Today's Muse: The Flashing Eyebrows - Whose bright idea was this?

Just a quick foray into reality:

I have several projects going on, along with the tutoring job and the "volunteer" editing job down at St. Marg's. One of which is a book project with Nicole I'm hoping to pump out by June next year. I've been grabbing every moment I can like some greedy grotesque baby working on the draft script.

Right now the aforementioned editing work is all gobbly-gook. It's a lot of fun, actually, being stuck in a room full of computers and piles and piles of paper trying to help put together a book due ages ago. What with the screaming and the spasms on the floor and the fucked-up formatting and the obscene talk and the occasional torn off limb. I hope all of you have a chance to experience something like it. Hey, I've only been doing it for a week. Poor Natra has been in there every day for a month.

I've also got a couple of personal projects going on - the robotic panda, An Exercise in Vanity plus An Exercise in Obsession. I've also got Popular Culture: A Reader, which I really want to finish reading.

Then there's the matter of where I' m headed for further studies.

It's very satisfying, to be so very busy. "A great hunger of Man, besides Love, is the hunger for Work." I don't know about love, but the appetite for work is certainly something I know intimately. I always need to be doing something. I can't meditate; 24/7 I'm playing with some idea or scenerio in my head, even when I'm working on something else.

Off to write.

Today's Muse: I seemed to have gnawed off my - OH HOLY SHIT.

I keep a baseball bat next to my bed, within easy reach, along with my screwdriver set and my glasses. The bat is a light, purple plastic affair, well-weathered and broken in. It is held in place, when not in use, by a metal-wrought frame next to the head of my bed.

It's there just in case.

Not in case someone attempts to kill me while I'm in bed, no no. Just in case that night is, the night.

The night when I go away.

When I was a wee chit of a Missy, I used to wait up at night in my bed with the covers pulled up to my chin. Waiting to be taken away to some far-off land, some new fantastical world. Like the children in The Chronicles of Narnia, or the kids in Digimon Adventures, or even the hapless chap in The War of the Flowers. I wanted so much to be whisked off in a blaze of light to terrifying and outlandish realms, armed with only the head on my shoulders.

I wanted an adventure.

Every night I would wait. I would wait, and play out all possible scenerios in my tiny fanatical brain: What to do if I was confronted by a beast with dripping fangs? (Duck, and run, avoid trees) What to do if faced with a royal execution? (This one I'm not sure. Pee, maybe.)

So I started to prepare. I would place things I felt I might need within grabbing reach. At one point, this grew to include a coil of nylon rope, a bloody heavy torch (which doubled as a weapon) and a box of matches. With this, I waited.

And I waited.

I grew older. I knew it was futile. But somewhere inside this tiny, fanatical brain of mine a small, tinny voice kept at it: "You never know! It might happen! Best to be prepared, you don't want to be caught unawares!"

So, I keep a baseball bat next to my bed, along with a screwdriver set and my glasses.

And I crawl, each night, into bed to wait.

Always good to be prepared.

Today's Muse: The Television

I have to admit, the Narnia movie does look good. But then, so did the Corpse Bride. All pretty but hollow.

Off to shop.

Today's Muse: Tin Soldier

I dream of dragons and wyverns and chimeras and golems. I dream of being whisked to unfamiliar worlds, with only wit to guide me. I dream of soaring above cities teeming with bodies; faces upturned and open-mouthed as I throw a wink and dash off into the clouds.

I dream of climbing out my window and scaling the building facade up to the roof. I dream of leaping from tree to lamp-post to tree down the shopping district. I dream of finally jumping over the wire fence into the old school compound next door, exploring the bits I can't see from my window.

I dream of growing gills and diving deep, deep, deep. I dream of fusing myself into the concrete walls and staying there, curled into a tight ball. I dream of the damp wood, with the sweet smell of rot, of sleeping in a hollow until kingdom come.

I dream of controlling the world, or at least a portion of it. The ideal emperor is one that does his job so effectively, the people do not have to think about him. I dream of capturing people, keeping them at my whim. I dream of instilling fear. I dream of power.

I dream, at night, with all light gone and my glasses at the side, about someone who will just sit next to me on the fecking nicest floor in the world, and maybe, just maybe, hold my hand lightly. And we will talk, about comic books and circuses and carrots. Celebrating the mundane. No need to probe deep, to talk about feelings and ambition and worries and... dreams.

Just a friend I can have a decent conversation about comic books with. Where I don't have to be funny all the time. Or be serious either. Where I don't have to think about being polite or aggressive or friendly or worry about niceties. Where he or she or it doesn't have to be nice or sarcastic or go along with tried-and-tested jokes. Because everyone's beautiful in the dark.

Where I can be still and listen, without having to care very much, and where I can speak with no fear and no need to behave like the Victoria people know.

I dream too much.



There's a name for this, I was told. Escapist. They've got shrinks for 'em too, they said. Dreaming entirely too much.



I had a nice Christmas, thanks. Steamboat at home. Loads of tiny eruptions on the family front, but food made up for that. Family gave me cosmetics and book vouchers. No idea what to do with both.

All in all, pleasant enough, ignoring the yelling. You?

Today's Muse: Roofs

It started innocently enough. I was browsing a couple of blogs of people I knew in passing, observing how these people saw themselves - how they constructed themselves on the internet.

Okay. Nothing of the sort. I was bored out of my skull waiting for some shitty ep to load.

So I clicked on a link. A quick skim left me - Drained? Enraged? Insanely jealous in the it's-not-bloody-fair?

It seemed to me, at the time, that it wasn't bloody fair she got those opportunities - getting in to the programme, being picked up for a production and so on. We were alike in so many ways - both proficient speakers, both dramatically trained, but she was the one with the offers. Didn't even have to lift a finger.

Stupid me. I stewed for quite a bit, focusing on how it was so unfair - then shrugged off the green-eyed beast.

It happens to all of us from time to time, doesn't it? Stupid.

I went and read a bit, and all was right with the world.

Today's Muse: This ache in my toe

Oh, stop sulking. You know why this happened. And you do agree that it was partly your fault. Hell, it was your fault. Sure, Mother did assume. But She did it within reason. You know you have a history, despite your trying to disassociate yourself from it. And to her credit, She was very reasonable. Your Sister, as infuriating as her behaviour was and is, was no reason for you to blow your top.

All this proves is that you're not quite grown up yet.

Your problem, Missy, is that you care too much. You can't help every one. Oh sure, you can try, but you're not strong enough. You have got to let them beat their own damn path, to Hell, if I may say so. Leave them be.

Not everyone has to think like you do.

Yes, your intentions were misinterpreted. But think: was there any truth to what Mother pointed out? You are too over-bearing. Far too proud. You have become inflexible.

It is not anyones obligation to nitpick every gesture of yours and infer your intentions. Why, just a while ago you were railing against there not being enough plain speak. And yet, you do the opposite.

