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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

I don't care for politics.

Not now at the very least. I'm sorry if that makes me seem oh-so-typical. But I really don't.

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.

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.