my heart will always be with you-



I couldn't resist posting it in the end.

I set out to write a piece, about canning jars and preserving hearts, surrounding them with vinegar, according to a dear friend's instructions. Apple cider vinegar specifically, because it burns, burns.

Wanted to freeze it, numb it, get rid of it. Any jar would do, but I would like it to be relatively pretty. Keep it preserved in a pretty canning jar, heavy solid clear glass and tarnished metal lid, store it up high somewhere until it gathers dust, and be discovered, one day, by someone else, who would wonder, why, and yearned to know how.

Perhaps tie a ribbon round it, with a rolled up piece of paper, with the same instructions.

Cider vinegar, the perfect ending. That I should have tasted the sweetness of warm apple cider on a cold Germany night, after a cold walk from the bus to the picturesque cottage, real wooden logs and strong warm fires lighting up the windows, licking at the sizzling fats - bacon, sausages, various meat chops, a delicious heaping of mashes potatoes and diced potatoes.

Coming in through the door and being greeted with friendly, "hellos!" and warm cups of a beautiful golden liquid that was sweet, sweet, sweet, and cups of warm wine afterwards, even, beautiful burgundy purple and warm to the touch.

Going up to see a tapestry of stars, a surreality of inky blackness that just stretches out far and beyond, no street lights projecting artificial illumination, just pure glorious inky darkness, and stars and more stars littering the entire place, like someone had taken a pail full of white glitter and fling it happily to the sky.

The warmth of sharing, of new friends, and old friends in the mind, of a shy good-looking boy who was not eloquent in English but charming as could be, even with a lack of words to say. Of walking in the dark, out to the lonely roads, eyes cast upwards all the time, taking in the glitter, the sparkle, the blanket of stars. So, so many beautiful little pinpricks of light.

A beginning that becomes the end. Sweet to sour.

But at the very last second, a pause. I don't want to hurt myself anymore.

She scatters her rose petals casually over the table.

There is, imperfection. So, she painstakingly shifts the position of some petals. Takes some up and let them fall again. Turn some over. Spread some out with her hands. She wants the backdrop to be perfect.

She places a glass on the table. A baby bloom rose like a newborn babe gently rests in its self-contained glass, a broad variegated green leaf wrapped round it, brought up, curled up, seemingly specially created just to create a safe little arbour for its fair young charge. Soft whispery moss surrounds the rose, gentle strands of green hair forming so soft a bed.

Nestled deeper into the various petals and moss strewn around lies a rosary - the carved figure of Christ crucified on a cross, arms stretched out, head bowed down, acted as a pendant. A small pendant. It is on a string of small wooden beads, with string coiled round occasionally. Two and a half rounds around my thin wrist, less if it was on a bigger wrist.

Usually unremarkable unless they're made from some notable material perhaps. But here she was, an Anglican, with a glass cup that contains a rosary, placed prettily among other stuff.

A rosary given by a little boy with charmingly beautiful eyes and blonde golden hair, among the seats of one of the tallest cathedrals, a beautiful Gothic church with soaring ceilings, a boy who may or may not have been a a little pickpocket more than anything else really, a boy who, who..

Who she would want to see in heaven.

In the after-life.

Everyday my heart draws closer and closer to yours, in ways I could never imagine, at all.

Despite all wounds, or hurt, or pain. Despite all troubles, or ailments, or just the times when I feel frustrated and angry. Despite my moodswings, despite the moments of depression now and then, despite the times I get so weary...

In times when I see a crowd of people, a messy throng of humans all scattering about to their various destinations, the flashing neon lights of various advertisements, the towering buildings of such, such, immense! height, dearest. In times like these, when I feel so small and alone, a little speck that would be lost, unnoticed, snatched away and made to vanish. In times when I wish I had something, anything, a little fan, or hat, or clothes the brilliant iridescent electric blue of the Ulysses butterfly, if only because it could be spotted far away. In times like these, sudden lonely cold moments, it is you I think of.

So long as you're with me, dearest, it seems like I'll never get lost.

Everyday my heart draws closer and closer to yours, in ways I could never imagine, at all.

The Occasional Friend-

(not a poem)

The friend that you see once in a blue moon,
Say hi to, smile, yell out, heyyy you daoed me!
The one which you joke to, tease about, laugh with,
Think about the past, the primary school silly antics
Sometimes turn the topic to something serious - say,
A problem, here and there. This boy I don't know how to handle,
How I dislike complicated people
How some people are so clingy I want to run away
Then recieved some sage old-man (kidding) wise words
And feel happy.
And not talk to for a while again.

But it's ok.

Someday, once in a blue moon,
we'll talk again,
for one more time.

=)


`To those occasional friends: Jia Xin, Wei Seng, Jian Liang, Alvina, Li Hui (aiya, all the seniors), Min Ying, etc. Too many to list!

I date a guy whose first date, and wife, was a M16.

She was thrust into his arms a year plus ago, in the most ungentlemanly manner - not worthy for a lady like her, he said.

Regardless, he had been dreaming of it for so so long, and he embraced her, graceful or not, with a confusing mixture of anticipation and reluctance all at once. The initial senses took in her feel, her sweat, her oil, her texture, her thick coarse disturbing tan, black skin - she had not the smoothest of skin, but no matter. Their rites of ceremony had not been performed with the usual grace typical of a church wedding, but his wife she was now, as long as she was his.

He always preferred to take things slow, but with her he had to get acquainted, fast. The father-in-law taught him how to handle her, brought him through all the stops. She was a picky princess, spoilt to the ultimatum just because she was paralysed, never having to move a hand in service for herself - though perhaps, to be fair, it was also in part due to the great power that she herself had.

Pretty shy and quiet she was in the beginning, and at first they didn't spend too much time together, but that was soon all to end, she clung on to him, showing what a spoilt picky brat she was, and he had to hold her, hug her, piggyback her (things which I have all yet to experience myself). And all these he did, even if her arms were in an awkward protruding position. He learnt well from the father-in-law, learnt how to keep her in her best state, how to push all her buttons to clean her, and all kind of other stuff that are sorta lewd in saying, though entirely functional only in action.

A true burden she felt like at times, and all his effort had to be concentrated onto pampering her, but well, admittedly, she made him feel safe too, at times. Good times they had, his life depending on her almost entirely.

Sometimes he still miss her.

Hmm, I guess I'm fine with that.

I was thinking about my various blog addresses.

Maybe, just maybe, my choosing a url address related to your email address was a subconscious suggestion that I sorta liked you had a good impression of you, found you quirky, fun to be with.

You've always made me laugh, though it's silly things that I tease you about, and really stupid acts and declarations such as, I am going to steal your identity: changing my font to grey just to make you unsettled and sputtering, trying to worm out from you who your crush is, etc, etc.

You're also one of the few who can really stun me - you know that? It doesn't take all that much to surprise me I guess, but still, at times, I find myself surprisingly caught off-guard, mind a sudden blank, unable to come up with a reply or light-hearted retort when I usually can - I love twisting words and arguments after all. But you, you with your frank and straight-forward replies, you who goes more for understatements than overstatements, I'm unable to come up with a reply. Mind blank, but with a general feeling of happiness, light-hearted comfort and joy.. contentment. I can take joy in simple things.

I don't often.

But I can.

And you constantly remind me too...

Lately I've been getting on your nerves more, and you're angry and frustrated, weary, tired, burnt out.

And then I think back. About who you are. To me. What you've done. For me. The countless smses. Caring about things I care about. Helping to shoulder my burden. Reassuring me. Calling me though your bills are overshooting. Calling me just because I want to fall asleep with the last voice being that of a loved me. Calling me late at night though you are tired and in need of rest because "I can't do plate tectonics, I don't get it, I don't get it, I'm going to fail!". That you rather help me with plate tectonics than sleep though you are more in need of rest than me.

That you would talk to him, him who scoffs at you who tries to help him, when you're not obliged to, and only because I asked. He who does not value what you do at all and actually, seemingly, looks down on you with a critical eye that does not turn to himself and see what he is like. He, whom I finally realised I really really don't want to talk to or care about, because it is obvious that he doesn't care for the things I care about.

But you would, talk to such a person.

Even though you're tired and burnt out and frustrated over army stuff, and yet, and yet, not telling me about it because I am so close to crying myself and ask that you "don't tell me, not today. tell me tomorrow".

At a time when I want to most to tell you I love you, you're away, and I'm feeling slight guilt for all my actions of yesterday.

So, I post it here.

I know not what your reaction will be, I only know that I am weak, and bad at controlling my emotions, that I moodswing a lot, extremely, swinging up to an extreme, almost child-like high in the day where people expect me, need me to be high and hyper and crazy and like the most brilliant psychotic burst of sunshine,

and that you, are willing to hold me when the energy's all gone in the dead middle of the night and I am morose and sombre and depressing.