So what now? To work, then. You've fallen into old, bad habits. Be loose. Flux. You've got better things to do, like that overdue letter to Nicole concerning the book, or sending 'round the presents, or preparing for the interview...

You care for your Sister. But right now that love is overshadowed with deep Dislike. Yes, you can worry, but she must beat her own path. Let her solve her problems. She must want to change her behaviour, her attitude. Nothing you do, or say, will help. Leave her be.

And you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Baiting her like that. Refusing to step down. Resorting to shouting. You silly stubborn prick.

It is over, so stop obsessing. Leave her alone, since you cannot bring yourself to slow down. Worry about your own arse.

Plus, shooting off your mouth just cost me my trip next year, fathead.

Today's Muse: Green Plastic

Point #1:
So where do I go from here? Can't I just stay in this little hollow I've carved out? Damnit, I'm moving, I'm moving. I'll go and make something out of my life. Shut up. I'm going.

But where to?

Point #2:
Bloody hell, Christmas is almost here.

I never really liked Christmas. When I was growing up something always seemed to be missing. Every year we'd walk the crowded street of the shopping district, oohing and aahing at the light decorations, taking photos that would eventually be dumped. Presents were never suprises. Trees were a bother. Chrismas dinner was usually rice with some special dishes, like braised pork or fish head curry. The rest of the night would be spent watching the Christmas movie special.

Where were the decorations? The turkey-and-pie feast? The glittering tree, the stockings,the wrapped gifts (each one with its own bow), the warm fire, the family Kodak moments sitting together laughing and doing that bonding thing. Television had decieved me.

So I stopped waiting for Christmas to be like the shmicks on TV. Christmas is now, to me, another holiday to put up with, like Valentines Day.

I still do enjoy it. But if it disappeared off the face of the planet I wouldn't really notice. Halloween in Singapore, now that, I'd like to disappear. Why try to adopt a celebration so foreign to our ingrained culture, while allowing our own customs die?

Chinese New Year, now that's something to look forward to. The Family gabbering in a mixture of dialects while the younger ones compare ang pow( red packets containing cash) takings underfoot. The wet-market visits, where the excitement is so palpable. The kitchen comes alive with gossip, and help all those who enter - forced to sit down and help peel beansprouts or something to that effect. The new clothes, the spring-cleaning, the noise, noise, noise-

Maybe that's what happens at Christmas, for those of us who truly celebrate. I wouldn't know. I hope that it is, because the atmosphere at Chinese New Year is something I hope everyone gets to experiance. Damn, that's sappy. But it's true.

Huh. I remember Kim writing a letter to Santa and tacking it to our front door because we don't have chimmys in the tropics. I also remember a teacher solemnly telling us "Santa" was an anagram of "Satan".

Today's Muse: What happened to those lights?

I have a laundry list of things that need getting done.

I also have a laundry list of things I want to get done.

So far, I've managed to get a headstart on finishing the rest of Asimov's works. Now just to get through the rest of the fiction section at the library...

I would have made a list here, but why bore myself and you? Yes, you, way in the back. I always have to sit in the back. So how can they call me callous when I walk ahead? Callous, callous, callous...

I fear the Aeon Flux movie may be another Tank Girl fiasco.

Today's Muse: Cold Tea

For the kids outside next to the pool swearing because you think it makes you sound older;

Please shut the fuck up and quit trying to shag each other whilst tied to the pillars. Happy birthday to you, screech-of-a-girl, many happy returns and all that. Kindly take your guests somewhere else.

Thank you.

I threw a water balloon at them just now, from the third floor room I'm situated in at the moment. Didn't shut them up, but felt curiously satisfying.

Speaking of apartments, a long-overdue announcement: Due to unforeseen circumstances and all-too-obvious fucktarded behaviour I am moving for the second time this month, up north to Sengkang.

I'm not angry. Not now, anyway. It's more of a resignation. Occasionally I feel it, a fierce bubbling, and I rage to the nearest person who will listen. Then as quickly as it came, it goes; the beast falls dormant and I move as though asleep.

Which isn't just some poetic babble; I've walked into so many varied things this week I must be sleep-walking. Walls, boxes, desks, people, doors, over-stuffed turkey mascots, you name it.

You know what? I am angry. Annoyed at how wishy-washy she is about the whole thing. Enraged with him for using us to mask the real cause of his discomfort. Worried sick over the children. STAND ON YOUR OWN TWO FEET, WOMAN.

You look at my brothers and sisters, and you'll see an entire spectrum - the different ways a relationship can turn out, y'see. One couple, too young, but might work if they grow up at the same time. Another pair who've never had anything in common and only lasted this long because

Fuuuuck. (Always wanted to actually write that.)

Fallen into that trap again. Mountains out of molehills.

What a dreary post.

Um.

G'night.

Today's Muse: Black Windows

So, today I wrote an essay supposedly explaining why I had "angry, rubbish music" playing in my discman. It mutated into a horribly deviant spew on the appeal of buying entire identities off shelves, a psycho-analysis of my brother, the macabre movement, public transport, and why I want a cowboy hat. Only one page was wanted, but I thought, hell, you want an explanation, I'll give you an explanation.

When I go off-point, I make it a point to really go off-point. And yet keep to my point. Or summat. I am staring at my floor. I have the fecking nicest floor in the world.

I thought I might upload it, but it was ridiculously long. When I get it back I'll probably put it up. I remember writing something about how the confrontational stance adopted by the band in question - the swearing, the controversial performances - appealed not because they were railing at a specific object, but because of the stance itself. That they were larger than life, a deviant from realilty; a group that didn't go "Fuck you Goths/Rednecks/Nazis/Poseurs/Bush/School/The World." but simply went "Fuck!" A personification of the feeling, if you will. I am allowed to swear because I'm studying "I'm the King of the Castle". Hah.

Personally the "rubbish" music appeals to me because of the sheer energy behind it. Music by Simple Plan, Green Day or Linkin Park - I acknowledge the talent behind them, but the energy strikes me as whiny. Boo-hoo-hoo-Life's-a-piece-of-shit. Gets one down, y'know?

I'm not looking to music for answers; for moral guidance. I know people who do, who claim they feel exactly like whatever the music conveys, and I think "You moron." But to be fair, people do identify themselves with songs. But as to looking to lyrics penned by someone else to magically solve your problems?

Hm. I'm hungry. I would like some mushrooms, with cheese, right now.

What I listen to does not define who I am. Nor does what I wear, nor read, nor eat (Damnit!). For other people, that may be the case. I am not my horoscope, or zodiac sign, or whatever else. Aw shit. My shoulder just seized. What was my point?

Damnit. I want a cowboy hat and a poofy skirt. And a little spoilt girl with black curls, while we're at it. Oh, and someone gift-wrapped and Fed-ex'ed to my door. I'd keep 'im under the sink, and feed 'im salmon roe.

