Iced Tea for Parched Souls

The Bowrain

Tue, 21 Oct 2008 04:52:38 GMT

The days they spent, with the shimmering water reflecting assiduously on the stone pillars, the irresolute clouds shading the tenacious sun, the verdure teeming around them, were always in expectation, of something deserved, an inheritance given through the womb, destinied. They lived in such surety, their minds were content, unwavering, the words and actions of others fell upon unresponsive bodies, while sage advice became no more than the incessant cawing of rooks.

Even in this drowsed state, their senses were still fed, the heat of blood, native to their being, the need for creation of life. Obstinately, they persist, discovering and laying claim to a greater freedom, of knowledge, and not of sky, beast and land, of nature. Yet those who lived by beast and land were efficacious, finer, bigger than they, while they remained obscured and stifled. While the vigorous wrapped themselves in fair, delicate winter roses, they lived imaginatively, and scoffed. It was the same thing.

In their free time, they dreamed of sunny valleys, where slow water wound through the quiet passes, and they would live, peacefully, their garden gate shutting them off from brigands and theives, from the failings of men, enclosing themselves on a small hill, safe from the invasion of civilisation. But inside the gate, they were disconcerted, querulous, and always in imminent fear of a disruption of familiarity.

Substanceless

Tue, 07 Oct 2008 01:39:41 GMT

What is the purpose of human life?

Your eyes are tired,
your feet are sore.
You've spent days,
wishing for more.

What is the beyond the end of the universe?

Television's still on,
distractions abound.
Smiles and laughter,
in friendship found.

Is there a God?

Nightly rituals we adore,
like sanctified insurance.
Daily scrub rinse repeat,
Sundays we can dance.

Does true love exist?

A skeptic none too dark,
cut by words so harsh.
Treasure lost to gold,
somewhere in the marsh.

Am I a vampire?

The scent of fried rice,
suddenly you gag.
You're just lacking,
someone to carry your bag.

How can I lose weight?

A hypocrite none shall call,
the one who cannot "prose".
But my experience has shown,
just wiggle your liddle nose.

Should I ask him to marry me?

Like a mouse in it's hole,
they get trapped in a loop.
But how about this?
It puts the wedding ring in the soup.

Why do I never feel whole?

One day you'll look back,
See things unwanted, regret.
Confucius says:
"Forgive and forget."

Retention

Thu, 02 Oct 2008 02:02:58 GMT

My attention has been drawn to other things, as I expected. It can be attributed perhaps, to a lack of discipline and devotion on my part, but perhaps my current presence here is a small step, and a small apology of sorts. (I was helping Scarlet jellyfish.)

It is possible for us to create something out of absolutely nothing?

I've wondered about inventions. Do they exist because in moments of genius, the potential inventors have had a moment of enlightenment? A point in time when their mind has shaped an idea? Or is it a result of their own careful observation, their questioning of what their eye see, what they feel, what their senses tell them? Are people capable of absolute creativity?

When we look at movies, sometimes we see originality (which I hear is highly overrated. Predictability and familiarity sells.) in the plot design, characters and filmography. Sometimes we see works with so much creativity that we can't help but ask - "Where do they get their ideas from?" or "How did they come up with that?". Is creativity a consequence of our environment, or can the human imagination create things that have never existed before?

Right now, where you're sitting: think of something that you think no one else has ever thought of, something totally original, perhaps an animal or somekind, or a sound that has never been created, try and add a letter to the alphabet, create a new vowel. Now, think of something you have never experienced, first-hand or second-hand. If you've seen it on television, read it in a book, or heard about it from someone, it doesn't count as a new thought, because it's simply your mind trying to associate your past experiences or your expectations with the thought. If you tried to imagine yourself sky-diving, your mind would take you back to that day when the window was down, and the air was blowing in your face, it would combine it with the time when you were young, and you jumped off that rope on your treehouse. If you imagined eating something totally original, perhaps some obscure or unfavourable part of an animal, your mind would take you back to that time you ate that kidney and liver, and create similiar nausea, derived from the expectations of what animals brains might taste like.