Nobody likes a complainer, but you would bear my complaints, when you're not even bound, obliged to.

That, is precious.

cotton candy clouds-

It was a glorious sight that greeted my eyes when I came out of the house - the various tall buildings of the heartland shrouded in bluish-grey mist, edges blur by the distortion, seemingly rising out of nothing, merely thick thick smoke, as though one could plunge in and never reach end, as if there were countless mysteries beneath, as if, someone had finally succeeded in constructing buildings on the cloud. And yet, to my right was a cloud dyed pink, orange, light - it glowed, puffy, nearly round, the most gorgeous of orangey-pink, pinkish-orange, like the most delicious of cotton candy, a flavour of, of... who knows? A strawberry with a hint of sweet orange? The other way round? A dash of red dragonfruit, sweetened with the juice of pears?

Perhaps, perhaps, in the sky there grows a fruit beyond our imagination, or perhaps the clouds are fruits, and the sky one giant creeper that holds on to a ceiling which we cannot see. The clouds its fruit - one that blooms from the gentle streaks of long flowers into gigantic puffy mass in the sky that would then explode into rain – no, seeds, that sought a home in the soil of the earth, but found none in the cold dank grey concrete or brick of pavement and buildings. Seeds with a life, which fought to live, which ducked away as though it was something not to be seen, which snaked here and there and finally laid there, dead, only to be picked up again by the sky, the heat of the sun after a long long while. But then, there are those, those that managed to find a home, in parched sand and rich soil, taken up and drank as life itself by plants and animals alike.

Or perhaps the clouds are baked treats, specially made goodies, in which more care and design had to be put into, in which the various good fruit, flavours and scent of the earth have to be gathered with gentle care by invisible hands, things that made their living up there among the wild restless playful winds and their mothers, still air. Then in the sky they are carefully kept, and slowly made, special treats for special days, like the birthdays of the various stars and winds.

What they are no one really knows, only that these clouds are plucked (thought not often) by quick nimble fingers, fingers with mouths waiting eager for the treat that would follow after. A fruit, a dessert? – no one knows those, only that these pink-orange tinted clouds have sugar was pure, sweetness was light, which when eaten brought people up, made them float into the sky

Such, is the fate of all people who managed to reach the clouds, touched it and tasted a piece for themselves. They float up, up, up into the sky, never to come down, not able to be seen by others, never able to tell their story to anyone. I’ve seen them before – it was mere luck that brought me close to a cloud, and better luck for one of those cloud person to warn me before I put the sweet pink light cloud I had just snatched into my body - I never ate it, I let it go, which is why I say I do not know what it tastes like. But still I wonder. I wonder often. How they taste like. How they are made. How, they perform the strangest and most bewildering magic within us…

But I do forget myself - these things do wind on so. Look, while I was speaking the sky had turned blue, the sweetest and lightest of a robin egg blue, like a special dessert plate (dessert slave) just to hold the special cloud cotton candy lightness.

Today, a holiday. The family went over to my uncle's house to get stuff in preparation for my Germany trip. Big Luggage - check. Sweater, long-sleeved garments, outer jacket - check. Hat - (a pretty cute beanie)check. Gloves - check.

There were other goodies too, mainly in the form of bags galore. We returned with three bags, one messenger bag, one tote, one backpack. The backpack for use in Germany most probably (so I won't have to empty my schoolbag yea!); the tote bag taken because it was big and wow, hardly used; the messenger bag.. well, I like messenger bags, and um, um, the sis and bro stole the ones I have! (true!)

Point is, I got back home, and took a better look at how many bags I have, excluding all those huge haversacks and all. In particular, one bag.

Nature Society, Singapore, Project Painted Wings Tote Bag.

Boy was that bag cheap. And I could kick myself for not having bought more of them.

It is tattered and frayed now from heavy usage - my regular church bag it had been for a while, piled full of notes from morning lessons, a big chinese bible, an umbrella, two full water bottles at its heaviest.

But I can't bear to throw it away.

It is such a beautiful bag, bold in colour where its beautiful painted wings are indeed. Three gorgeous butterflies on each side, the perfect strap length to hang down from my shoulder somehow...

Can't nature society print more of these bags =( I love them so much, more than any bag really. It is probably the first bag I can't bear to throw - it was my first regular tote bag in a sense. I am a sentimental fool, but seriously, can't nature society print more of these bags.

For now, the bag is tucked away safely in this other big bag and tucked away in them bomb-shelter-storeroom (pray mommy won't find it, because she'll make me throw it away!)

Oh little bag, I hope you're loved as much wherever else you are.

in the darkness-

It is easy, to be depressed. Chart a number of ghostly figures in the clouds, hear the ebb of a fading voice.

Dream dreams, wild, foreign, the various hauntings of the past, his face, my fear, the past and the future mingling - one wild dishevelled girl calls out at the road that lies yonder ahead,

Come closer, closer, she sings a charming lullaby, light and lilting, sweet, a voice of honey, crafted exquisitely; so be the witchcraft that faeries lay. Closer, closer, still she sings, her voice melodious and fluid, her face a blur of mist. She beckons, like the sweetest of mothers, the most caring of sisters, the loving girlfriend.

Come-hither. Elegant, so full of winning grace, seemingly of gentle descent. Be she lost? Poor little lady - save poor was not fit for a lady of such willowy beauty, dressed in her flowing whites and the full picture of purity.

The road flows beneath, as if there was no need for one to move - she would come to you, even if you not to her. Slowly and slowly brought up to her, her entire figure still radiant and luminescent, as beautiful as the pearly white moon that glowed above, framed gently the softest of dark blue.

But pause you, wait. What fierce fear it is that has suddenly clutched round my heart, tight, wrenching, smothering. What weight there is suddenly around, why here, why now, what, where, when, how, NO!-

So dark, so dark, a fear so thick and strong it is all around, it is beneath the bed which I lie, it is above me in the sky, it is in the air which I breathe, it goes through my nose and into my lungs and make dark my heart and blinds my eyes and I can't see I can't see what is this what is this what is this what's going on why can't I see, where is she, where was she, the lady, the girl, where am I, I can't see, my eyes are open they're open they're wide open but it's all dark, it's all dark dark dark there's nothing to be seen not even my hand, not even my fingers where are my fingers where are me,

In the midnight hours she wrenches open her eyes and awake.

But there is only darkness, darkness, all around.

Wanted you to call because hearing your voice and talking to you cheers me up and makes me happy.

Though the actual call turned to one of quick disappointment, slight sober dejection at a realisation:

That this is reality: you're busy with work, and we don't exist in the same space all the time.

But you feel the same too. So near yet so far.

Times like this, it's time for a quick game of pretend. Pretending that I could really rest against your shoulder. That you're there.

A quick game of pretend indeed. Just.. Just to get on with life.

Ding ding ding dong. Dong ding dong dong. Dong. Dong.

And so the bell went off. It was the start of school, the start of school! And the little girl was frightened, she was frightened, she turned back and glanced at her mom, and her body turned round, and her legs steered her towards what was warm and comforting, familiar and family.

"Mommy, I don't want" she cried, as warm hands clasped her little out-stretched ones. But, that could not be so. Mommy calmed and comforted, told her she'll be fine, and sent her in.

And in she went into that new foreign world, with tall walls and high ceilings, big toilets with lots and lots of cubicles and sinks. Large rooms with tables and chairs, and bright splash of colours all around. A crowd of people who were shouting, yelling, running all about. Cries here and there. Oh, oh, what a dreadfully big place she was in.

With slow half-trembly steps she walked on - her heart was beating very fast and hard, she didn't know why. Her stomach felt... fizzy. Fizzy, fizzy, fizzing out. Horrible fizziness, horrible feeling.

And on she went and into her class, and there was a teacher, apple-shaped face (oh oh, is that a teacher? are all teachers like this? no wonder we give them apples) with rosy cheeks (such beautiful red, red like a red apple. so a red apple we give, and not green nor yellow). The teacher smiled and it was like the sun, so bright, so lovely, so warm.

And then she spoke, and she spoke, and she spoke, and the girl child was captured, enraptured, such lilting sweetness, melodious brightness, as if joy excitement and happiness had decided to come together to form a voice...

"Mommy mommy! Today in school... My teacher's name is... We learnt a, b, c.. She has such a nice voice.. 1+1 = 2.. Mommy, she has such a pretty voice... Mommy! Mommy! Did I tell you about my teacher..."

And the days passed so, and soon it was the end of school (Mommy mommy, is school really ending? Miss would still be here right?), and the parents had to come in to collect report cards.

"Mommy mommy! How did I do, how did I do, what did the teacher say?"

"What have you been doing my child?"

"Mommy..?" the girl child stopped her jumping, stood still, and looked up at her mom.