My new bathroom is the size of my old bedroom. And the bathtub is miniscule. Too many bloody mirrors.

Poofy skirt. And pretty purple boots. And my cat. Cat is at Lewis. I regress to Angry mode. Back hurts. Should stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

Stopped.

Todays Muse: The Beat-up Suitcase

I'm at the new apartment. Huddled in the narrow walk-in closet, to be exact. Its actually a row of open shelves facing the wall, creating a cosy corner away from the rest of the house.

I'm staring at the floor for inspiration. I like the floor. Lovely light shade.

I had planned for this to be a long, possibly mediative, post. Honest.

Ugh. Tomorrow comes the beast. Will he be slain? The bards will sing of it forever either way, be it sweet victory...

Or the Sig's fall.

Today's Muse: The Dust Menagerie

I had no idea I had so much rubbish lying around.

Packing my room is proving to be ridiculously difficult. I am half-tempted to just burn it all and start over.

At first I would look at something and think, "Well, I could use that." and "This needs to be scrapbooked" etc. etc. I got nowhere, of course. Telling that little sentimental bit of me to whine somewhere else, I threw out half-a-ton of garbarge with all the ruthlessness of... I don't know. I am bloody tired, that's what.

Sleeping doesn't help anymore; I wake up feeling more exhausted then ever. It's the dreaming. Vivid, intensely-coloured dreams. Nonsensical stuff. Pints of cream. Mirror shards. Horses on upside-down circus tents. My brain refuses to settle at night, and seems to go to sleep during the day.

All around me people are preparing for something; moving, exams, work, doomsday, birth, etc. Looking to the future; planning for tomorrow. On the news one is bombarded by the apparently ever-increasing problems... God, this is worst than my nine-year-old attempt at philosophy.

And through it all, I am simply apathatic towards the whole issue. Issues. There are two layers, y'see, the Outer, and the Inner. More superficial feelings, like the gratification at finally getting that book, or laughing with friends, are of the outer. The core, the inner, are for deep-seated emotions, like, love I suppose. (Love is very much up to arguement; we haven't stopped debating.)

Superficially I function superbly. I laugh, I cry, I get angry. But underneath it all I feel apathatic. Towards the impending exams, I just feel as though I don't care. The future in general, I couldn't care less. An irresponsible motion, of course.

How many words can one use to describe emptiness?

This is supposed to be Nirvana; one feels no pain, one feels no hapiness.

It isn't. The core still can be affected; I just am more aware of the empty periods. Oof. This is ridiculous; mountains out of molehills.

Today was salvaged by the words "meadowsweet" and "jiggery-pokery", courtesy of Times-Chambers 1993.

I smell of rotting cardboard, fried mushrooms, steeped tea and old books.

I'm moving up to the new apartment next weekend, before the exams start proper. Horrible place. Not much of a choice, so to make the best of it.

Broadband died. Am working on dial-up. Bothersome.

Ugh. Waste of time.

So I surveyed my desk; the stacks of half-finished papers, the mess of pens I hardly use, the still unfinished letter. I took up my pen to write in that blasted thing, then put it down again.

I sat on the floor instead, and looked around my room. My nest. The books; LKY's memoir next to the Batman, Sophie's World stacked with my Tang poem collection. A print of a girl in a red wedding dress, an explosion of moths on pastel green, and a mirror hang on the walls. The dust is a fine carpet.

And suddenly I hear myself ask: Who am I performing for?

The one face that comes to mind, that face will never see me. .

On an almost related note, I refuse to come near this blasted thing until I'm sure. That will be approximately 16 days.

Good night.

Today's muse: The one-legged porcelain rabbit

Urgh. My eyes are threatening to explode. I've been preparing for next week's English lectures, Social Studies mock-up and the 'O' Level Practical. Giving the eyes a break, so I logged on.

Let us all move away from our computer screens and laugh at the sheer absurdity of this.

Done laughing? Good, good.

I looked over and realized I hadn't made a single comment about graduation back on Thursday. The Horror! What is she thinking, not writing about such a momentous event?

I didn't really feel anything. Except perhaps for itchy irritation at that Vitamin C song that will never be allowed to die as long as there are graduations. It became a little tedious, really, having people go "It's our last day!" and cameras going off everywhere and all the time, as well as having to write in autograph books. The last bit is alright, unless you're given five minutes to look like you've made a genuine effort because it has to go to another class.

It makes little sense; we're all seeing each other for all those extra lessons and the actual exams. The internet makes communication horrendously convenient - "Hey, did you reply to my message yet?"

Or, maybe, to quote Dial M for Murder:

"It's delayed reaction, darling. In a few days you're going to have the most wonderful breakdown."

For now, I'm more concerned with getting through the sodding 'O' Levels.

To my youngest of nieces:

I love you, because you are so easy to love.

But I worry; does that mean my love is worthless?

I love you for your youth and your beauty.

I loved your cousins in the same way too, for their youth and beauty, for the potential in each of them. Then they grew older, and dreams fell to waste. I still love them, your cousins, but too often that love is overshadowed with dislike. I dislike their noise, their demands, their new fears.

Perhaps it is because I too am older, and I have forgotten what it was like to be little.

When you grow older, will this dislike also fall on you?

I love you for your unflinching wonder at the world. I love you for your refusal to cry when you are afraid or when you are denied. I love the way you smoosh my lunch whilst in my lap; I don't mind you making a mess. I love how you laugh when I swing you, even though it kills my back. I love how you look at my comic shelf, and how serious you become when I read to you your choice. I love the fact that, unlike your cousins, you see no need to pull the books off the shelf.

I love how you are so frugal with hugs; making each one you do give out seem all the more precious. I love how you dance to whatever I put on, be it the Gu Zhen or the Gorillaz. I love how you come to me with CD in hand, and I have to tell you, " You can listen to that when you're old enough to swear." I love watching you watch the cat, you observing him with every fibre of your being.

I love so much about you, because you are so easy to love. And I fear the day when it no longer is so easy.

Hopefully that day will never come.

Your Auntie 'toria,
Who loves you even though you just smashed her Abe Sapien action figure
and killed her back.

Finally got out of the house today. I was starting to see melting hands coming out of walls.

It was only for about an hour and a half, and stupid uncreative goblin I am, I opted to go to Orchard Road. It wasn't that nightmarish, but I appeared to have forgotten what happens to the place on Friday evenings.

I did find that hairy little CD at Borders, though, so it's all good.

The comic section at the library is getting too crowded.

I actually hadn't planned to stop there, seeing as I am not supposed to have any time to spare for even reading what with revision. But I was plugged into my new CD and my feet sort of just carried me there. I swear, I know the way so well I could find the way there if I was drunk and gibbering. Or with my eyes closed. Whichever is legal.

