The world goes silent for a while as blood rushes to my head.

The climax, when you can't feel the rest of your body, but just that warm cool blood coursing through your head, and throbbing just that little, like you've just been slapped, stinging sharp warm. But this is not as much stinging as it is numb, and it doesn't ring at my cheek, just my brain, the front of my head.

So very coolly warm, with a shimmer, a light jingle, a twinkle. Menthol, is that how it would feel if I apply it beneath my head, right on my brain? It feels so.

当忧思穴被激发时-

忽然间有点思恋朋友。

最近，我可算是非常，非常有福气，实在，实在的幸运。爱讲话的我，找到两个愿意听我述说，怀旧，发泄感情的朋友。愿意如此的朋友，而且还非常努力地尝试同情，与我分享重担，在我的世界里，有如知心一样珍贵。虽然，他们并不完全了解我，有时也摸不着我的底，根本想不透我的心思，但他们还是很乐意，不断地鼓励，激发我。而我也知道我并非好忍，思想上其实还是满自我的 - 这些，我都不否认。因此，对于他们能在我所有的事上如此细心体贴，也十分的敬佩。

这些，肯定都是阿爸天父的安排。他最了解我了，知道我是个喜欢沟通，爱讲话，烦恼需要诉说出来的人。怎么说，也是他造了我。若我的创造者不了解我，那还有谁会呢? 而既然是巧事发生多过一次，我宁愿安息在被看顾的事实里，而不是为摇动不定的命运而担忧。

当一个亲切，亲近的友谊的距离慢慢地变得越来越远时，就很不可思议地认识一个人，交往，成了朋友。就在心情低落，忧伤忧郁，为这份感情愁思时，交了一个新的朋友，作为靠山。这人也一直不断地给与我支持鼓励。至今，我相信他其实还是会如此。但，我们两人也是都在一起读中四，你的负担，重担，并不比我轻，甚至还比我的重。你上了网，上了MSN，放了“正忙”，我也不忍心吵你了。虽然知道你肯定会说你不介意，但你有多忙，我想你比我还更清楚。虽然渴望，而知道这么做，会有可能使我们之间的距离也慢慢地增加，但若是你妹妹的话，就应该体恤哥哥的苦，不是吗？你为两人背起重担负但也够久了，我也非常的感激。但，中四，是个非常重要的一年...

说真的，是有点依依不舍。

而我自己也完全地明白在这时候，我还能非常自信地这样说，还不是因为那两个快要光头的。嗯，这又是另一件不可思议的事。在决定跟你少交谈时，在你忙碌的期间，又交到两个朋友，就是之前所提到的那俩。他们选择出现的时间还真的准啊；两个空闲无事做的人给我又烦又吵的。现在也就还好，还能跟几些人谈话。噢，等到他们去当兵时，而我自己平日回来时没有对方来密谈时，我很可能会希望能把这些话都收回去。

到时，前面的路到底要怎么走呢...

this soft-footed malady-

What is this foreign pain in my heart, quivering so gently in my bosom? Like a fretful restless child, rocking, rocking itself at my heart, plaintively whining out for some comfort, some ease, for a cradle to rock it back to sleep.

See that child, my heart, lie on the bed, curled up, ashen and broken. Yet with such vivid bright eyes she looks on, eyes that burn with a light all of its own. That’s the reason why it sears this time is it not? Those eyes, eyes that have seen life, that have blinked, but flicker open again, to take in the deep rich claret of the liquid of life, and the dazzling fuchsia of some unknown flower, and the gorgeous greens tracing out the veins of life in a leaf. And yet the rest of it is so wasted, so small, so, so… shriveled.

It makes me not myself.

This light-toed ache that steps around in my heart is nothing I would want to wish on the most beloved of friends, nor the greatest of enemies. So I am not supposed to tell, not supposed to speak, not supposed let the smallest mention of it slip out from my lips to anyone, anyone who can comprehend even the smallest fraction of it. Yet my whole self is trembling with the weight of this light ache, like a babe, it’s so new, tender, and helpless, and it is this very frailness, this delicate fragility that makes it almost a precious heavy weight.