The news was broken most normally, but to the child it felt like the greatest of shock. Noisy, overly-talkative, hard to handle, rather difficult to find pleasure in teaching... Had she really been this horrible? Did she bring so much trouble? Did she make life for everyone? Was she really that hard to manage? She thought, and thought about it.

For the rest of the holiday, she was very, very, very quiet.

Isaac,

I love being your jewel.

I think about you-

The faint fragrance that still occasionally wafts from your jacket is very comforting and calming, even though I know it is just the fresh scent of recently laundried garments. But still, the subtle fresh warm, clean smell that catches my nose now and then again, in the cool morning air newly awakened, in the hours which are still dark and only lighted up by streetlights and moon perhaps, reminds me of you even more poignantly, and there is something about this cologne that calls me to trust you amidst all this uncertainty, tell me it is okay, that you are there, still there, steady and stable in your own way, especially when it comes to me. And at this time, that is nothing less than what I need, nothing more than I could really want.

I think about you often.

I feel like a little girl
Trying to conquer the whole wide world
Everybody wants a piece of me
And I just don't know where to turn
I've got work piled up to my head
All I want to do is jump into bed
And wash away my troubles with lemonade
Play hide and seek with the boy next door
Take a trip to Singapore and
Imagine how I'll make the world a better place

Chorus:
All I need is a good disguise
One where nobody can recognise
That I'm feeling so small
All I need is a secret weapon
I've gotta have faith
Zapping monsters into outer space
I'm gonna be a Superhero
Na-na-na-na-na-na
Na-na-na-na-na-na-na
Na-na-na-na-na-na-
Yeah

If I were a little girl
Trying to clean up the whole wide world
I'd kick the bad boys back to school
Teach them fighting's just not cool
I'd give every kid a teddy bear
Turn starving people into millionaires
Break glass ceilings with dynamite
Sprinkle a little sugar and spice
Turn the bullies that terrorize
Into pink poodles that bark, but don't bite

[Chorus]

Little Superhero Girl
Little Superhero Girl
Save me
Little Superhero Girl
Little Superhero Girl
Save me from myself

I feel like a little girl
Trying to conquer the whole wide world

(written by: Corrinne May Ying Foo)

For the first time this year I hold myself and cry without seeking him.

It's time to stop because, somehow, ironically and amazingly enough, it is immature.

Did you not say I was no longer a kid? That's true, and yet, I'm still not fully grown, and really, neither are you fully, even if you think your wings hardened.

Can you wait? Will you wait? But oh, these questions are senseless in the face of reality and change - it is unfair to me and to you, when there is still so much to see, really, really, so so much to see, and to find out, about me, about you, about the world, education, society, interaction.

The future is once again filled with uncertainties, more so than ever; the questions have burst like a flood, put together and becoming even more destructive than it already was with the blend of adult's perspective.

But, sweet your attention has been, the sweetest, dearest, most precious ever I have tasted for now - but perhaps I've let myself get carried away, too much of a good thing is bad, too much sweets are bad, perhaps I've gotten myself a little too drunk on with this half-delirious wine of closeness.

What I'm trying to say is - it was not a mistake, it never was, it was a beautiful beautiful thing that I am glad for.

The longing is once again strong in the heart, but this time it is tempered with pain - and I feel it again, pain going to the very center of my heart, not just a mild dull ache or weary heaviness, but a real, very real, pain.

And I cry, and cry.

But I'll stop.

I believe,

the knots in all of our hearts can be unravelled.

Or, at the very, very least, it would, somehow, become a bit less twisted, a bit less complicated. And when that time comes (believe this, no matter what, always) we'll be able to see it for what it is; a little knot that may hurt, yes. Sometimes a lot, sometimes,absolutely, absolutely, wrenching… But it cannot compare, it can never compare to what shall come - the greater, the sweeter, the more wonderful. The multitude of joy and delight, blessings and new loves that lie ahead; the gorgeous rainbows with a thousand prismatic hues; the most beautiful song of child’s laughter, and music; the lessons you learn which would teach you, and teach you well, how to look upon your past with a kinder gentler, more comfortable and understanding eye.

And when that time comes, we'll learn to breathe. Easier. And the pain will ease, and it would not matter if it hurt again – for it will fade away after,

always.

When you realise that, that time, that day, that second, that moment, shall be when the magic of miracles gently alighted on your shoulder and gave the gentlest of breath unto you before flitting away again. And you’ll never be the same – the realisation will always be with you, and the mark, the trace of magic shall always linger, glowing like the most precious jewel. And you will come across people who have realised it too, who you can exchange a look and smile of empathy. And you will come across people who don’t understand, and you shall help them, and lift them you will.

When that time comes, you will give thanks and be glad, for all the bad memories, however bad they were, for, without them –

You would have never made it here, right now.

So sing, shout, make a stand! There have never been more opportunities than where you are, right now, with all kind of possibilities ahead of you.

Remember,

When you are down, get stickers. Get lots of pretty stickers, because you like pretty stickers.

Get some temporary tatooes.

Get something different, unexpected. Something pink, if it suits your mood.

Draw on the mirror. Draw a car, because you like drawing cars.

Sing. Hum. Make music.

Read. Talk. Think. Word.

Look at the sky.

Breathe.

Care for others. Stop thinking about yourself. Ask other people how they are.

Dream.

I have to remember, that time passes very fast now. That there seems to be no time enough, for all the things I want to do.

I have to remember, to pace myself. To not spend myself in one thing and rely on others to clean up after me and pieces my scraps together. It is tempting to spend all of oneself in one thing, but no - there are other things ahead, there are other people to consider.

I have to remember, to prioritise. That there are a million and one things I can do, but I need to think about what is most important, how much time to spend on it, how much luxury I can afford myself. I need to say no, more often. However much I hate to.

I must remember, to jot stuff in my notebook. Like it or not my memory is not as good as it is, anymore, and I forget. I forget.

I must remember, not to indulge myself. I need to grow up, I need to realise that - the responsibility is great, the burden heavy, but I have to carry it, and carry it well, that there is not much of a safety net under me any longer, that I am pretty much already out in this wild world.

I have to remember, a lot of stuff.

(this is probably the closest to sight than any of my other pieces. there is nothing pretty or redeeming about it - none in images, none in language. cruel, ugly, depression... dejection. you have been warned)

Dejection-

There was a boy who was crying.
Little small child red in the face
Squealing and squalling at the top of his lungs,
Loud sharp shrills that punctuated the air,
Vengeful. Unrelenting. Seeking, seeking, seeeeeeeeking.
Little fist snaking up,
Tight fist round mother's shirt
Grabbing for mother's harassed breast
Sweat, sweat down mother's brow,
Furrowed brow and knitted eyes,
Creases upon creases of skin
Over and over again

There was a boy I could not fathom
Sitting right beside me.
Right wrist in pain and heart perhaps breaking,
Shield over his heart, crying -
Was he crying? I don't know, I never know,
I am a simple ignorant creature besides this chaos of being
Who spins his immature web of thoughts,
and captures,
without realising
Who is stupid and idiotic, and maybe should be shot,
Except that his misguided nobility is heartbreaking,
Heartbreakingly beautiful

There was a boy who was beyond,
Beyond my contact,
What with a dead phone and
His new number
Which I could not remember
Sitting beside a boy lost,
Cries that hurt my heart,
And yellowed fuzzy images of
Depression,
Dejection,
Perversity of life
In general

there is much tenderness in the air-

A few days can result in swift changes.

I have greater inspiration and at least a few ideas running in my head at last. I started calling someone bro, whom I really do like and so far think is a nice bro. I have new responsibilities, I have a whole list of projects ahead to get through - liaising, initiating, seeing through.

These are the roles which the president of mentoring club has set down for me -
Club Managing Director
The CMD is overall in charged of organizing activities (intra club activities - courses and orientation and metees-mentors bonding activities)
Further duties:
Sourcing, initiating and coordinating external activites (ie. Mentoring Camp/Flag Day/Workshops)

And I have also gotten the role of Green Club president, which probably means all this -
Running a club
Pushing for people to fulfil deadlines
Major events: Clean and Green Week, Green Club Camp for Primary School Kids
Other things: Updating of Green Club Blog, Ad-hoc Events, Liaising With Other Schools, Organising Sharing Sessions (Informal/Formal), Utilising Yahoo E-Groups (probably for competitions)

I am going to have a crazy year ahead, and it will pass by so very very fast, about 40weeks, and each week going by so quickly. I don't know what will happen, but there is one thing I know -

I said something last night, and I meant it. I have willingly given up my choice, for the first time, for something I believe will be sweet and sweeter. I don't know what's going to happen, I don't know when it will be so-called official, but I'm not scared, or at least, less scared, and more willing to learn. I'm sorry for saying all that stuff about reverting back to those emotional roller coasters and killing myself so, but those I did not meant, and I'm even more resolved now to at learn how to pace myself at least. You did not know this, but before I told you all that I had turned down an offer to help other little kids... I still have a lot of things to juggle, but at least I'm trying to say no too.