So, I found myself standing there, and someone telling me to please move so I wouldn't block the television (It's a library, stranger, why are you watching TV here?). I had to restrain myself from heading for that delicious little fiction section they have.

The comic section at the library in Takashimaya is a two-unit shelving affair; cozy on good days and infernally cramped on bad. Books are literally spilling off the shelves; stacked on top of each other and whatnot. Most of them are hard-cover copies of "Spirit", but there are gems.

Sure, having more people reading comics is great - more incentive for comics besides Marvel and DC to be brought in. But I prefer being able to browse without having my eye nearly taken out by a hard-cover from the top shelf. Four times.

Hairy little CD, girlie. It's all good, remember.

Pet peeve of the moment: Classification according to music preferences. I like Chinese classical, choral pieces, something people call "punk" (I've affectionately nicknamed it "mind-numbing music for getting through calculus"), showtunes, reggae, J-pop (or rock, I haven't a clue), and I have the Pokemon movie soundtrack from a gazillion years ago.

Does that make me a J-metal-meat-goblin-punk-hairy-kiki-thingamajig? I suppose it does.

That, by the way, dictates I must wear plaid underwear on top of my ripped khaki shorts and net shirts with frilly lolita bras. Oh, and wear black eyeliner as lipstick. (Scarily enough, the eyeliner thing is based on a true story. Apparently it's darker than real lipstick.)

Oh, and "friended" is not a bloody word.

It happened! It finally happened!

My sodding right arm has seized up. Smack dab in the middle of revision, too. Strange feeling typing with my left.

There are alien-sounding sounds coming from upstairs.

Today's muse: Monies Pig

The house is empty.

One minute it's filled to the brim with strangely multiplying relatives whom you love yet find very quickly you hate, the next they've all trooped up to that godawful house you'll have to move into in three weeks.

Can you not feel my glee radiating through the screen?

It's only for the weekend, but I can't stop giggling at the prospect of actually getting decent work done, in peace and quiet.

My eyes are burning... I've been working on an essay since last night.

Still no end in sight for that letter.

[insert expletives here]

Still haven't finished that sodding letter.

Corpse Bride VS Fillerbunny (Read: Burton VS Vasquez)

Filler won hands down.

Corpse Bride put up a valiant fight, but in the end it was the suffering of a suicidal bunny that drove me out of my slump.

Get the book now, you sad people.

Today's Muse : Dough-Cat-in-a-Jar

Someone asked if the poem "Green/Red" was in reference to the girls who fantasised about my little brother.

Um, no. Geez.

It is disturbing to think about, but... I don't. Not really. Occasionally I put on the obligatory show of shock/horror/outrage to amuse and entice giggles. But the entire issue is moot, really. These girls will move on to dreaming about other people.

The poem is a undisciplined, confusing mess. When I write poems I don't think, which is the problem, to me. I just aim to purge whatever feelings I have at the time in as few words as possible.

Because of that, stupid me, I told someone I didn't write it. Ach.

What is the poem about?

The empty space in the centre of a chestnut.

Well, you learn something new everyday.

Earlier I was struggling (And Sundays are not struggling days) to pull the doopik from the whatchamacallit using the Blah-thingy-thing and smoosh em onto CD.
In other words, extract audio from video and convert that to listenables for conventional CD-players.

At the end of it all, I gleefully waited as the CD-player whirred and hummed and... died.

Today I learnt: CD-players cannot play CD-rewritables, stoopid. Wasting all that time.

I also learnt that not many people like Gamecube. Wooja.

Reading: Treehouse
Listening: click-click-click went sole against wood

Green/Red

Is it so hard? Apathy is the name of the game.
To roll the die, move past Go
Flip the cards, and then you'll know
Press the button, move your chip
Kill your foe, don't let slip
your grasp on reality with
no lights and Re-starts.

Apathy is the name of the Game.

So you know his name.
You don't know him.
You know his birth.
You don't know him.

You know he likes Skittles (especially the green ones)
You know all his puns (especially the bad ones)
You have his pictures
scoured from hundreds of places.
Stolen.
You can rattle off his works
You know the joke behind "spork!"
You know his mind (at least the one on display)
You know he thinks he's immortal.

You don't know him.

You may come to know his death
You may come to know his dearth

But you will never know him.

Apathy is the name of the game.

Stop trying with sweat and tears and
never blood
You don't know him.

Half-hearted goodness brought to you by Delusions Ltd.

By a dream dreamt so lovely but will never ever be.

In response to a query: Yes, I am in the middle of my preliminary examinations.
No, I will not, as you say, "bitch" about them online.
Glad we cleared that up.

On to more pleasant things.

I've been dreaming a lot recently - or perhaps I remember my dreams more often these days. When I was younger I hated dreaming; they were always so vivid, and when I woke I was always exhausted. Not to say that they were not pleasant. I was just vaguely annoyed.

So, one night I asked the sky to stop the dreams.

Sounds romantic, but it was more like "Dear Buddha- er God- um, someone out there..." while sticking my seven-year-old neck out the window of our apartment.

So, for about nine years I slept without dreams. More or less.

Then they came back. They no longer irritate me - they disturb, yes. But they became a sort of comfort. Dull sense of contentment.

I love this site. Where were you all my pain-filled years of fanfic agony?

http://www.godawful.net/forums/index.php

I thank thee. I know I am not alone.

Reading: Daredevil: Yellow
Listening: A Perfect Circle, which is conveniently stuck in my head.

Good grief.

I thought such childish bickering was regaled to the playground.

It appears, that in any online conflict, at least one (who am I kidding? Just one?) person will fall back upon tired cliches and stereotypes - "All Singaporeans are brainwashed by their government" ; " All Malaysians are uncouth" etc. , etc. , etc.

I am referring, to the furor generated over a certain "XiaXue" (Rather vulgar sometimes, IMO, but an interesting experiment). More specifically, a post on said girl's blog on a recent trip to KL, Malaysia.

Just my humble two-cents ( Hell, I don't even know if I'll publish this)~

It seems to me several angry comments came from people who had not read the post thoroughly - and I'm not just referring to "XiaXue"s post, but other blogs which responded. Most, very simply, took the post(s) as personal insults and/or an excuse (apologies, not excuse, blight) to go up in arms (we all get bored from time to time, ne?). Most of the comments smacked of not thinking. Brainless, fueled by overrated emotions.

Perhaps, (but I wade too deep) using this to re-direct fustration at something else; an outlet. What better place than the internet, where anonymity protects you?

Secondly, "XiaXue" should have expected the backlash - and I believe she did - and, perhaps gone about complaining about her holiday a different way. Yes, it is her blog and she is free to do what she wants, its a free country and all that.
Democracy, freedom of speech - all useless unless tempered with sense. Although they champion the rights of the individual, a society cannot function if one follows these ideals rigidly. One must, must take into account the others - they and one are the society.