Yet telling it to someone who does not comprehend, and unable to offer me any comfort, unable to say, “I understand” only causes me to make a forced smile, not wishing to disappoint the person whom I have just imposed myself on. And nothing is eased, so why bother expending my energy to tell it to another…

So who, who can I tell it to?

A second of pause, as eyes survey the world, the people milling about, the broken, the fallen, the beggars along the streets… the happy, the assured, the ones who’ll give you advice… the strong, your loves, the friends you trust. A low sigh, kept soft for the fear that others might hear, before the hands methodically arrange the sequins, rhinestones and feathers on my Venetian mask.

The second ticks down to the masquerade of life.

Ah yes, let's make this a proper blog and jolt down all those thoughts that passes through my mind, and not write fiction for a while at any rate. Even if it does echoes, even if it does reflect, the art of writing has left me, the exhilaration that I once had at crafting is pretty much almost gone, because I am at the brink.

1.
The cat came to me! It felt good to stroke and feel that fur, and fondle, and let it walk round my legs, and about and around. And I think about that cat that I once always stroked every morning before I went to school, and what joy it was to see it come, and rub against my legs. And I also recall that huge white dog which I stroked and fondled, and I realised with a pang how much I've missed all these.

2.
I carried her! Oh cute little baby. She squirmed, and I had to put her down in the end, but to be able to even carry her for a few seconds was wonderful. Such a beautiful celebration of life. And once again I think to myself, little kids, little kids are so so so beautiful.
And then another little girl pesters me to play badminton with her, and pout and make faces and do puppy eyes and start whining until I give in, and she tries my patience, oh yes she does! But your heart can't help but soften.. and you give in.

3.
He noticed! He asked, and we laughed together at my stupidity, and it felt nice, real nice to have someone attentive and caring, and that's all I need, that's good enugh for me. He's not that bad, I think to myself.
Then again... I have always knew that, and so it was not unexpected. But just nice, real nice, and really sweet and kind of him. I walked back with him, just to make the moment last a bit longer.
And it did.

4.
I climbed over the gate! Was probably captured on the school's cctv camera. Some smart move. But it was my first time.
This time, if the school reports back and pastor tells us about it I shall be the one in the wrong. Which would be rather refreshing.
Then again lately, she has caught me in the wrong. Not that she wants to make me feel guilty, but just to make me think. And I do. Does saying that I just came along with my parents an excuse or not?
At any rate I climbed over the gate.

Wounded.

Sounds extremely pathetic.

In the morning, where it is all brightness around, with the sun high up and big in the sky, filling the world with light and making me visible, I declare vehemently, no I am not! And then laugh, and smile, and run and skip around. I am not the one wounded, but the one whom the wounded come to. And in all my immaturity I promise to listen, and to understand, and to try to understand even if I don't. To realise how frustrated, and upset you are, how your mind is in a whirl, how your heart hurts, how coiled up you feel and share your burden, by looking quietly on, by being with you, by answering the questions you ask while doing your homework, by being your brain, your worker, your logical side that needs to get work done for a moment.

And to be hyper when you want it, to jump and skip into a high, to be the life of the party! Because when I don't I drag you all down, and make you all feel gloomy and dejected too, for in one's own happiness you can still be wounded, be hurt, be made gloomy by seeing the pathetic image of another slumped, in her full agony and pain. No rose-tinted glasses can make rosy the sight of a beggar picking at his sores and boils and scabs, wearing a weary face, with tired eyes, blood-shot and teary.

I do not want to be a burden, and this is the end result of it all. And some says an acquaintance is someone you know well enough to borrow from but not lend to, and others exclaim, "that's so true!" and yea, perhaps it is, but it seems to work the other way round for me, that I would be more than willing to lend all my stuff to another person I just know if I can afford it then, but dare not, dare not impose myself on the person.