I'll try, I'll learn, I'll grow from a little girl you like to a woman you love. Perhaps all these are premature, but I wish not - and I hope that the fact that I do not really shy away from the word woman would mean something (though I am pretty sure I will still like being called little girl). It probably will not be easy, but it seems that right now, you there will already make it easier. Love you, Isaac.

A big shout-out to the friends too, who have always been there for me, helping me through decisions, buffering me up to say no to what was really never my obligation, helping me to come to a balanced view of things, being there physically and being willing for me to transfer the rap over to them, or for giving me advice and making me realise what implications my actions might have, or just listening to me rant and being sympathetic, giving me hugs when I need it, telling me it'll be all ok, snapping and ranting at me to shake me up and realise I have so much to be thankful for, trying to pull me back so I don't change for the worse, always constantly telling me I think too much, that it's not that complicated, that I should focus, going with me to all kind of random places, getting all kind of random stuff, making time for me even though each of you all have a million other things to worry about, giving me phone calls, making me feel better. Thank you, Karene, Melesa, Faustina, Jiaying, Charlotte, Gan Ge... I love you all too.

And for the one who gives me heartaches, headaches as well as gladness, for the one so selfless and praying for me even when he's in great pain, the one who wants to always see me happy with a smile on my face, thank you Yi Sheng. You're going to be okay, all right?

For that new friend found who's watching out for me and preserving on like a guardian angel even though he gets so weary he doesn't know if it's worth it, thank you Shu Li.

To the one who always tell me to keep my eyes on the Lord and entrust everything to him, thank you Hon Yee.

And thank you Jun Hao: the one who is willing to treat me to stuff and listen to me although he does not fully understand, and sit with me for lunch and listen to me rant

And I can't forget the seniors, Alvina, Li Hui, Yi Tyan, Ruo Shuang, Wei Seng, Jia Xin... I can go on and on about the mentoring seniors, and the seniors squared and cubed and all they have done.

Thanks be a feeble word to acknowledge all your care and concern in watching out for me, but I hope you all would tolerate its inadequateness and understand the element of regard and love I meant with that one word.

There be a lot of people who are there for me, and there is much in the future, and so much I want to do. Oh that I would always be able to return to this entry and gain motivation and strength all over again, that even if anything turned out to be false the most will still stay true, and I know I have much to be greatly thankful for, that I should go on with a smile and happiness, and not brood and pine too much about the past.

August-

The glint of raindrops on windows catches my eye, like the sudden sparkle of a hidden diamond that lies deep among some stone, with only one facet of it exposed. But alas, while the sparkle of a diamond speaks of hopes and beauty revealed, the snaky trail of a raindrop sliding down the vertical surface of the window pane only indicates the heavy storm, the lashing of angry raindrops upon the now, grey and dark earth. Passionate grey maidens high up in the sky weeps their violent tears, heavy and forceful, unleashing their anguish to the world below.

And like a comforting friend the earth stands still, quiet and supportive, allowing the wrathful rants plummet deep into its very core. Shaken and troubled on the inside, as frail and helpless, but it allows those heavy curses crash deep into it. It rights itself, steadying, keeping that upright posture. Only the ruffled waters reveal the turmoil, the clashing of chaos deep within.

I am but quiet too, looking on at this wild display. Though sheltered I am by huge structures of bricks and cement, the same whirlwind of emotions flow through my entire body, robbing it of vibrancy and previously known joys. It is almost comforting to look on at a display of sheer power and might, without any participation in it. A sudden gust of cold wind enters the room - my skin prickles, hairs on end as little goosebumps appear on my skin. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine.

But no one notices.

Trapped and confined by four walls, the mighty forces crash just a few metres outside, but the steady drone of an adult voice continues. Black ink on white board appears as the marker tip streaks across, first one stroke, then the other. Line by line, and letters appear, then to form words, which became sentences. So the strokes are seen as meaningless when looked at individually, but the entire picture comes to form something with meaning.

But does having meaning means it is meaningful?

I think of the wild dolphins that might be cruising along the waves a few thousand kilometers away. I think of the surfers, the sailors. But with a sudden pang I recall to mind the great distance that stretches out. Right now I am only here, in this classroom, securely on my seat. A big pink and grey bag lies at the foot of the table, but it contains no world of knowledge, only heavy piles of bound pages filled with symbols. It’s no time to rest yet.

Lack of sleep has had its toll on me. My head spins, and an occasional spasm of pain rocks my whole head at times. The desire to drop my head and close my eyes is strong, rocking my body with a power that could match the storm. I shake my heavy head, cringing at the pain it brings, but as dulling as the pain is, the sudden shock also renews me for a little while more. Only but a few minutes left to break-time. That’s when I can have my rest. That’s when I can seek momentary refuge.

Another shiver rocks my body as I sniff. I wish I had brought tissue. How cold can this get? Twenty-eight people in this one same room, but everyone caught up in their own little world. The girl sitting beside me is quietly writing away. Soft voices at another corner travel to my ear. Yes, they are living creatures with the same red liquid as mine flowing through their veins. The memory of a criticizing voice flows across my mind. Yes, they are living creatures with the capability to think.

The bell finally rings with its familiar tune. The teacher stops; I stand and give the commands to rise and greet. And this was it – break-time. A loud bright chatter fills the class, contrasting sharply with the gloom of the storm. I fish out my breakfast from my bag, and walk out of the classroom. The crashing sounds of rain hitting ground greet my ears.

I stand under shelter and wonder what it would be like to be out in this rain.

7th july last year-
(an sms exchange. it was a nice day.)

kor: booya. i demand to know how my one and only mei is feeling.

me: Cheered up by your sms =)

kor: physical well-being, i'm referring to! :D

me: Wah, don't want to tell. Later get denied of my job.

kor: stubbornness is one of the many qualities employers detest, with applicants showing such signs rejected at first sight.

me: Backache in the afternoon, and still hurting a little. But it was because I played a little volleyball yesterday and walked around a lot today conducting surveys I guess. Still easily tired, but I'm persisting on like the hardworking person I am and going about my tasks.

kor: mm i see. you really should take care of yourself. take a nice break when you have to, okay? and know your physical limits, please!

me: Yes kor. Waiting for the fireworks now!

kor: oh er you're at the rehearsals? haha, i was supposed to be a lifeguard there but i couldn't make it for many rehearsals. have fun, you.

-after a while-

me: Caught my fireworks =)

kor: describe. (5)

me: Bursts of brilliance. Explosions of white blue, red, green, yellow fairy dust, the sound of every launch rocking through your heart and seemingly a tangible force that goes around your heart, pushing and pulling. Boom boom boom and there are more and more of those brilliant lights, and then they are spreading out and further, beyond, and another second there are stars coming towards you, and the more they spread the more they seem to be coming towards you, closer and closer, nearer and nearer -are they going to come so close you can touch them- and the distance still rings with new and old booms, the world is lit alight with brilliance as the sparks sail with ease towards you - closer and closer, and closer! and EVEN closer; the booms have stopped as it soars nearer.. And then, all dissolve into the dark embrace of the night sky, there's the sound of clapping. The show has ended.

kor: what detail! but alas, what's that but sound of fury, and like a walking shadow, is a mere illusion with the trick of illumination

me: -aghast- what kind of kor is this to spoil his one and only mei's joy!

kor: it takes a realistic one, a person that's tangible and exists nowhere in the figment of imagination.
(few minutes later)
but when what remains is but a mash of combusted carbon, the beauty and art is, priceless.

me: Trying to redeem your awful act of making your mei fell from the clouds? =(

kor: fall, your grammar fails you. as the chinese saying goes, first bitter, then sweet. for others, like you, it's the other way round.

me: There, now you realise how deeply hurt she is - to have even made a grammar mistake - killjoy.

kor: i plead guilty to the murder of my mei's joy. what i would like to receive as punishment is to be able to cheer her up. how do you find the prospect of being in jc next year?

me: I don't really know what to think. It sounds exciting, activities-filled and all, but at the same time when you're still undecided about cca and subject choices and not feeling confident enough to even imagine taking your desired subjects it can be quite a headache and weight around your heart.

kor: mm what're you inclined towards? clubs and societies, sports or perf arts? humanities or the arts? how about the introduction of the opposite gender?

me: Humanities or the arts? Why wasn't science included? I might be more inclined to clubs and soceity, never really liked the audition part of performing arts, and as sporty as I look, my sport is nature rambles, or so I would like to think anyway. Introduction of opposite gender is a "so what". I'm not guy-shy, I don't have much prejudices against them, and I'm not going to date. End of story.

kor: freudian slip :/ i meant humanities or sciences - i guess i'm half-expecting you to go into humanities. mm at least you have a category to look at! mm i think it's the eating part that's most worrying, but that isn't for you, that's great! :D

me: You might want to uh, check your sms before you send. Fancy typing dating as eating... Yep we all know there might be girls crushing on you, and sending you love letters, so you can worry about it, and I'll try not to laugh too much. Mm, I'm inclined towards humans, but yea >< I don't feel good enough for it..

kor: o_O and grass is purple-striped. 'competence and calibre are not problems. the things to have are passion and a good attitude.

me: I'll keep that quote in mind. Ah, don't think it's that far-fetched kor, you can be quite charming. The charm of a diplomat in training ah. "he's cute!" which is a bit boo, cuz I want to remind your own and only mei, but oh well, that shall be life.

kor: who are you quoting! my nonexistent pet dog, is it? of course, a dog's master is always cute. i didn't get your last sentence, remind who of what?

me: Oops. Remain I mean.

