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.