As long as it will make you happy?

Yea, pretty much.

But seems like it's not something you can carry on for a long time. A few years, a few years, and it has taken its toll, and it's just that bit harder, to put on the..

Should I say mask? But, that sounds almost negative. It's not meant to be so. After all, it's only killing me, and I accept it willingly. It's not meant to be fake, insincere.

It's not..

At night the cover, the mask, the whatever-you-call-it drops, and I rant and vent, and then when I've cooled down, I realise again what I have done. I apologise for imposing on you. And I say a million sorrys and I keep thinking I should not keep imposing on you but but..

I cave the next night, because the whatever-you-call-it is actually quite draining. Funny, funny that I should only realise it now, but it felt fine, it felt glorious, because I wanted to be the caregiver. I still want to. But what is the net total of care now. What what is it. In the negative values perhaps? I can't have that!

I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm really fine, and then you ask, "am or will be" and I'm at first surprised when I realise the difference a change of words make, and if it would make you feel better, I'll keep the difference in mind.

When I think of all this one word comes to mind.

Insatiable.

I pretty much don't trust myself anymore.

They say trust is a valuable gift, a precious present, and one should be careful about who you give it to.

Well, after much evaluation, I think I can't give it to myself. Which speaks a load really, for if I don't even trust myself, who can? Who can put their faith in someone still so impressionable, so easily shaken, so indecisive. I don't trust myself. I believe that I'm unable to trust myself. Should I trust this belief and thus not give the gift of trust to myself?

Hahaha.

oh. I've just lost my train of thoughts..

Told you I can't trust myself.

Are you fast or am I slow?

A simple statement overheard drives my brain into overdrive.

Almost.

If not for the lulling waves and gently rocking waters that so lovingly soothes my mind, and fills a great part of it all. Savouring savouring, taking it in, my brain breathes in that wonderful picture while pondering over it all. And it feels good, to be able to feel quite detached from it all.

Feel. detached. That's all I need for now.

And I think and wonder at the two options that are suddenly presented. To compliment myself and agree that yes I'm fast? Or to just conclude that my reaction is normal and you're plain slow.

I could always reply "both", but doesn't that spoils the fun of a good thought?

So perhaps I should say, "I'm fast". Compliment myself, stay nice, and not insult you so directly. Your feelings before mine, that's all dearie. For saying you're slow can be quite a direct insult, a mock light-hearted teasing. But yet if I'm a friend, perhaps I would indeed reply with you're slow instead, for it is a light-hearted teasing that shows how comfortable I am around you, and such closeness is warranted among friends.

The thoughts continue and then come to an end, and I feel the bobbing of the boat, and see the waves, and buildings far away..

And that's all I take away with me today. The memory of the bobbing, the motion of up and down in my head. So strong, so very strong. The rising and falling, and light hands, so light, so light, so light...

Please excuse me. My brain has decided to go for a bumboat ride.

And I think I would just reply with "both" after all.

The wind whistles.

I have not felt this good for a VERY long time.

Alone alone!, zooming down a lonely road. Waiting waiting, for the van to come roaring by, and thinking, whether I'll be able to control myself well enough, or would nerves give way and cause me to swerve. This IS the brink. And I'm looking down at that big yawning abyss, and this is my thoughts manifested physically around me. To think few days back I was standing at the abyss in my mind, and a few days later, (now!) I am facing a physical one!

And I survive, I managed to stay at the side of the road, and the van passes by, and it amuses me greatly that if I did not pass this test I might not have had another chance. But I've passed! The van chortles on its merry way on, and it seems befitting for it to pass, and leave me once again alone on my lonely road.