I thought I had posted this before, but it turns out I haven't.

Written Valentine's Day last year.

We played on sun-kissed sand.

Warm, toasty warm dry sand tumbling in between our toes, as the lovely warm spread from toe to heart. The glorious evening sun outlining our silhouettes; and that full radiance and romance of it all seemingly at our heart, so very sweet, so very warm.

Laugher, chases around the sand, finding shells. Combing the sand meticulously for little pieces of art, those tiny tiny perfectly-shaped unbroken shells to show to you. Gently, gently stroking the surface, blowing the fine sand off. Turning round joyously, saying in almost a half-whisper of awe and wonder, "look what I found". Heads huddled together, a gentle sea breeze ruffling our hair.

Reverently placing all the little treasure into a small hole you dug. Hands gently smoothing sand back into the hole, a little soft pat at the end of it all after some deliberation. Stretching back up, looking at the expanse of glittering golds, purples and reds that stretch out before us, the sun low in the sky, big, bold. Feeling a presence of warmth around my hand as your fingers closed round mine.

It feels like the sun will shine on us forever.

"write me a cute poem"-

im a little robot, cute and hot
with metal skin and legs so short
a raspy voice with which i speak
and armour which you can never break

once i met a bright young girl
rebecca was her name, and within her
i saw such joy and happiness
i could not feel but helpless

for all i have is wit and will
but even then, but even still
no soul to speak, no life of mine;
at least i know a girl so kind!

credits to ratiopoem. thank you =)

To the People at Triple 1:

(Maybe one day if one of you all hit me close enough, enough, I'll send you this)

Talk to me again one day if you can at least understand, a little, the way I think.

I am not your budding saint, whatever you may think. I am a sentimental fool, which some of you have guessed. I can be extroverted, I can be wild, I can do all kind of crazy stuff. I can be frivolous and flippant and joking. Again, some of you have guessed. But usually, amidst you all, I am quiet, pondering, wondering, looking.

Don't mistake it for calmness. It's a storm here inside.

Talk to me again one day when you understand.

Words have a power on me. They always have. I cringe whenever you all dismiss it as "chim". Why? It's a mere difference of dismissing, and going one step further to unravel the train of thoughts. It's a difference between generalising and taking the effort to explore. Actions speak louder than words. If you dismiss it, why should I believe you care?

I can joke, I can laugh, I can have a good time playing games with you all. But stop generalising me as chim. Stop putting me on this non-existent pedestal - or perhaps a pit, for all I know. It's just a difference between asking how did it get here, or just dismissing it as literature-like.

Talk to me again one day when you understand.

What's so wrong about literature-like in the first place? They're not so much literature like but just an unraveling of thoughts. It's just a difference of effort. Just a difference of whether you engage with it or not. Just a difference of whether it makes a difference to you.

Love makes everyone poets. Sorrow makes people write the most heart-wrenching pieces.l I don't believe literature is inaccessible.

Talk to me again one day when you understand.

Good words hit. Some words raw, some stuff professional, sleek, pretty. So pretty, so enchanting, just as wildfire. I get lost in their world. I get lost in their train of thoughts, in their stream of consciousness. I get fireworks, explosions of thoughts and ideas, new insights, a new window of thought, heady, heady, the myriad of possibilties are absolutely endless. Engaging, exploring, getting lost.

Don't you?

Talk to me again one day when you understand.

I will try, to my utmost efforts, not to be frivolous with words. Oh certainly, there are times when flippancy is sweet relief, where the careless and frivolousness of youth and hormones take over. But otherwise, other times, when I see it has specifically crafted, where effort has been taken with every word - how can one bear to be flippant and frivolous? How does one dismiss efforts as "wassup with the literature man?"

Is this too chim? Even the innocent can compose stories of such grace and beauty and warmth. Even little kids know how to excitedly recount their day. Even you would eagerly share certain events with joy and vigour with someone.

Just a matter of effort, or care. Just a difference of whether it makes a difference.

Talk to me again one day when you understand.

Talk to me again one day if you actually have a retort.

Talk to me again... never.

to a book-

Sweetly those words do sing, like the gentle hold and warmth of hand against the small of back, the slow gradual leaning in ending with the meeting of lips for a moment before withdrawing again, the caress of the thumb against the chin, the sweet questioning look asking, shyly, gently, was that ok, better now?

In your intangible embrace of long sentences and letters, and my physical self curled up, back against the sofa, wall, I feel small - I am forgotten, I have forgotten, the buzz of noise and traffic, the lashing of rain against cement, the lives of a million other people - they are forgotten, they do not exist. Who has eyes for others when caught so in your words? My eyes were riveted on you and you only, every turn of your page, every curve of your letter, the prettiness of expression, the charm of adventure hidden within.

But still I had to tear myself away, the harsh hard lines of math called, the strict impersonal lines of equal signs and long tedious working - there was work to be done, and it had to be done, and I had to do it; and yet, and yet, how I yearned to stay in your world of fantasies and faeries, a world that wakes up stars and helium balloons within me, the richness of imagination, the colouring of creativity all over?

Too much, too much, I had took too much of you in, and you remained, metaphors and plots, playful imps and elves messing with my mind. In all your light-heartedness it somehow hurt, a knowledge, some sort of realisation that the story would end, your world would be cut off with a resolving of all issues, everything thing settled, "happily ever after"... And mine. Mine went on.

What a hollow dull ache this is that has ringed itself round my heart. The memory of your story is going to stay as long as I can remember - like we have went through wedding vows, and only in sleep and unconsciousness would I be able to not think, and remember, but have the same bliss as forgetfulness.

I am feeling lost, very lost, I have never felt so lost for such a long long time. This is a feeling from so long ago, that same sudden emptiness after the flurry of being a monitress slowed down during the holidays. I miss exhilaration, I miss working in events, I miss being in events - I want to be engaged, doing something, like real hands-on, pack this, move that, not this endless unceasing waiting for approval, countless planning after planning, waiting, waiting, waiting.

It is horrid to be alone at times - really really alone, without even being able to catch snatches of conversations, to observe, just 4 white walls surrounding me, the scorching bright afternoon sun outside, the general sense of sluggish lethargy. I am supposed to be going out. Later. Meanwhile, I am waiting. Waiting. Finding, preoccupying myself with self-made entertainment.

Such a jumble, such a mess of tangled thoughts. Why, why, why? Why so laden with memories, why so heavy with them all.

Few hours it took yesterday to sketch out the story - the history, what went wrong, where it went wrong. All this talk of history, emotions, the silliness of youth, the rush of hormones - too much, too much.

There are so many memories here it hurts. So many changes, so so so so many changes - these are so not emotions for the day. I am to let the light in, so why, why do I find myself so helplessly spinning in the dark of the past.

I need to stop missing.

Still even as I say there my brain turns over everything:

All the display pictures in my old desktop computer - how long since I've really looked at them? Long, long, never really had a need to use the desktop ever since I started to really use the laptop, and now all these memories are flooding back with a vengeance -

Days after school spent training,
Meeting up in the morning to laugh at the boys at the other side, to kid each other about crushes and mock about relationships,
More training afterwards, bright sun as we meet the boys for a match
More joking and teasing, more scandals uncovered

Then, that back injury,
Meeting up with a different group of people after school now
Teasing seniors relentlessly, so very relentlessly,
Laugher laugher, bad bad tummyaches from too much laugher
Bursting into more laugher
A short chat with the team, the slight cringing whenever coach jokingly mourns
Late night conversations, earnest prayers
A slight sense of disillusionment, in parts
Playing the peacemaker countless of times
Persisting despite all

New year, new roles, a sense of extreme business
Some sense of being special
Tears after tears after tears
Being teacher's pet
Talking with the teachers like they were friends
Journeys in the car, out of school
A treat, here and there
A taste of what it meant to be backstabbed, gossiped about, being the center of attention
Turbulent busy activities-filled months
Burn-out
Getting back on my feet
Going on

And finally, relinquishing my roles
Being a mere member
Finding close friends
Finding lots of close friends
Being in a multitude of roles and positions
Feeling lost at times
Ambiguous situations, blurry lines, grey areas
Very obvious grey areas

Loss,
and loss.