Anyway, in a girl such as "XiaXue" (of exceeding sense) one cannot help but wonder if the backlash was, for lack of a better word, welcomed. I tread on delicate ground here - after all, "XiaXue" has been proven to revel in attention, good and bad (though, in this case, it might have been too extreme - the comments). Another piece of evidence is her tendency to devote postings to rebut comments - if she truly did not care, was sure that she made herself clear in the original post, would she do so? All of us care about how others percive us, it is a trait very few of us can shrug off.

Another note- the language used was (I do apologise, and I know some will use the wearing-a-short-skirt-in-Geylang-but-molesting-is-still-a-crime argument. The two are different, friends, despite the disclaimer in that post. Or the two might be parallels but - another day) already dangerously provoking. Calling the city names. Good grief.

But some of the comments weren't any better. Name-calling, and out came the Barney Bag of old, tired, insults. But it will never end, even as new postings replace current ones, and new issues take over.

I was born in Singapore. I spent the best bit of my childhood in Malaysia. My father is Singaporean, my mother hails from Malaysia. I have older brothers and sisters born and bred from both sides of the causeway.

I dream of both.

Good grief. Emotion : There are more important things to worry about, people. Like new Orleans. Or South Africa. Or people suffering in your own backyard, whom anyone can help. ANYONE.

Rationale: Oh, Missy, you won't change a thing. Let the people swearing and calling each other names play. Stupid girl, there are more important things to worry about.

I once told someone that blogs were a waste of time, created to express a wish for others to understand their intentions without them actually having to confront said others, which ultimately belied a sense of insecurity.

Said someone nodded sagely, then set off to create one for me.

Well, not for me persay. He made one for near everyone in the group, and posted posing as them. For mine, he drew upon my letters (he was the old penpal mentioned somewhere below). To his credit, he never posted anything too personal. To his un-credit, he tried to use it to "solve" some issues I had at the time... kiddy angst crap he actually took seriously.

Stupid beyond stupid. Using other people's conflict so as to run from his own. Hmph.

In many cases I see adolescents using online diaries to aim their fustration at someone - stemming from an unwillingness? fear? of confronting them in person. Not that it is easy, of course. But the whole thing reeks of... something stinky.

Anyways, he gave the blog to me. After fiddling with the address I settled on the original one he gave it : clove-dom. The name itself arose from some RPG with them all...

I found myself tearing the other day for no good reason. I was walking home, and I stopped at the spot just under the tree at the corner. A vehemently large spider had taken up there, and its web was about two metres tall, and about a metre wide. Day after day, no matter how vicious the weather, I always found it there, clinging.

But that day the rain had been particularly heavy.

And, stupid stupid girl, I stood there in my school uniform with my heavy-assed bag and glasses askew, and actually teared. I had told myself everyday I had seen it that it would eventually disappear - nothing can last forever. Over and over, it will soon be gone.

I don't really know why I did that. Perhaps it just triggered something. Thought of Sarah. Why I don't really want to establish contact again.

Sarah was my best friend at St. Christopher's in Peneng. Warm memories, with muted colours, bit soft around the edges... that's what I remember. Of course there were the moment when I felt like a heel and the more exicting moments (like the motorcycle slamming into the car - woo). Partners in crime - we'd conspire to steal more chocolate under our mom's noses; late-night confessions - I had been carrying around the guilt of stealing crotons from the salad bar (croutons, for crying out loud); playing house using the SCS bushes - Sarah would pray and I'd recite. (in the church/temple/Sunday place)

Then we moved - Sarah back to France, I to Singapore. We wrote to each other, but as we grew older the letters stopped coming and going. But I don't really want to change this. I'm afraid that things would have changed too much, nothing like the old friendship. I don't really want the memories to be marred. We both grew up in different worlds - and I fear that we may have changed far too much for each other.

Just like the others.

Of course, if I did get ahold of her e-mail or sumfink, or if she messaged me, no way I'd pass it up. A bit of an oxymoron.

I'm just a little afraid, that all.

Nostalgia is such is soft word.

Abe came while I was in the pool.

Baby Lizzy was visiting, and Kim, being the useless lump he was, refused to strip down to his shorts to take her swimming. (self-conscious, aint he?) So I ended up holding the baby while she trashed about. Had the time of her short life.

Then the package arrived.

WHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!11!!

I couldn't open the damn plastic cover thing, so out came the scissors. Multilated the plastic, but who cares? But when I pulled Abe out from the unyielding plastic I nearly screamed.

HE. HAD. NO. HEAD.

It was still stuck in there, but for a long minute I stared stupidly at headless Abe, wondering what I could do to sue. Ach. Right now he's watching me type this out.

Made my day, really. Hum hummy hum...

Hungry.

I emailed someone just now :

ABE'S HERE!!

And the reply:

"Oooo, when's abey comin?"

I swear, I almost smashed the keyboard.
Dooby doo wap.

Hm. I finally told my dad.

It was about half-past nine on Friday night, and I was still waiting for the post to arrive with my package. I took out "B.P.R.D. : Plague of Frogs" TPB to pass the time and whined about the mail system in general... so my dad looked up from his book and asked what was arriving.

So that led to an summarisation of entire Mike Mignola, Hellboy and B.P.R.D. universe, and him flipping through my two B.P.R.D. TPBs...

"That's Johann, he was a German psychic, you know, connect with the dead and all that? Yeah, he was out of his body when it was burnt to bits, so he's not dead persay. Just doesn't have a body.

Flip, flip.

"Hm. Who's that?"

"That's Johann, Dad."

And:

"So this is Abe Sapien?"

"No Dad. That's Johann. Abe is this guy, the fish-man."

"Oh. Ugh. Ugly."

But he was really interested. He did get a little worried about the paranormal aspect ("You... don't get nightmares?"), but that's Dad.

He reads stuff on Afterlife theories and Nostradamus and quantam physics. Not that Dad is a nut-freak about this stuff. In fact, he's pretty much the opposite, a pretty quiet guy who likes his Chinese teapots and stays away from crowds. He... hoards things, including infomation, useless bits of miscelly. I get that from him.
We both like to think we can use all that junk someday.

My Mum was nearby listening, and contributing a snort or two in her amused motherly fashion. I kept talking, even when Dad got up and brushed his teeth, and lay down, and closed his eyes...

Later, I overheard Mum and Dad speaking:

"So that's what she's been doing with her time. So complicated. They don't have simple stories anymore, like when we were children."

"Well, uh, it's okay. It's like science fiction, you know... *snore*"

At this point I stuck my head round the door and said:

"Um, by the way, I'd like to marry this Abe Sapien."

Dad nodded, and Mum, without looking up from her book:

"Well, if you find him and bring him home first, than you can do what you want.

And don't step on your brother on the way out."

I wish I was allowed to just stay home and study. No school commitments, no blasted tip-toeing about, no just sitting there doing something bloody useless.

