You're cold.

Cold like a fish. Cold like a fish out of water with a cold wind blowing. Cold fish. Cold stinky fish. Cold stinky festering fish. You might as well really be one, the way people are avoiding you like the plague.

And the rain keeps on drumming down down down, silver drops of water against a flimsy dark blue windbreaker. The windbreaker almost clings to your skin, and you can feel the weight of wet water on your arm, but it's not seeping through the material. It's just a strangely cool feeling on your arm, and drops of water falling on your forehead, drip drip, onto your glasses, down your forehead, along the curvature of your cheek.

A tin can is grasped firmly in your hand, wet stickers littering the edges of the can. "Sir, would you mind donating.. Ma'am, would you.. Ms, would you mind". A choking suffocating feeling is at your chest, it's hard to breathe, it's so hard to breathe. It's almost you can just black out at any moment, so almost giddy you are. Yes, almost, because you're not on the point of the world spinning and all, but it's such a uncomfortable pressure at your head, not heavy, but a light numb pressure.

And the lungs hurt. Each word starts taking more effort, the pain at the chest increasing whenever you utter words, pushing breath out through your mouth to form what should be understood as English.

But in the eyes of those you might as well be mute, a part of the scenery.

I shall not deny there was nice people, people who donated, people who at least gave an apologetic smile, people who acknowledged your presence.

But what irked me was those who looked past you, who could not recognise you, or who went, "give me a break".

Why don't you give me a break instead. I'll pass you my can, you help me sell flags.

And I'll sit down and nurse that painful pressure at my chest and head, that ache in my back, the slight heaving in my stomach, the almost ready-to-puke feeling way down in my stomach, which could, if induced, well up the back of the throat and spill out as disgusting sour vomitus.

And then I shall really be cold stinky festering fish.

A million dreams whisper in my ear.

Pictures, images appear in my eyes.

1) hearts
2) roses
3) stars
4) birdwings

I walk past the image of a painted eye, done by the schoolmates in my school. Various hues and shades of blue - most of them dark. Beautiful. I once saw it at night. Soft muted light along the corridors lit up the picture gently. Muted grey shadows quivered across it, and I sat on the floor, listening to the voice of my teacher, my eyes on the picture. The blues swirled itself into greens, purples and black. But that huge eye was oblivious to its own allure.

I wondered if I would have nightmares, as I gazed at the eye.

I didn't.

I almost wished I had though.

on your birthday.-

On the day that you were born the angels got together,
And decided to create a dream come true,
So they sprinkled moondust in your hair
And golden starlight in your eyes of blue

Happy Birthday Kor. It's the first day of you being 16. I hope it was a beautiful day. Though you are but one day older than yesterday, today is also the day the figure of your age changed. What a day! And I've said it once, but I'll say it again: now I can truthfully say my kor is one year older than me. How exciting for me!

By the way aha, did you realise today was the first time you met me and didn't comment on my height? A milestone indeed.

祝你生日快乐，
祝你生日快乐，
祝你生日快乐~
愿上帝祝福你。

祝你每一天都幸福，每天都是美满，美好的。新的一天，新的一年。我哥，你长大了。从15岁的少年，到了16岁的青年。一天也会随着一天而过，转眼间，可能在你不知不觉中，你就会是18岁了！到时就进兵营，承受训练，得知更多知识，变得更成熟（哈哈，是希望如此吧）

到时，会发生什么事呢？我还会是你的妹吗？你还会是我的哥吗？我们作为人，是不知道的。不知道，这三个字，似乎非常的讨厌，因为，我们用这三个字的时候，就有如承认自己不是全能，全知的。但，这也并没那么坏吧。我们不知道，但我们所信的主知道，就把事情交托在他手里，由他来处理。相信他所计划的是最好的。有一首诗歌，就是这样说的，“你的意念，高过我的思想，如同天高过地”。而且，可能我们不知道也好吧！因为在将来，我们可能会慢慢的失去联络，或者发生什么事件，而应此不再联络了。若我们已知道，那可能会觉得这友谊其实并不是非常的重要。这种事，还真的很难说。虽然在这时刻我并不希望有这种事发生，但我本身似乎有时不能保住我的朋友。

啊，不提了！今天不应该是个沉默的一天，而是喜乐的一天！哈，如果可以的话，还真想让这一天变得更久，那你就可以在属于你的一天庆祝更久！=)

在这一天，我愿你不管在什么情况下，仍然还会有爱你的人（=\其实这可算是废话，你可定会有人爱你，就算真的没有，还有主啊！）。也祝你永远有喜乐和盼望，永远知道你活着是有意义的，而每一年的来临，志愿不只是能活过这一年，而是做出有意义的东西。

我自己，也没有什么好给你的，只能提醒你，你是受爱戴的。不管你信不信，事实就是你真的是受到主的爱戴和保护。我希望，在这世上，常会有人提醒你这一点。

哥，生日快乐。

-the reasons I give for preferring 'creative-writing'
-the excuses I use for avoiding expository writing

a more free flow. allows for more plays with words and language. added dimensions different styles. not necessarily persuasive, but showing, and just letting the person think for oneself. sometimes a kind of whimsical writing that is hard to go wrong with. allows for emotions to come into play. acts as a outlet for our own emotions. a retreat to indulge in.

truth? I can't write expository to save myself it seems.

too heavily swayed by emotions, too easily rocked by sentiments, my heart gone along with the colours of words.

gravitate. forlorn. grapple.

These are the three words that has been spinning around my head lately.

The first came a few days ago. Walking towards the traffic light from the bookshop, teacher's day gifts tucked in my hand. The word popped out from nowhere, and struck me. and I was thinking why I have never used this word before in any of my written work.

Gravitate. It's a good word. The most basic, one of the main concepts of physics. Of the science behind the workings of life. Gravity. Keeps us stuck to the ground. It's reality. However high you jump, you're gonna fall back. Unless you're in space of course. But the majority of us have hardly the resources to go fly out to space.

So we stick close to this earth. And gravitate towards certain people. People who treat us nice, who are kind to us, who care, who love, who capture out attention. Mmmm.

But when for a while there is no one, when one wants to share but can't, when one has great wonderful news to talk about, but there's just no. one. to hear, then forlorn creeps in. A tiny little ghost, leaving the faintest of footsteps in your heart. But the soft footstep echoes loudly, bright and clear, only emphasizing the emptiness and loneliness of that one single moment. Forlorn little girl on along the grey cobbled streets, dressed in pale faded clothings - muted, because everyone is passing her by without a extra glance.

Emptiness, ache, hollow silence.

Grapple, as much as you want with the truth that is now right in front of your face. Struggle, deny, but it is the truth that is so starkly presented. Grapple, seemingly valiantly. But your movements are wild and uncoordinated, you're just a drowning man who can't swim, and trashes his arms in the water as he gasp and tries to yell for help, only to go down.

*sometime in August, continued now*