptured me. I could not stop myself from gazing on, just a little, a very little, for a while more.
Looked on I did till I could really look no more.
We reached
Some people felt hungry, and decided to have lunch at the airport. I didn’t feel hungry though. So there I watched on. We chuckled over Japanese sticky rice that was not sticky. It was more of… crumbly. Chilli flakes are fun by the way.
The ride to Kadoorie Agricultural Research Centre was pretty uneventful. Jokes about the mini-bus rolling downwards backwards was made, but when we finally got to Kadoorie Agricultural Research Centre itself, somehow the van was directed to go up a steep curve. Which the mini-bus did, sending us all sitting sideways to the right. Yeah, that was rather fun.
Part of Kadoorie Agricultural Research Centre.
Our dorm was not too bad. We perched ourselves near the window and looked at other schools come in. Then it was shower time.
The day was still as bright and lovely, the shower rooms were wonderfully built in such a way that there was an area to hang up clothes, put stuff, prepare towels before you took off your footwear to step into the showering area. The shower itself had two taps, one tap for hot water, and the other for cold water. What bliss. My hand stretched out, turned the hot water tap a little. Gushing water came down on me, strong powerful jets.
And I shrieked from the sudden shock of cold freezing water.
I did always remember to turn on the heater from then on.
Before dinner, we gathered together with our teacher. A sudden curiosity to know how far the place stretched hit us, and we started to walk towards Lady Kadoorie hostel. There, the path stopped, but our teacher noticed a trail that led up. We went over the railings, and then started to climb up.
It was reckless. The path was steep, the markings almost unclear, but there we climbed on and on, the sense of adventure grabbing us and tangling with our conscious mind. Our seniors were saner, and took greater care, but freshly as we were from OBS, we climbed on.
It was foolhardy, it was stupid, it was dumb. There were loose rocks too, and at times my feet struck a false spot. Our seniors were left far behind, and their cries not heard.
Yes, indeed, the view was wonderful and amazing when we did hit a clear spot. But the risks taken were indeed too much. Our seniors finally located us and caught up with us. But by then we were already in trouble. Rash we had been, and anger that stemmed from worry was the result.
Insults were made as we, still absorbed by the sense of adventure and blind to the risks, and grumbled about the seniors not having a sense of adventure, and being too soft and delicate from their sec 4 camp. Everyone got sore.
Dinner time came. More soup. Yum. But we were spilt up. The juniors and seniors sat at different tables. Yuck.
The bus took off after a while. We sat back, breathed, all prepared to go back and have a good rest. Then a queasy thought struck us. Where was our teacher?
He was not at the back of the bus, and neither was he in the middle nor the front. Our teacher just was not on the bus, and we had left without him! Horror spread through us and we stared at each other for a few seconds. “Melesa! Go inform them quick!” She scrambled out of her seat and scampered to the front.
They had actually forgotten our teacher was not there. Got back him we did, thankfully. The others on the bus had a good laugh. “Oh man, you actually left your teacher behind? That’s new.”
From what we heard, they spread the news to the rest of the people who wasn’t there.
We got back, sleepily brushed our teeth, and settled down for the night. Our seniors had forgiven us while we were away, and that made slumber easy and sweet.
When one comes back to the homeland, away forever from a place that had been one's lodgings, maybe even a home, for one week-
It is a strange feeling, to come back to a place so familar, so full of comforts, where you belong, and feel almost numb. The exhilaration of the previous week, one so full of shocks and surprises, of new and interesting, of the strange and unfamilar, is suddenly washed again by the usual of familarity.
Time goes pass, and all that are left are memories, sweet fond memories. The charming place of Kadoorie Agricultural Research Centre, almost old-fashioned with its style, suddenly filled up with students from everywhere. That moment is gone.