Let me have my life back, please, so I can make proper use of it.

Ach. On to other things.

Imagine, if you will, a house. A house with white-washed walls, with mismatched furniture (but a very handsome dining table), with every available surface cluttered with brick-and-brack : a memento from the late ex-president, photographs of all but one, baking tins, feathered balls, terracotta teapots, books on everything from Mao to corn, newspapers, and a hundred little pieces waiting to be put into place.

Imagine, if you will, all the windows opened as far as they will go. Beyond them are clothes, bright, clinging to their bamboo poles. Beyond that, an acid-green wire fence bent and beaten. Beyond that, a field, with trees twisted and gnarled reaching for the clouds, with a clump of bamboo in a corner, leaves a-dancing in the sharp wind.

Imagine, if you will, sitting on the back veranda, with the hose at your side like the faithful canine, the battered washing machine at your elbow, grumbling with it's load. You're balanced - precariously - on the weathered railing, toes gripping the bars, watching the wind slap at the wet clothes, while the chimes tinkle above your head.

Imagine, if you will, a bundle of black and white just barely squeezing under the fence, then leaping out into the open space. His body responds naturally to the ground beneath his paws, and he runs, with a grace and economy you can only admire, as the tags "fat" and "lazy" melt away along with the sound of his collars bell.

Imagine, if you will, the unmistakable scent of spice in your head, coming from the simmering pot on the stove in the kitchen just behind you. You hear your mother doing mother-like things - her nagging to get down from there before you break your back just washes over you like a warm wave, a reminder of her comfortable presence. Your father is tinkering with yet another antique - is that the 'ping!' of the typewriter you hear?

Imagine, if you will, the sun warm on your legs, while flies go bz-bz-bz around, and you slap at your skin with practiced boredom. Now and then you squash one, your blood red on your palm, and you squash too your glee and mumble a prayer for the mozzie's soul.

Imagine, if you will.

And that sums up why I love Sundays.

Happy National Day, Singapore.

Love you.

And in other news:

I ORDERED MY ABE SAPIEN ACTION FIGURE FROM EBAY.

*prostates before oh-so-generous-older-brother*

Wish he'd come back from China... but absence does make the heart grow fonder.

I SO wanna watch The Corpse Bride.

listening to: Gravity
Gorillaz

You scored as Nightcrawler. Nightcrawler is a very symbolic X-Man. He is persecuted by society because of his devilish looks, but it is his faith in God that gives him strength. He is a very gentle x-man but he does know how to fight and he enjoys fencing. Powers: Teleportation Nightcrawler 70% Cyclops 60% Storm 60% Jean Grey 50% Emma Frost 50% Beast 50% Rogue 50% Colossus 45% Iceman 40% Wolverine 35% Gambit 35% Most Comprehensive X-Men Personality Quiz 2.0 created with QuizFarm.com

Oooooh... I love fuzzbutt. 'cause he's blue 'n fuzzy.

The thing is, this isn't very accurate. Hm hm. Nightcrawler (Real name: Kurt Wagner - pronounced "VAG-ner" - first appearance: Giant X-Men #1 ; Powers: Teleportation, trained acrobat, can scale sheer walls, see in the dark, Olympic-level fencer. Fervent Catholic. Idolises Robin Hood and Zorro. Tries to play the ladies man. Prehensile tail strong enough to take his weight. Dark indigo fur, allows him to blend into the shadows. Bitch to read, I know. I swear I wrote this entirely from memory.) is the eternal optimist, the one who appears to not take life seriously. He believes in and fears the unknown (read: monsters under the bed) and is strongly religious. He is honest to a fault. Not me.

I need evidence. I hoard infomation. If I am presented with tales of spirits and such, I have to research it extensively before I will be satisfied. Kurt rides on faith; I on evidence.

There are other things; honesty, relationships, attitudes. Too personal to delve in here. In short, Kurt is someone I would like to be, to be seen as. But he and I, too different at core.

On to another facet: There was one question, something about working in groups and solitude. Before, I was firmly grounded in the belief that I was best off by myself. I disliked working with others, I preferred silence to socialising - if I was with other people, I made sure the others enjoyed my company, and to all apperances, I theirs.

Yet today, I find myself seeking company more and more often. Not that now I actively shun solitude. I still crave moments to myself (and still get pissed when people interrupt me) but I seemed to have reached an equalibrim. Both have their merits.

One thing about solitude - I don't mean physically isolated. I can be sitting at my desk while the others chatter on. Bit like swimming in a river - rest a bit on the bank, getting your bearings, before you splash back into the thick of things and get swept away.

Annnoying are those who insist you are unhappy if you are silent. I myself am guilty of such.

So, at that question, I felt a bit like I was fibbing when I chose I did enjoy working in a team. Old habits die hard.

Well, on to other things.

Started thinking (read: worrying) seriously about my post 'O'-Level plans. I've thought about it since I started Secondary school - and I still haven't got a proper answer. I never really decided what I wanted to do after school.

It seems as though these these days might last forever. That's the flavour of the day. For me. For once, in Singapore, I am truly happy where I am. But change must come, he who shows neither mercy nor compassion for those in in path. Bit like a gardener, you know, with a lawnmower and such (now theres an idea... foregoing the poetic marlarkey.)

But now to bed. Anon!

PS: I started this blog to fill a void vacated by my corrospondence with someone. He and I use to write long, childish letters to each other chronicling everything from his latest piano fiasco (his mom use to try and make him perform for guests...) and my own encounter with the feral cats (feral? Noooo, they just try to eat widdle girls for fun...).

I miss 'im.

So, in the spirit of things, I say to you,

Love,
Missy V
Queen (is she?) of Victoria's Head

PS2: I would be interested in a penpal. Go ahead, leave a comment.

w00t. Work almost done.

Going to the new library after tomorrow's career fair. I'd live there if they'd let me...

i'd like to thank the creator of this skin. Go! Fly, fly to thee!

i'm still locked out of Deviantart. But with the recent upheaval...

Prelim exams in about a month. Rush rush rush.

Good night.

work in progress.

1. What a day.

2. I am very pleased and rather content with my nest.

3. I have that great empty space in my chest again, but my Queen Nala makes a comfortable, if temporary filler.

4. Why all the hate on the Gorillaz MessageBoard? Most don't even talk about the Gorillaz. It pales in comparison to the Unofficial forums.

5. I have concluded that I do tend to try and turn mental anguish into physical pain ie. aching back.

6. Revision needs a rousing kick. Or sumfink.

7. Trying to spend less time on the Internet. Hence the point format.

8. I cannot stop listening to Demon Days. I can remember band biographies, song discography and other shite but cannot remember the rules of dy/dx.

9. I have achieved nine unrelated points. *claps*

Good night.

'I love you...
But what are we going to do?'