These days, today, everything is so burdened with such memories - display pictures remind me of him, or him, conversations remind me of her, and them.

I am looking at a display picture which I once loved so much.

My pride, you've changed, or maybe it's me.

The bus is taking me, driving me past a place where we once went to, where you tried so long and so many times to drive out of, and at long last finally did.

And where are you now? What happened?

The weight of so many years in full is too much to bear, especially when effort was made to notice, notice, notice.

I've stopped noticing as much now, so now, dear brain, forget, forget, forget some more.

Existence Angst-

I believe this is something I am entitled to.

I am a youth, or rather, a teenager. I am 16 going on 17. I am currently studying in a prestigious institution.

Sometimes, I feel like that is all I know.

No wait, actually, I know more than that.

I have a father, and a mother. I cannot remember their ages. I have a sister, in Secondary 1, and a brother, in Primary 5. I am the eldest of 3. Together, they form my family.

But, this is not the point of this piece.

I am not certain why I’m writing this piece in the first place.

I think I started this piece in an attempt to record the facts of my life, the bare facts of my life, objectively. As clearly as I can remember them, without any taint of subjectivity, without my rose-coloured lenses that allows me to see things with a thousand prismatic rainbow hues.

Usually, I love my rose-coloured lenses. Is that vanity? They are beautiful lenses, not light and airily-fragile, not cheap-going-to-break-any-moment, but crafted, with love and attention, substantial in weight and size that it seems almost to have an heirloom aura to it. It can feel heavy. But, everything comes with a weight, and it is about how much burden you think it compared to what it brings to your life. This is a weight I can put up with. They are one of the dear things I treasure, the closest to being a tangible link I have with my childhood, along with my self-supposed sensitivity and innocence.

Yes, I said self-supposed. What else could you call a sometimes fully conscious... effort to try to note and understand the tone? Perhaps it is not that wrong – that all of us have the basic foundation for being sensitive, but it takes conscious constant efforts for it to become a habit, a part of one’s character. Yet, what if it is not? And I too have learnt since that word innocence is sometimes (often in the adult world) a euphuism for naivety. Still, I’m holding on.

Reading back, would it be perhaps wiser for me to abandon my notions of objectivity here? It is hard to remain objective when certain things need judgement, and the judgement that we have are influenced by our past memories and impressions.

Then again, where am I going with this piece?

A walk clears the mind, though the conclusions are not as friendly as I wish they would be. I am writing a safeguard from my fear. I am scared of becoming as tepid as tap water. Lukewarm, neither hot nor cold, neither here, nor there, neither greatly adored nor hated with a passion, just, just acceptable.

There are the extremely friendly social butterflies, and the accomplished quiet introverts. There are people with a distinct aura, a distinct ambition, a distinct love, but it drama or music or science. There are some who charms everyone with a sentence, some who do it with a word, some who have a talent for accents and use it to great effect. There are some superbly talented, who are definitely going overseas, who are bucking against the system and culture they feel they’re trapped in. There are some people who are so positively happy and satisfied, some people who are so warm and steady, some people who really glow with vibrancy or radiance or grace in their face.

They are all something. They have personality. I feel normal – which could be ok actually. Even normal people can have an aura - a distinct air of contentment, satisfaction, warmth, maturity, ambitions and dreams. I feel mundane. Undistinguished. Holding on to self-supposed sensitivity and rose lenses. It comes naturally enough, but is it really me? Besides, so, so many people who can do all that I’m even moderately good at better than me.

What makes me “me’?

Just in church, a few weeks ago, I had the luck to get forfeited. “Do something that no one else here can”. What could I do, what special talent did I have? None.

I got off by reciting the books of the Chinese Bible. The New Testament of the Chinese Bible. But that’s nothing. I recited it wrong even, and there are people familiar with both the Old and New Testament.

What now, what then?

Portraits of the Sky-

1.

Early morning, sky a glowy blue. Greys gathered into one big mass, yet the blue glow was stronger than the grey, tinted it so it became a cold blue steel grey. Then there was lightning, and the sky was pure pure brilliant white for a moment. Then thunder rumbled, like the sound of a flick of a sharp whip - what things were going on up there in the celestial realms? But, even as time was spent wondering, the skies had changed in nature, the blue glow dissipated, the same lines filled in with different colours - the sky now a light ghost grey, the clouds slight darker shades and hues of grey, lightning was a streak of white, while the colourless breeze stirred up the hems of skirts and pants alike. A lesson in black and white it was, taught by the great artist Himself.

2.

Out on the open seas, the open seas, with so many possibilities. Bluish gren seas, bluish grey skies, the sun's face slowly hiding away from me. It had been bright bright bright for that one moment, whiter than white, pure sheer light, but gradually clouds swirled round and round, crowds of water vapour, billions of water vapour, coming to obscure and divert the rays of the sun. And though I had turned my head away at the first glance, slowly I could turn back, and look at it. And the only sign of it still there was the whiteness of clouds, but yet lost it would be to those who saw not earlier the gradual eclipse of the sun. And suddenly the world seemed so big, and I so small, the seas stretched out, and away... Vast waters with a myriad of life, but unseen to my eyes. Only the lone birds high up in the sky, circling, round and round, and the scarce few trees, looking like Chrismas trees, in a hot snowless land, so so bare. Mismatched, misplaced, unseen.

3.

Smooth expanse of blue glass, or maybe it's tinted cellophane - like those small students used to wrap around unwieldy wire and paper in primary school come every mid-autumn festival; their very down own hand-made, home-done lanterns. And so this was one big lantern, with every-changing colours, and we're the cut-outs, moving cut-out, 3-dimensional figures moving, walking, running, spinning. A mass of cutouts, 6+billion figures, a tapestry of movements. How do the shadows, the interplay between light and movements look like from out there? What does He, He with his telescopic and microscopic eyes, see when he zooms in and out, bring up and focus on that one lone figure among 4 million people, on so many lone figures at the same time, all the 6billion lone figures that span across the islands and continents? Under the same great expanse of cellophane, there's gunshots and bloodshot eyes, black eyes and dark moods - then there's friendship and love, trust and joy. So silly, so lost, so misguided, so loved.

4.

Clear skies, a multitude of stars. How many of my thoughts had I already scribbled out through the skies, how much nuances of my feelings and thoughts did it already hold and helped conveyed? Uncountable, uncountable, as many as the stars. Wishes and dream hoped upon the bright luminous moons and the twinkling stars, aspirations thrown out to the lofty sun, grand thoughts hurled up into the sky, and rain, rain carrying my sorrows and pains, wind gently caressing my face.

butterflies in the heart-

Sickness is
Dialing his number once, or twice
Checking back with another friend
Knowing he might be irritated
Surfing his blog and seeing an entry at 9.30
Being positively sure he went offline at about 9
Getting increasingly worried
Pressing those 8 digits again - if I had not known his number before I certainly do now
5, 6 calls already maybe, without a single response
Trying to vent, lightheartedly to distance it... unsuccesful( "oh... brb, i'm busy")
Knowing this day has taken its toll on me
Conscious of the fact that fatigue had gripped me since an hour plus ago
About 5 more calls maybe, with no answer still
Butterflies threatening to make me cry
Knowing there's nothing I can do in my capacity.

There has never been anything I can do in my own capacity.
There is nothing I can do.
Not my choice, not my strength, not for me.

Ending the day with lots of prayers, keep him safe, keep him safe. Then leaving it, and going off to bed, though with half an impulse to still want to cry, and yet, it felt like a net had been tossed over the butterflies. Still there, still there, but fluttering helplessly themselves this time.

The sky was like a big blue dish, lighted up by an warm orange glow from the rising sun - an orange that picked up on the pinkish tinge of the clouds. And the clouds themselves, they were thick swirls of vanilla ice cream with strawberry sauce drizzled generously on them, large and overwhelming in its sheer size.

And there was a plane, so small against that huge blue dish of ice cream, and as it flew, it seemed on a short time before it would be swallowed up, eaten by the giant ice cream, instead of the other way round. So small, so small it looked indeed, more like a little myna, if not for the fact that it had the distinctive angular shape of a plane. High up in the sky it represented the realisation of Man's dream to fly, to conquer the skies, and yet, its mere size against the vastness of that great expanse of blue, whites and pinks suggested that Man yet are king of the skies.

