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.