Maybe creating something entirely original is something we only do once in our lifetimes. Maybe never.

Stacks On

Thu, 04 Sep 2008 05:01:15 GMT

You know that feeling when you can't stop smiling? The overpowering sense of delight and joy?

How nice that feeling is. I was meeting up with two friends that I don't see nearly enough these days, and I became aware that they were both happily in a relationship. At that moment, I felt just little bit left out, just a tiny bit. This talk of happiness in others, and love being the strongest driving force on the face of this planet, and here I am - totally oblivious.

I could turn this into a rant or into a goal, but I have lived my life in an aloof, flowing manner, one step at a time, never really seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. And somehow, I'm blissfully ignorant (perhaps ignorantly blissful) of it, just allowing myself to continue staring at my own feet. Sometimes, a while ago, I used to complain about loneliness, about emptiness. I'm still lonely, but I've come to terms with this. Sometimes, when things really pile on, when the week ahead looks to be filled with stress and disorganization, I fret. I fret about not having enough sleep, having too much homework, things around me breaking or going missing,but in spite of seemingly bad things going on (to be honest, they're quite trivial. really, they're actually quite diminuitive issues.), I try to stay as lively and as positive (what a cheesy sounding word) as possible. Because you don't let one thing bring you down, when there are five guys on your back, trying to make you yield, you don't succumb. You press down hard, and throw them off, because there's only going to be more of them.

Hmph. Fight On.

On a less motivational note, I'm quite single.

Speaking of single, I remember last year, when I was in that "extreme loneliness" etc stage, my mobile phone's bluetooth name was "singleandlooking". Yes. I think it was too much Big Brother Up Late and the sleazy advertisements that accompany it. So, one morning, I bumped into Berkay (a.k.a Turkey, The guy whose name I couldn't remember but insisted on talking to me in a friendly manner, repeatedly emphasizing the use of my name.) and some white guy on their way to get early morning coffee from the Guild Village. I decided to attempt socializing, so I tagged along.

They got their coffees, and they sat down for a chat. They were comparing funny pictures on their phones (not unlike the ones you find on 4chan/hell these days.). The white guy (okay, I'm going to start calling him Rob now.) wanted a pic from Berkay's phone, so he asked him to send it over via bluetooth. So they did the usual song and dance to pair their phones up, and the conversation went like this -

Berkay: Okay, are you N652?
Rob: No.
Berkay: Hmm..Beth?
<light hearted laughter from all parties.>
Berkay: Hey Rob, are you single and looking?
Rob: What? No!
(apparently this guy is happily attached or something. It was a long time ago, I don't remember.)
Berkay: There's some guy called singleandlooking here.
Rob: Haha, what kind of idiot calls themselves singleandlooking?
(at this point, I realized who was single and looking, and was feeling suitably embarassed)
Me: Haha..yeh <weakly>
Rob: That's like naming your phone "aVirgin", hey Berkay, are you "aVirgin"? <jokingly>
Berkay: No. Are you? <apparently he doesn't get it.>
Rob: <suddenly defensive> What? No.
Me: .....
(basically tomato faced here.)

After that I quickly excused myself to the bathroom, where I quickly changed my bluetooth name to Big Ben (don't you start making jokes about that too.).

I have an exam in less than a week. I should be studying. Shouldn't I?

Yes. I should. Why aren't I studying?

Because I love doing this. Talking. Typing. This is fun. Finance, accounting, management, all those things bore me. My dad, and any other caring and ambitious father would say that life isn't about enjoying yourself. Life is about working hard, grinding your way through the things you hate, to obtain something you want. He complained about people wasting three years of their life learning digital design, about his brother never wanting to find a real job.