Every Planet We Reach is Dead
Gorillaz

We all strive to be happy, no?

When I was younger my train of thought went something like this :

If I got into an accident, everything would be alright. I won't have to take Chinese, and Mummy won't punish me, and I won't have to go to school and they'll be sorry and

Typical nosh.

Yet, today I found myself thinking like that again. Falling into a trap of self-pity and the need for petty vengeance.

I have been struggling with several difficult decisions for a long time now. My usual response is to not do anything, to try and remain in a comfortable spot instead of dashing out into the unknown and damn scary (yes, I know I am the one who allows them to frighten me).

How do you respond to an attacker when you are bound by moral ambiguity? The benefit of doubt - ill, stuck in bed, pent-up fustration, only worried about your welfare, damnit, it's probably your fault anyway...

Still, it was a cheap shot.

It hurt.

I had to restrain myself; stop myself from flying at her and tearing into her. I wanted so badly to make her pay - make her feel the fustration I felt, drege up all the things she did that she accused me of hypocrite! doing. All I could do was keep my face stone. But my eyes, traitorous things. She saw it in my eyes and flew at me.

I tire of this.

I'm sick of living in a world of masks. I'm tired of dancing around people' images, tired of translating what people don't really mean. Peoples' games. Friends, comrades, family, enemies. Too many masks, not enough plain speak.

I am exhausted.

But it is my own fault.

I live in a world of escape. Comics, music, books, dreams. I thought I lived in the present now, after a stint of living for the past. No. I only moved from one shell to another.

I caught me at it again: I wish I had bigger problems, so I don't have to worry about this.

Enough pity.

To work. I will publish this, to remind myself of how stupid it is to indulge in, in, this.
To work.

To work.

To...

head hurts like coconut

Ach.

One word that sums up my state of mind right now.

Somehow I convinced my parents to let me set up the old laptop in my room, so I could work undisturbed during the remainder of the June vacation. ALL MINE!

But.

The CD-drive won't detect CDs, the wireless connection keeps popping, the sound card is semi-fried (Only two volumes : Inaudible and EARDRUMS GO BOOM!), the mouse is wonky, and I just spent the past hour and a half struggling to configure this thing and SQUASH every single bug in here. All four thousand, one hundred and sixteen of them. Exact number.

And it's slow. Slow enough for me to wash the dishes and come back to see it still loading a page.

Ach.

On another note:

I dislike forms and portfolios.

Very.
Very.
Much.

Need to bite something. Hard.

Is there anything wrong with writing Mary-Sues?

In my opinion, not really. There is however, something wrong with posting them on the Internet and expecting no flames. Unrealistic, really.

For the uninitiated, a Mary-Sue is a story/fanfiction where an Original Character (as to how "original" he/she is, is another story) is introduced. The Mary-Sue in question usually is well-liked or wins over everyone, and has the main character falling desperately in love with him/her. Usually has tragic past.

These stories are also often occompanied by events out of canon, Unlikely behaviour in characters (think Ash from Pokemon suddenly going all girly and SNAG-like) and just plain nonsense.

That said, I do indulge in writing Mary-Sues once in a while. It can be good therapy - one starts scribbling unspoken wishes and thoughts, and there is always the occasional good idea to use in another piece. I just don't post them.

I once read something that proudly proclaimed itself to be a Mary-Sue - and turned out to be a most enjoyable ride. Yes, there was the Original Character, and the main char in the story fell for her, but it somehow wasn't annoying. The writing was fantastic, and it wasn't one of those love-at-first-sight or hate-at first-sight-turned-to-love-later. It was, persay... realistic? Ironic, considering it was a fanfiction for a comic.

Mary-Sues can be vastly annoying... but you can tell a lot about the writer from it.

And you don't have to read them, you know.

Itchy.

I have decided to be glad about the situation.

Let me explain (or not, you can just skip this, but then again you have made the decision to read something created by a child by coming here, or it could have been by accident and I'll shut up now) :

I cannot find any decent Gorillaz fanfiction. Or, rather, there is simply a lack of fanficition.

Which can be a good thing. No section at FF.net means no easy way for fics to be posted. Fics that usually fall into these catergories:

Murdoc/2D Slash
Russel/Murdoc Slash
Russel/2D Slash
Murdoc/Russel/2D Slash
2D/Mary-Sue
Murdoc/Mary-Sue
Russel/Mary-Sue
Murdoc/2D/Russel/Noodle self-multilation
Sick Noodle Stuff (SNS) such as tragic past (usually equates rape)
2D/suddenly-grown-up-Noodle
Girly-2D
Plain Out Of Character (OOC) behaviour

and the list goes on.

One word: Ew.

And the worst is when these patterns repeat. With every other series or something it always leads to this. Yes, there gems out there, but after sifting through all of the above one usually feels too ill to continue.

So, I will treat the lack of fanficition as a good thing.

I have a random plot in my head involving hearing aids, snakes native to the UK and migraines. Will not be a fanfiction.

Chew.

Let us celebrate the mundane...

I got my inspiration back. It took a lot of screeching, smashing head against table and reciting the two-times table, but I caught it by the tail and dragged it home kicking and screaming. I sat in the canteen for four hours waiting for my brother to finish his workshop. Finally, when the canteen was devoid of most life I felt the urge to write. And I did. It's half-assed, yes, but hey. Still needs to settle.

But, damnit. It was a Mary-Sue. A damn PWP. Whatever happened to the kickass novel I was supposed to write?

I do feel better, though. Writing Mary-Sues is good therapy.

I've never had a good relationship with my writing. The characters simply won't do what I want them to do, and I always end up editing the stuff heavily over and over. I often feel drained after writing a piece. Bit like looking after spoilt children.

Writing was my first love though, and I'll never give it up. Drawing is more like a surface thing, won't ever replace writing.

So tired.
But I can't fall asleep.

Cheese + chess + chestnuts = Me und Mein Engel...

The worst thing about mac-and-cheese for lunch is that there's never enough to go around.

Must stop listening to Demon Days.

Must finish report and gather conclusive evidence.

Must stop reading half-assed Gorillaz fan-work, even if they are amusing.

Must stop spending so much time on the computer.

We celebrate the mundane.

2D has kids?

Check out his mail in his computer at the official website. If you're interested.

I can't keep up with the news these days.

Feel old.

Scoured the forums, but turned up nothing on the subject except a three-post-long thread that basically went "LOL". *fumes* Guess it's old news, so all the threads on the subject are gone. Or maybe no one really cares. Hmm.

Thing is, 2D usually is stoned on painkillers, so he's hardly aware of whats' going on... if someone told him he had a kid he'd probably believe it, even with no memory of anything of the sort happening... But during the split he did "cruise the town at night" (mostly misquoted from promo booklet)... why do I care, really?

Feel old.