That rough-textured paper made from newspaper and reeds rest gently on my thigh. One can bring it up to their nose, and breath in that strong smell of reeds, and remember, remember that wild visit to the Wetland Park, when all things were unfinished, with construction still in place. That wild crazy angles of their paths, that almost futuristic feel was almost numbing to the senses. Blue lights, music, crowds, machines, angles, rocks, life-sized exhibits.. the sights crash! around you. Loud, booming, wow.
The nights which we walked along once-strange now familiar paths. Up up, along the path that goes past the boy's dorm to a path leading up, with plants and flowers at the side. That first morning, we saw butterflies, delicate creatures of yellow and silverish-white, flitting around. The buzz of bees whisphered near our ears. That exotic blend of nature right beside you, and city lights to be seen far out in the night sky. To be in front of mangroves, and see that tall concrete buildings at the skyline. Boom boom BANG!
Hello, morning! Here's a first experience for you! The next time you go back to the place, you will never even capture back that new first feeling. You can never get back that feeling of amazement. You can never get back the same exact group of people, the same exact people in their same exact clothes at that same exact moment at that same exact second of their age.
Never.
Yet the memories last. The details of events might slip, but the sound of laugher is remembered. Look back, do you remember? That very first day where we screamed like headless chickens (ah yes, why did we use such an inelegant metaphor then?), due to that cold gushing that poured onto us and made our skins prickle, and then numb - all due to the fact that we actually did not flip on the switch for heaters outside. One day you might forget the names of the people in the other cubicles. The hilarity remains.
Laugher laugher, off-tune voices. More laugher, more glee, more chuckles of pure mirth. Explosive, loud, exuberant in joy. Toyota, Mercedes, Rolls-Royce. Anglo minus Chinese High School. Muah Chee.
All treasured memories, fond, sweet, comforting, joyful.
The future is so due to the past. The man is able to smile due to the memories of yesterdays. In idyllic hours, spin off the wild daydreams based on such precious memories.
Strong bonds formed. May we be like graphite – strong covalent bonds between carbon atoms, forming hexagonal rings in flat layers. To be firm in our hold, but yet flexible enough to move with the flow of time, to adapt, to continue on. Studying chemistry can be life-changing…
Missing is but a natural response to these very good days.
Speaking of which, let's have an RJ party soon.
It is a strange feeling, to come back to a place so familar, so full of comforts, where you belong, and feel almost numb. The exhilaration of the previous week, one so full of shocks and surprises, of new and interesting, of the strange and unfamilar, is suddenly washed again by the usual of familarity.
Time goes pass, and all that are left are memories, sweet fond memories. The charming place of Kadoorie Agricultural Research Centre, almost old-fashioned with its style, suddenly filled up with students from everywhere. That moment is gone.
That rough-textured paper made from newspaper and reeds rest gently on my thigh. One can bring it up to their nose, and breath in that strong smell of reeds, and remember, remember that wild visit to the Wetland Park, when all things were unfinished, with construction still in place. That wild crazy angles of their paths, that almost futuristic feel was almost numbing to the senses. Blue lights, music, crowds, machines, angles, rocks, life-sized exhibits.. the sights crash! around you. Loud, booming, wow.
The nights which we walked along once-strange now familiar paths. Up up, along the path that goes past the boy's dorm to a path leading up, with plants and flowers at the side. That first morning, we saw butterflies, delicate creatures of yellow and silverish-white, flitting around. The buzz of bees whisphered near our ears. That exotic blend of nature right beside you, and city lights to be seen far out in the night sky. To be in front of mangroves, and see that tall concrete buildings at the skyline. Boom boom BANG!
Hello, morning! Here's a first experience for you! The next time you go back to the place, you will never even capture back that new first feeling. You can never get back that feeling of amazement. You can never get back the same exact group of people, the same exact people in their same exact clothes at that same exact moment at that same exact second of their age.
Never.