If I can do it once I can do it again. Is that not always the thought? Even though life is full of its unpredictabilities, and even the most experienced can get knocked out of the game. But this is my moment, this is the moment I shall not care, but laugh with full gaiety. So zoom zoom zoom! and let thoughts run wild, and see tame stray dogs, and crash into the bushes and laugh, because you are alone and no one sees, and pick yourself up, and feel the tremble in your legs and laugh again.

And it feels good; savouring the feeling of loneness, climbing up by yourself. To deny help from anyone else, to brush away the soil yourself, to go on sailing into your own world, to cruise down the slopes and feel that sweet whistle of swift wind passing by your face, and all around is but a delicious whir of green for your senses pleasure, and I tremble, I tremble at the immense greatness of it all. How sweet, how sweet all of this is, this rush of exhilaration, an ecstasy of all my physical senses

AND I AM FREE FROM THOUGHTS FOR A MOMENT. The world spins and spins and spins, and I see a familiar white bird, so dear to my heart, and so often lovingly seen before, and I braked, and go forward, and bend down and I properly look at my wounds for once, and they're all just skin-deep wounds.

I can't decide, whether a really bleeding gash would have been a better memento of the fall I've taken. Or is it just better for me to escape with temporal wounds?

I see people with scars on the back of their hands, and I think to myself, these are people with stories to tell! And I think about the time my cousin accidentally struck the penknife into her leg, and how she said she didn't even realise it at first, and didn't even realise that pain had sunk in, that she felt no pain at first.

Was it due to the body feeling so much shock that it numbed it all? Or was it just the nerves in so much shock it took a while to convey the message?

No, perhaps I should not be asking that, but just this: "Can I handle a scar?"

But for now, the wind just whistles.

And I'm thinking, I should go try it again.

The tiny insubstantial threads of emotion floats lightly about; bobbing, swaying gently from one corner of my heart to another. Such is what once-highly intense, sometimes almost painful emotions have been reduced to with the effect of time and events. Just little wisps of grey smoke from a dying fire.

Absence, makes the heart fonder, so they said. And I guess it is true at times, if you keep up the memories, and know that one day absence will turn to presence. Hope and absence makes for a sweet cool drink. But, with no reminders, and with no hope, the distance just grows.. exponentially even. Till there seems to be a wide gaping chasm between us.

I sit on the bank of the chasm, and look at you, so little a figure in the far distance. Paper aeroplanes that contain my messages to you are thrown over, but the distance is so far they don't reach you, but drop into the deep dark chasm. And my eyes watches them fall, a lone plane of white descending into unknown darkness, never to meet your eyes.

And it hurts a little. But it used to hurt even more. With each aeroplane thrown and the certainty of no replies, it hurts less and less. It almost feels like a school lesson in no expecting anything. I think I'm learning pretty well, though I'm still quite bad at it. It's a good thing that I'm making improvements, because it is a lesson that probably needs to be applied quite a lot of times throughout life.

My eyes are lifted back to you, and you are just carrying on your daily tasks and chores, making new friends, smiling, laughing, making a fool out of yourself. But I'm learning, and the ache is subsiding. Still, I sit myself on the edge, and pull my legs up towards me, and rest my head on my knees and look at you. I try to fix my vision onto your eyes, your forehead area.

But I see nothing. Your thoughts, are closed to me, which was how it has been for quite a while already. How different it is. Yet it has been so for so very long.

I don't think I really want it to be this way. But how would I feel if it was any different? I don't know. Are there things called fresh beginnings? Or is it just not meant to be? But what are the use of such questions, when you are already caught up in the activities of your dreary life, the details of which I do not know.

Am I seeking to know about the details of your life? That's not it, not fully. I'm not asking for a storyteller. It's more than that..

To be in the precious position of a close friend. That's what I would like to be. To think I still want to be so when the all that is left seems to be glowing red embers. Yet this is the thought that still runs through my head.

Yes, you say I am, but such words are empty and hollow, just standing on its own. Without actions, it's plain meaningless. A shell of nothingness.

How does one's mere presence brings about such?