"The world is spinning too fast
I'm buying lead Nike shoes
To keep myself tethered
To the days I tried to lose"

19/2000
Gorillaz

Feel old.

I once read somewhere about how mental anguish can manifest physically, as in aches and pains from stress or summat.

So... what am I suffering from, I wonder?

Every now and then a lump manifests itself in my chest, along my sternum (the bone connecting the upper ribs - Google is your friend). It feels like a a lump, but at the same time its more like a great gaping hole, begging to be filled and closed up. Emptiness.

Or maybe my bra just sucks.

There are ways to cure it, yes. To get rid of the physical discomfort, I press on my acupressure point to release tension... But for the emptiness...

I write and write and write. Write the emptiness away. Fill it up with masses of poorly-expressed ideas, wasting paper trying to pull something out. Half-baked somethings of something more but I don't know how to write it out.

Ach. With every person who dies, millions of ideas, revelations, things (so crude a word, yes, but I can think of no other) die along with them. It's something I fear desperately - being unable to get all my ideas out on paper or something more permenant than my brain, which will eventually decay, yes.

An answer, will be found... soonest may be...

I am deliciously incoherent.

On to other things...

Found two spirits kindred to something I thought I had forgotten a long time ago... No. Something I wanted to push away. Now I remember why I wanted to forget - but even now my hand creeps closer and closer to my old notes, my books. All the old knowledge comes back - and damnit, it's exam season.

You two are really unhealthy for me... But for old time's sake, I think I'll come along for the ride. If you'll still allow me to.

Old habits do die hard.

Questions that keep me up at night:

Okay, background info: Watched the Hellblazer movie adaptation, called Constantine. Not bad, a little too monotonous and predictable at points. Some bits were badly written, but IMO the best performance was by the big cheese from below, even if it only lasted a few minutes.

Ahem. Anyways, I was surfing the net for web comics. Got directed to fanfiction and ended up reading movie-verse fics (old habits die kicking and screaming). Stumbled over yet another pairing fic -Constantine and the snot-faced taxi brat (there are way too many of these things on the net -they're starting to take over the Mary-Sues)

In short the thing was the usual Romeo-and-Juliet-Angst-pls-don't-flame-cuz-its-not-a-Mary-Sue .

There was something about one of the chars going to hell because he was in love with a seventeen-year-old. Apparently, this constitutes as paedophilic.

Now, don't get me wrong. I was just thinking about how our standerds change through time... in the past girls were married off at 10, or 11, maybe younger. Now, in those days it wasn't considered wrong. In the past, having sex out of wedlock was oh so wrong. Today?

Well, it's all been discussed before and thoroughly aired.

Never can get the ideas to look right on paper...

"You could have just shot me, John!"

Ps: If each and everyone of us realised, truly realised we were all going to die one day and it wouldn't make much of a difference, what would the world be like? Maybe it'd be a lot less crazy and frightening... but then again it might'n be so interesting.

I know I said I would continue from my last post, but I've kinda moved on...

Today I was sitting on the steps, facing the field on the other side of the wire fence. So many thoughts running through my head, and I, trying desperately to stop them from disappearing through the cracks... but I digress.

It was a lovely scene. The trees had lost their leaves to the recent heatwave, and new leaves were budding. Some had already unfurled, fresh and new and supple. The wind was whispering, and tiny leaves flew overhead, branches shivered. The sun was low, gone from his throne in the blue sky...

As I watched this, at this instant, I felt so -happy doesn't seem appropiate- light. Like everything was right with the world, everything for that split second was balanced.

Yet, gnawing at the very fringes of this thought was this overwhelming sadness.

I thought, this will never happen again. Nothing is permanent; the leaves will never look exactly the same, the trees will never sway in the exact same way, everything will change.

Maybe I'm thinking too much. But at that moment. That's what. I suppose I was thinking of how all too soon I'll have to move on from all the little joys I've found, fought so hard for. How everyone will eventually change. How I will change. How, all the chances, the choices at that instant will be lost forever.

I'm rambling, so I'll stop there.
Words, words, words, all I have are words yet I am so inept with them.

I've been thinking about people. People in general.

The emptiness is back, so here I am, trying to type it away. No pencil lead left, actually.

Well, back to today's topic. I've been reading the blogs of a few of my ex-classmates. Back then, I used to be so afraid of them. I don't know how it started- some memories stand out: I making a suggestion, her snorting as if she couldn't stand breathing the same air as me and I feeling so stupid- what did I do wrong?

I was stupid, in a way. I drew in, carved up a facade guaranteed to put people off. I obsessed over how I would show them- I remember writing out this great long speech which would put them all to shame blahblah insert self-righteous babble here.

One afternoon the girls involved in a prestigious competition came back to class in tears. They had practiced incredibly hard for months, and were so sure of their Gold award... they came away with a Bronze.

People were trying to comfort them. I didn't know what to do- I wasn't particuly close to any of these girls, and frankly I saw no cause for crying- you fall, you get up, you keep walking. Shallow, shallow, shallow me.

I began to yell for the Literature assignments to be handed up to me, mainly to give myself something to do and offset my discomfort- and her, the one I feared the most, who was most vocal in her dislike- snapped at me.

I don't recall her exact words, only how she said it, and how crushed and guilty I felt. Along with that a fierce, bubbling rage -how dare she! I opened my mouth to let loose my self-righteous speech-

I was stopped by another classmate's pleading gaze, one whom I had a soft spot for. No, it said. Let it go. Never mind.

I turned tail and ran.

And- stupid, stupid fool I am- I later apologised to her. Like a stupid puppy. Please stop hating me. I'll change. I'm a shallow bastard, and I'm sorry...

Yet, today as I think back... but it is late. I've digressed, anyway. Maybe I'll continue tomorrow.

Chinese New Year is just around the corner, and my Mother, being the terribly efficient woman she is, decided to commence spring-cleaning now.

Just a bit of trivia: Once Chinese New Year rolls round, no sweeping of the house is allowed. It is believed that this will sweep away Good fortune.

So, yeah. When I returned home from school today I thought the depo had come or something. All the living room furniture was on the balcony (physics does not apply here). My Mom was arranging the things to comply with the new Feng Shui period or something to that effect.

Ah well. At least I get a bit of a holiday.
Gong Xi Fa Chai to all.

w00t! I'm back!

...and I have nothing interesting to say.
...
...

Well, today we shall celebrate the Mundane.

I'm in the school musical, Anne of Green Gables(AOGG) and today there was yet another practice session. A funding committee showed up to assess if the school should go ahead with the project, which FYI is eating up a frightening amount of resources. A year after it had been initiated. *bonk*

Well, I think compared to earlier rehearsals today wasn't as sloppy. Janani, who plays title character Anne, started swinging me back and forth like a ragdoll, though, and I could hardly refrain from laughing.

How do I make the font larger?
I want to be notorious before I'm thirty.
My quest continues...