Yet the memories last. The details of events might slip, but the sound of laugher is remembered. Look back, do you remember? That very first day where we screamed like headless chickens (ah yes, why did we use such an inelegant metaphor then?), due to that cold gushing that poured onto us and made our skins prickle, and then numb - all due to the fact that we actually did not flip on the switch for heaters outside. One day you might forget the names of the people in the other cubicles. The hilarity remains.
Laugher laugher, off-tune voices. More laugher, more glee, more chuckles of pure mirth. Explosive, loud, exuberant in joy. Toyota, Mercedes, Rolls-Royce. Anglo minus Chinese High School. Muah Chee.
All treasured memories, fond, sweet, comforting, joyful.
The future is so due to the past. The man is able to smile due to the memories of yesterdays. In idyllic hours, spin off the wild daydreams based on such precious memories.
Strong bonds formed. May we be like graphite – strong covalent bonds between carbon atoms, forming hexagonal rings in flat layers. To be firm in our hold, but yet flexible enough to move with the flow of time, to adapt, to continue on. Studying chemistry can be life-changing…
Missing is but a natural response to these very good days.
Speaking of which, let's have an RJ party soon.
April 24, 2006
April 13, 2006
That sudden beauty that appears when he smiles sends me reeling. Even when I only see it in a memory, that soft curl captivates me, holding me securely and tightly in its charm.
I want to capture a picture of his smile. Not his grin. But that small smile of tenderness and care. That gentle curve as he smiles ever so sweetly at you. That gentle glow that spreads around him - that glow which blurs his other features, but burns that smile into my memory.
That smile that is tinged with the past and memories of sadness.
-heart-achingly beautiful.
I want to capture a picture of his smile. Not his grin. But that small smile of tenderness and care. That gentle curve as he smiles ever so sweetly at you. That gentle glow that spreads around him - that glow which blurs his other features, but burns that smile into my memory.
That smile that is tinged with the past and memories of sadness.
-heart-achingly beautiful.
Why do I keep a blog.
Because I have lots of things to say, but no one to say it to. I admit it, I like telling stories. I like recouting how my spectacles fell while I did my shuttle run, moan a little over not reaching the A grade for sit-ups when all I needed was two more sit-ups. I would like to recount I actually jumped the distance of 193cm. Which is a very big achievement for me, since I actually BROKE my own record. And it was interesting how I seemed to jump with so much ease when there was not mat with its big glaring numbers to scare me.
In fact I broke several records today. I'm happy. And I would like to share it.
This time there's no lack of right people. At the VERY least there's three. Somehow I'm not telling. Why? I fear that situation of no reply. Another "gtg". And I would love to tell another, but I don't know how to broach the topic somehow. And I'm not going into detail here, because lately even a blog can't satisfy it.
A simple conversation complicated by the threads of my mind.
Because to me it's not that simple.
Why is it that everytime I say something, I put my whole heart into it, practically offering it on a silver platter, vulnerable to hurt, to your lashings of harsh biting words. Why is it that empty gap of silence is able to suffocate my heart?
You were right to call me stupid.
Because I have lots of things to say, but no one to say it to. I admit it, I like telling stories. I like recouting how my spectacles fell while I did my shuttle run, moan a little over not reaching the A grade for sit-ups when all I needed was two more sit-ups. I would like to recount I actually jumped the distance of 193cm. Which is a very big achievement for me, since I actually BROKE my own record. And it was interesting how I seemed to jump with so much ease when there was not mat with its big glaring numbers to scare me.
In fact I broke several records today. I'm happy. And I would like to share it.
This time there's no lack of right people. At the VERY least there's three. Somehow I'm not telling. Why? I fear that situation of no reply. Another "gtg". And I would love to tell another, but I don't know how to broach the topic somehow. And I'm not going into detail here, because lately even a blog can't satisfy it.
A simple conversation complicated by the threads of my mind.
Because to me it's not that simple.
Why is it that everytime I say something, I put my whole heart into it, practically offering it on a silver platter, vulnerable to hurt, to your lashings of harsh biting words. Why is it that empty gap of silence is able to suffocate my heart?