It flew, the plane, as the girl sighed. It flew, it continued to fly, off to its new destination, while the girl walked to her old. And in that split moment it did not matter whether the plane had really conquered the skies or not - that had become of little importance. What mattered, was that it was an instrument of getaway. All the lofty thoughts faded, the perspective of the girl's mind descended to now, the present, and once again she saw herself in a place enclosed by fences, walking to a smaller place enclosed by four walls.

Almost, almost like a jail it was, yet not. For within this enclosed space lay the bulk of her social circle, a great deal of fun, a wide expertise of knowledge. Such conflict of physical space and intangible ideals - which in itself was, at times, not a hundred percent fulfilled - held such irony that it appeased her raging thoughts and emotions, and cooled her down, for just that little while more.

Just that little while more.

The parents had a bicker. She heard it, heard them; voices escalating, volumes rising, words fast-paced and snappish. Heard them, voices carrying on into the bathroom where she was, walled up. Heard them, even as water fell on her, their words turning into accusations – mild accusations perhaps compared to some, but accusations all the same.

And walled up alone she was silent, and she was silent when she got out. She was silent, physically, but her mind was noisy with a whirlwind of thoughts and fears. What does it say, about a child, when the slightest of tension between her parents stirs up perhaps an unjustifiable, irrational excess amount of conflict within the child? A sensitive nature? An over-active imagination?

Naivety perhaps, but this child has never liked shouts and yells, heated words said in a bad mood. She cannot imagine what happens at night, when they have to then go to sleep on the same bed, for the whole night, and wake up to see each other. How do they resolve the conflict before nightfall? Perhaps through a peace offering: a note, a treat laid out on the table, a gentle touch on the shoulder, a verbal sorry. For both to put pride aside, one to initiate a peace offering, the other to accept it, and not trample on the laid down pride by ignoring it. To look beyond one’s own hurt to the other’s, may possibly be a long, long lesson.

And her heart hurt. It hurt. Hurt for all the people who constantly faced this inconsistency, of bickers and arguments and quarrels. Hurt for all the quivering hearts, the fear, the loneliness in thinking one have to face it alone. Hurt for the broken-hearted, the cynic, the child with her ideals shattered. Hurt for those who are insecure, who grip on jealously, who feels their faith wavering at the slightest difficulty.

At least, she did not have to face these questions and pain often. Yet somehow, that thought in itself was pain enough.

Suddenly all seems to be running out of control again. All. Things piling up one on another, news revealed, tasks after tasks. Of, if only this could be some highly lethal potent intoxicating illusion that one could still actually wake up from. But, it isn't. In a society that actually still focuses on grades, it's hard not to get a little influenced. Especially in a prestigious elite class of talents and high capabilities. It may possibly be quite a shallow way of thinking, but that's the world we're thurst into. Not that I'm very concerned about grades myself - no one in the class really talks about it too anyway, only beholding those with good grades with some esteem. Life goes beyond that. But the nagging sense of inferiority, the conscious thought of being one of the lower spectrum, there's something about the awareness that throws you a bit off-balanced, leave you tottering unsteadily between the brink of depression and sanity.

Times like this I feel as though this world really isn't for me, that I am a little kid trying to act like an adult, wearing too big stilettos when I supposed to be shod in sensible playing shoes...

When school ended I walked out. I walked with steps quick. I ignored the guy who directed the f-word to me. But it doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would. I guess in some way, I had been prepared for it, I had been desensitised when another first used it to me, and actually saying it once, be it not purposefully.

Funny that it took me so long to get used to it, but I guessed it only really meant it's going to be harder to keep to not using it. Control, I told myself. Control.

I had duck noodles when I got back home, the noodles springy and slightly spicy, the duck meat a nice change of taste, and warm soup. A good meal.

I came back home and changed, then went to my mother's room and took her bottle of perfume. I bring it back to my room, and sprayed a little of the fragrance on the inside of my wrist. It is a fresh and light floral, a scent that I like. I go to sleep with my wrist up, smelling the fragrance from time to time before I drift off to sleep.

I indulged myself, and surrounded myself in things I love. A good meal. A nice fragrance. A cup of orange juice. A cold drink.

And then I woke up, and I took a shower, and I sat down to type, and then, and then,

I yelled at my sister.

Sometimes, this seems as though it's all going nowhere.

random short pieces I found in my phone-

1.

A single rose ain't gonna patch up anything. Neither would a dozen or ninety-nine. The scar still stays, livid and ugly, long after the wound has closed. Scatter those large blood red petals onto the floor. I care for it, I care for it not. Leave it on the cold grey cement floor. Don't imagine I would care, don't imagine I would care. Leave it, leave it, to be trampled, subject to
decay.

2.

Seems like all that we can say to each other now, is take care of yourself, and nothing more. I remember a time where we stayed up long to share our woes, that plagued us so, that plagued us so. You were the most beautiful dream, a wish I never thought could be fulfilled. And now like a dream, you're passing so quick. Tell me this doesn't have to end. That's what you told me once after all...

Crying-

In the night.

The room was dark, curtains drawn - the only light in the room those myopic eyes saw was a red blur of light from the fan. And that was the only light. The only light.

Just minutes ago tears had started pouring down her face, almost gently, hanging delicately from the corner of eyes the way dew does on the tips of leaves at first, before a blink of an eye sent those warm, slightly salty drops down the countour of her cheek, some going further down to the corner of her lips. The gentle pain in her heart was soothing, the way soft melancholy blues strangely enough.

In her bed, she pondered. "I have grown up," she said in her mind, "I am still a child, but I have grown up, experienced enough of life. Made friends. Lost friends. Broke my heart."

"We have separate paths," he said.

He said, "Truth is, I'm selfish and I don't want to take up the burden."

Some friends drift away gently - they float like a boat on the sea, heading out towards the horizon, on and on, to greater dreams, to bigger things, and before one knows it, the distance is too far, the waters a bluish glassy pane of uncrossableness, and all you see are the sails trembling just that litle for a while more, then it's gone, really gone. These kind, they do return at times, sometimes. For a while. A short while. A friendly chat, some light-hearted jokes, and they depart again. But some others, they pull. Pull apart. Pull out. Out. Out like, like it's some kind of dammed spot. The weak bonds snaps; the strongest one are pulled, broken, torn apart. Pulling - they're the type that hurts the most.

The cries turned into sobs, heavy. She sobbed. She cried, ragged muffled cries under her blanket. The pain seemed to intensify, weighing heavily on her heart, wounding tightly round it, an unseen physical force that made her cries even shorter, even more ragged.

This is probably one of the best things I've read in a while.

When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support, to aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend and they are. They are there for the reason you need them to be. Then, without any wrongdoing on your part or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end. Sometimes they die, or fade into anonymity. Sometimes circumstances dictate that they go in another direction leaving you to wonder; sometimes they walk away, uncaring and unwilling. Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand, hoping that enmity hasn’t reared its ugly head. What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled, their work is done. Reasons can go against you…but when it does, all you can do is assess it for what it’s worth, monitor subsequent correspondences, make your decision and now it is time to move on.

Some people come into your life for a SEASON. They may only be there for a short period of time based on premeditated agendas; they may have motives that are not condoned by you, or because your turn has come to share with them in growing or learning new initiatives for the future. If all things are good, they may bring you an experience of peace, or make you laugh. They may introduce you to new routines and techniques that you have never experienced. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. Believe it, it is real. But only for a season -- they move on. Seasonal tidings with this situation usually deal with those that are going through changes, can’t cope with certain situations that cause them to step outside of comfort zones, or are unwilling to take chances. Other seasonal fold readily recognizes their own kind, and will not hesitate to cut you loose.

LIFETIME relationships are harder to recognize for the moment, but with time can be the best choice you can make. But how many people do you know are willing to persevere for the long haul? Find one and I guarantee you will have him or her as someone trustworthy. Life timers teach you lifetime lessons, things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation. They accept you for what you are, do not prematurely judge you, do not have any inhibitions about taking chances for the betterment of the relationship, and surely feel that compatibility is something that is assessed as you go, not at the spur of the moment. They don't adhere to conditions and will be there during the zero hour. There’s GOT to be something that you can learn from this type of person. Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person, and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life. This is Agape Love at it's core..the type of love that God is.

It is said that love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant. Silence doesn’t suppose to be as ominous to cut deep like the sharpest knife. To be cut loose dangling trying to fathom how it went south is to understand that directional change does not have to be defined by ill winds and misplaced logic, but by common sense and discernable options working for the best. I thank all the people I’ve met in my lifetime who have lent me their ears, allowed me to belong, gave me love and let me love them back. I’m all the better because somewhere, somehow, and someone have given me hope that friendship is not fleeting, integrity is intrusive, and that good intent coupled with works can be a true embodiment of comraderie for as long as it is deemed necessary to embrace a true friend! And for those that I’ve called a friend at some point in my life, you will always be one…but know that you will not be forgotten.