... your thoughts are closed, but I have the feeling it's the same for you. Wordless actions says much.

It's late at night. The stars are hidden by the clouds, stark grey against a deep navy blue, a blue so deep, the girl thought she would be absorbed by it all if she stared any longer. Yet, it didn't. She held her umbrella, and stood there at the side of the streets.

The newspaper forecast had predicted that it would rain in the evening. She had taken her new umbrella, with its clear plastic and white handle, so pristine, clean, sleek and smooth. She had taken it, huddled it close to her, close to her heart, and stepped lightly out of the room, gently resting the umbrella on the table before pulling on white rain boots, and a pink poncho. And her hands reached for the umbrella, and she held it close to her heart once again, and out she went.

She was ready, like never before. Ready for the onslaught of thick heavy water tumbling onto her, cold slinky wetness gracing her poncho but touching not her skin. Her pale wan face, graced by gently barely-there curls of fair hair peeking from under the pink hood of the poncho, was upturned towards the skies, her umbrella firmly gripped in her right hand.

So many times before she had been caught out in the rain, helpless and frail and not knowing what to do. So many times she was a victim of it all, as the cruel rain lashed down upon her, trickling down her fair curls, down the curve of her cheeks, with absolutely no mercy. Her hair got wet, her clothes got soaked, her dump socks squished in her shoes and every inch of her whole body cried out for release.

But today, today she was prepared, ready like never before. Today she'll hold her own. And she waited.

And waited.

And waited and waited and waited and waited.

But the sweet skies refused to let their water babies go. And it was late. It was really, really, really late. She still had work ahead tomorrow. Duties to fulfil, tasks to complete. Work ahead.

So the hand that held the umbrella lowered itself just a little, as though giving a little sigh. And her whole body was like a little sigh, hunched up, looking so sorrowful, so pathetic, so quiet, that ethereal figure of pinks hues and whites, with fair curls peeping out from just under the hood. Then suddenly, like the whole sigh had been given a straightening, it broke. The back was straightened, the hand erect.

And there was a joyous burst of clear plastic, held against the deep blue sky. And jumps were made into imaginary puddles, laugher at fake droplets of cold icy water against her face.

The night is so very cold.

I remember cold nights like this one in the past. Colder ones. With the chilly wind making its way in through the window, curling around my feet, my legs, my thighs and bare arms. Circling and tightening around my neck, breezing round my face. I remember lots of cold nights.

But I don't remember a single cold night where I've felt so empty lost and helpless.
Oh cold nights and cold nights and cold nights, but tonight's the first night where all is cold and there's no shrug.

The numbness has given way to cold. A mild cold that so quietly envelopes the heart with tender embraces. Soft heavy kisses that makes you wanna curl up into the fetus position, to bring your legs up to your heart. To be small and insignificant. To protect your soft underside and hide your vulnerabilities and weaknesses.

Raindrop splatter. Plop plop, wet, cold. Like snow freshly melted, like a fantasy turning back into reality. Plop. So this is the weight of a few million molecules. Plop. So this is how it feels like to be caught in the rain.

Funny. I was expecting more. More impact. More cold. More falling down, trickling down my neck, over my arms, into my eyes, wetting my pants, drenching my shirt. But none comes.

So this is why people feel that certain things can't be washed off.

Gloom and despondency, gloom and despondency.

Emptiness like a wide open space. Not even echoing. No echoes. Just a thick stillness of air that stifles, down my mouth, forcing its way down.

It's almost giddy to be so intent and still, the nerves of all my brain seemingly all at one painful spot. Yet... not. Just, just so very frozen in one spot.

One by one people walk past, shaded by their world of little umbrellas. Silver silver silver. Then the occasional break in the monotony of silver by an umbrella given out by the world of consumerism. Then silver silver and silver. One by one they walk by, pass my eyes, another blink, and they're gone, far away. So many, so many that I don't remember anymore.

And curled up there, it's so cold.