You were right to call me stupid.
April 11, 2006
A new school day.
Was the chinese character for heart written by a woman? Was it written in sorrow? If it was I feel for her, sincerely with all my heart. How heavy and slow her stokes must have been, as she pulled the brush across paper, dragging the strokes out. Those words, bold and black, almost fat and from full feelings of quiet pain and anguish.
Did tears fell from her eyes as she wrote? Did they smudged and blurred the character, just as how our heart can be so overwhelmed with layers of sadness? Did she just took another piece of paper from a side, and tried, again.
I sighed. People wonder at it, they question and ask why I do so.
How do I explain, that overbearing feeling that comes over me halfway through a conversation, that urge to let it out, the effects of that quiet soft sigh expressed. But yet it relieves only a little.
On Sunday, standing up there on stage, he said that prayer was the best solution to worry and grief. He read out the passage where Peter fell asleep when Christ was praying, for the Lord to take this cup of agony and wrath away, if possible. And he mentioned how sleep was a way to cope, but not the best way.
Well then. If the time to sleep, to rest has been lacking, and the Lord is not felt when I prayed - when I am already unsure in my prayers - who do I turn to then?
I AM tired. It's not just the physical tiredness that ails me, that causes me to fall asleep at school and thus nearly or do land up in trouble. But I am also mentally exhausted.
If this is already like that.. then what's going to happen when the full realisation that I'm a sinner dawns upon me with all its intensity?
Was the chinese character for heart written by a woman? Was it written in sorrow? If it was I feel for her, sincerely with all my heart. How heavy and slow her stokes must have been, as she pulled the brush across paper, dragging the strokes out. Those words, bold and black, almost fat and from full feelings of quiet pain and anguish.
Did tears fell from her eyes as she wrote? Did they smudged and blurred the character, just as how our heart can be so overwhelmed with layers of sadness? Did she just took another piece of paper from a side, and tried, again.
I sighed. People wonder at it, they question and ask why I do so.
How do I explain, that overbearing feeling that comes over me halfway through a conversation, that urge to let it out, the effects of that quiet soft sigh expressed. But yet it relieves only a little.
On Sunday, standing up there on stage, he said that prayer was the best solution to worry and grief. He read out the passage where Peter fell asleep when Christ was praying, for the Lord to take this cup of agony and wrath away, if possible. And he mentioned how sleep was a way to cope, but not the best way.
Well then. If the time to sleep, to rest has been lacking, and the Lord is not felt when I prayed - when I am already unsure in my prayers - who do I turn to then?
I AM tired. It's not just the physical tiredness that ails me, that causes me to fall asleep at school and thus nearly or do land up in trouble. But I am also mentally exhausted.
If this is already like that.. then what's going to happen when the full realisation that I'm a sinner dawns upon me with all its intensity?
April 10, 2006
A thought from an over-active imagination of a jaded mind.
The protective embrace of an older brother.
He is like a sturdy umbrella, big and strong, protecting the younger weaker sis from the harsh rain. He keeps the younger sis dry, and safe. His warmth pours out constantly, his words overflowing with concern. He's burdened too, battered by the harsh storm, deafened by lightning, but still he stands, wanting to protect.
The girl is young and weak, and can do nothing to protect her brother. All she can do, is to stand strong because of the brother, and be his support. They work together.
They dare to lean on each other.
The protective embrace of an older brother.
He is like a sturdy umbrella, big and strong, protecting the younger weaker sis from the harsh rain. He keeps the younger sis dry, and safe. His warmth pours out constantly, his words overflowing with concern. He's burdened too, battered by the harsh storm, deafened by lightning, but still he stands, wanting to protect.
The girl is young and weak, and can do nothing to protect her brother. All she can do, is to stand strong because of the brother, and be his support. They work together.
They dare to lean on each other.
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