-a personal analogy on the cause and effect of true friendship by Alvin C. Romer. Based on an original idea by author, Jean Dominque Martin.

I won't deny my heart hurts now with all the memories and recollections, and yet, there's a kind of relief at having someone express thoughts I found so hard to pen succinctly enough.

I'll be fine, I guess.

Love-

Just as sleep, you fall into it,
Not knowing when or how.
Just, one moment, standing there,
And his features, his eyes, his voice,
His tenderness fils in the mind. And
The word love, it echoes in the soul,
In the same way you know when to sleep
When fatigue hits and sinks.

Oh, deny it all you wil - protests and cries
Of "no I don't!", "no I'm not!"
When, it is so very obvious -
You are yawning, you are pining,
You are yearning for sweet dreams,
You are waiting for his affection to take you,
Letting your hair splater itself onto the
Oblivion of that tanned pillow, his chest -
All softness and comfort and everything nice.

And the dreams, they are sweet. But indeed,
That is not always true for everyone -
Sometimes things go wrong, it becomes,
A nightmare. Trapped, you struggle
To wake, you force your eyes wide, and
Your mouth open in a cry as you
Do wake up, panting from fear.
Yet, who shall deny the possibility,
Of it being a sweet dream,
One you will loathe to pinch yourself,
For fear you will really wake up from it.

It is true, that you do wake from sleep,
That some dreams get shattered, some hearts
Get broken. Yet, there is
The reality of eternal slep. And,
All the times we sleep and awake again,
They are but a short phase of life,
Compared to the one eternal rest, which shall be paradise.
So, there must be that one forever love too,
For each and everyone of us -
It must exist, just as sleep exists,
A reality that shall touch all of us.

Here's, wishing you, eternal slumber.

dream, hard-

The season of Valentine started with poetry. Poetry with a keen sense of the physical. Not sexual, just physical. It made her pant; breathless, like something strong and raw had caught her, raw and powerful. The poems were not just words, but throbbing with a strength of life that made them physical, words that could really grip and hold you. Tight.

For a moment that was all in her mind - the words, the words, the strength of the words. It was followed by a wave of surprised delight, warm like the golden glow of the sun on the skin, the gentle bath of mid-morning warmth, induced by the rediscovery of the love between words.

How strange it is when words do meet, the way the letters kiss and the words join to to form a product; an image, a new world, sometimes full of fancies and whims, sometimes a harsh dystopian image,

Sometimes, an escape.

A loud burst of laughter from the crowd broke her train of dreams, and then in the sudden silence of her mind she felt almost lost, and there was fear, but a quick look revealed that the laughter came from a harmless group of children. She could hardly cared less, and turned away. And, as if she had not delight enough, she realised then that the sky was glowing pink, and that soft hue was spread everywhere, curling gently round leaves, rippling across the walls of the buildings. It was the pink of unicorns, of fairy world with princesses and princes. For a moment, the world she knew had been transformed, back into somehing more alive and exciting, something intoxicating.

Intoxicating, like the almost-overwhelming smell of strong heady cologne fumes warmed up by the body. The world in front of her exploded into starbursts, pink and blue, white and colourful astericks - her head throbbed as a myraid of ideas, thoughts, emotions gripped her. Suddenly, everything seemed to be crying out to her for attention, the grey rough surface of slate tiles, the way the lines met and criss-crossed, the green of the grass that stretched ahead of her, the ragged cloud-boys running across the skies, their garments dirty grey from play and mischief. How bright and new the world seemed again, when the abstract had become physical, it was beautiful; elements swirled round and round; it was once again a world where all were spheres, conducted by angels, trembling gently, making the light buzz of sweet music that is supposedly closed to human ears - but oh, perhaps they could, if unseen words could become a physical force, one to be reckoned with, then why not the unheard be heard, human's ears be open? - all things unknown now existed, it was strange, fantasical and exciting. Chaos bubbled within her, it was all too much to taken in, so intense, very much so. What was she to do?

She took in a long deep breath.

And let herself fall.

pain-

is about losing my pen.

I have been reduced to a mere toddler, only able to fill in colouring book with colours. Unable to write, only edit. Unable to compose a drawing, only fill in colours within set lines.

-rocks and rocks in pain-

anguish, is hurting, and unable to find warmth. unable to vent. the feelings gawn within me, sucking my marrow dry.

Will you write for me? Pen down my expression and feelings. Write a story for me, about how a girl got infatuated with a guy, and found her pride in him.

Write a story, about how the guy constantly let her down, but she didn't mind.

Write a story, about how that guy is no more, but she still yearns, and hurt. And continue sacrifice for him.

With all senselessness.

1.

Where to next? It was a question that hit with a nauseating blow, like a sand bag falling into the soft fats of the stomach, dead solid, yet seemingly soft, leaving a tingling numbing sensation - mildly uncomfortable, yet not.

There was noise in the classroom, high squeals and laugher, the excited chatter of people sharing their tales of the weekend, but, what were they really? What did it all boil down to?

Emptiness, emptiness. All was raging emptiness, the swirling chaos of nothing. For how could it compare to the expanse of time that stretched ahead, the eternity that'll be spent in heaven.

Or hell.

2.

I was having difficulty breathing. Again.

Usually I get scared, a little panicky, but today I was less.

I could not decide whether to rest or not. I was tired. Rest seemed to be a respite I could be grateful for, a way to indulge myself, a break, a pause, a chance to slow down. But sleep felt alarming. Would I not lose control when I sleep? All that would keep me breathing would be my subconscious mind. And maybe it'll just stop, you know? And I'll slip away without even realising. Others do the realisation. At least while I was still awake, conscious and aware, I could take charge. Conscious, purposeful breathing.

In, 2, 3, 4, Out, 2, 3, 4, In, 2...

It hurt to breathe in so deeply, for there was a tight pressure around my chest, pressing at my heart. But I did it nevertheless. One breath at a time.

The pain came and went. Came and went.

3.

Sometimes I wonder exactly where I would go after Death. Heaven? Hell? I think I believe in their existence. Never questioned it before. Never really needed to. All the "how is it possible/what about other possibility/you never really know" questions thrown by doubters were just further speculation after all no?

But where would I go for eternity?

I used to be sure. That was when I was a child. May not sure, sure, but the possibility of going to hell never really came to mind. Then as I grew older, the possibility dawned on me.

I don't think I will. But the question lingers. And some others. Like, guilt. Would I feel guilt that I managed to be in Heaven and others didn't. Even if it wasn't of my own hand? Or the nagging voice that I haven't done enough? Or embarrassment? Perhaps, even inferiority? Shyness, feelings of being socially awkward?

But they always say our imagination can't imagine the full splendor, wonder and glory of heaven. I guess we'll have to leave it at that.

I remember a time, where my heart fluttered and I was so conscious of it, so conscious of how quickly it beat.

I don't believe in love at first sight, but I'll understand, fully understand if anyone said, crush at first sight.

He wasn't particularly handsome, but there was a pleasantness of features that drew my eyes to him - he was bespectacled, and his specs were not chunky, but gently, gracefully framed his eyes. He looked so smart and neat, seemingly having a potential to be earnest, sweet and caring in his ways.

There was pleasure, for lack of a better word, at the realisation that he was in the same group as me, and that I was his assistant, no less. He was a guy of few words, short simple statements that convey his point effectively. He didn't even say yes usually, he just nodded. There seemed to be no excessiveness about him, no frivolousness. And he was smart, a decisive leader, persuasive with minimal words. So different he was from me, and yet I was charmed even more.

White seemed to become him, and with that, the familiar phrase prince charming in white surfaced to mind. So used I was to thinking of him in white that when searching for his figure among the crowd, I would looked for a white t-shirt, before being momentarily confused when I realised he was not in white today, but grey. It happened, not once, not twice, but four, five times, before the notion that he was wearing grey got imprinted in my mind.

He did however, wore wore white the next day.

An acrobat, he was too. And when we asked him to swing himself up onto the beams of the roof of the terrace, to protect our balloons from other groups (we were playing a game), he looked up briefly, before responding in his usual succinct manner, "ok, can". The grace, the realisation of his strength and agility as he swung himself was... beauty.

I took a chance to tell him he looked good in white after the camp. There was no follow-up, and things ended there.

But that's just as well, perhaps. For he left a beautiful impression.

Parched. Endless blackholes. Places where you can't see the light. Gloom, despair, depression, hurt.

Hurt.

So close to crying, it's so intense. Unable to cry, because they're not my own, and there's still a distance. An ache, for the pride or plain sheer stubbornness that stops his tears.

And we say, let it go when one can't cry. And don't cry to those who do cry.