For those of us, men especially, who are brought up in semi-decent (coined thanks to a friend named Tze-Wei Lim, who uses it to adjectify everything) family , are strongly influenced by our fathers. The men in our lives who are the driving will of the family (usually. I mean, women can be empowering too. Bah, I don't need to explain myself.) , they teach us boys the meaning of tough love, sports, achieving goals, aspiring to become successful, caring for families, knowing when to be silent, how to have a healthy ego (oh come on, you know it's true.), and very often, what it means to be an adult. Mother are sweet, loving, but sometimes too compromising, it can be difficult to learn the meaning of discipline when you get rewarded after you get punished (I'm generalizing here. Not all parents fit into these categories, but, like all stereotypes, there is some truth behind the fable.). But whether we like it or not, we are very much a product of our environment, and the people we spend the most time with is our parents. So treasure them, take care of them. Admire and follow them.

For those of you in the unfortunate position of having no parents (or even worse, cruel, abusive parents), I hope you will be able to build yourself up around your friends and your own strength. You are the ones who have it rough, who have to fight to earn what has been blessed upon us by our own parents. But always remember. Treat it as a lesson. Protect yourself, for your posterity's sake. Learn from the pain you experienced, don't allow the cycle to continue, so that you may bring happiness to the world, where there once was loss.

Steadily

Mon, 01 Sep 2008 02:21:28 GMT

Monday. The first day of the week, month, season.

The beginning of spring and the dawn of a month of significant work and stress.

The end of another empty weekend. Another reminder of my own weaknesses, shortcomings.

Endless list of things that are interesting, provoking or wrong with the world.

But with no mood to write about it. The weather outside is rainy, the skies are gloomy, the trees are still. The library is full of noisy yet lethargic fellow members of the human race. Some are beautiful, some are fit, some are insecure, some are selfish, some are smart, some are sociable, some are innocent, some are wise.

Suddenly, there is a craving. A craving to eat healthy, to exercise regularly, to find love and keep it, to have good music and friends, to live every day with excitement, to look forward. The fact that this world is imperfect, that it is flawed, dark, that people are hurt all the time, scarred for life. It normally doesn't bother me. I can brush it off, be content with my life.

But there are moments, when you wonder if that's what you really want. Do you really want to learn engineering, do research, become an accountant? Do you really want to continue living in solitude, do you really want to stay in that relationship? Perhaps questioning the truth behind our actions and ambitions is futility, speculation and analysis, all meaningless. All we have to do is love ourselves more, exude confidence, show ourselves to the world.

Occasionally, when we look in the mirror, we spot that little bit of dirt on our face.

Half-Open

Tue, 26 Aug 2008 01:12:59 GMT

Every ten years
I met a wise man, whose eyes
will bore through my soul.

Stolen

Tue, 19 Aug 2008 06:28:52 GMT

"Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” He is believed to have called it his greatest literary work ever. Can you write a story in six words?"

Instead of writing six words (although I'll give it a shot when I have the time), I'm going to write the actual story based on "For sale: baby shoes, never worn.", because brevity has never been my strong point.

For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn.

Every mother dreams of having their child in their arms, nurturing them, hearing them speak, watching them grow, playing with grandchildren. Not every mother is that lucky.

Sarah was always a simple woman, living in a quiet village in the southern area of Belgium. She cooked for her husband, cleaned their simple house, sometimes indulged in a little gardening. She didn't ask for much, and her husband never gave her much. He was not a sentimental man, nor was he pragmatic. He worked at a factory in Maastrich, making tyres for cars in Germany, and what little money he made he squandered on cheap whiskey. But Sarah was a kind woman, and she never hated him for it, instead she worked odd jobs for sympathetic villagers, helping them watch their children or doing their shopping, and receiving food and necessities in return. She was content, save for one thing. Sarah wanted a baby.

Sarah's husband Nicolas used to be an energetic, lively young man. His energy and confidence, in and out of bed, was what drew Sarah to him. However, since the day they were married, she felt he was distancing himself, many nights, he was making love to his bottle rather than her. Sometimes, he would come home in the middle of the day, inebriated and angry. She would ask him, gently and caringly, why he was home. He would just look at her, with his dark, attractive, but angry and mindless eyes. His energy and confidence transformed into rage.

Her friends seemed to go along with her lies, but they all knew what he was doing to her. Sarah was never outspoken, always quiet and diligent, and as much as they tried to help, she didn't let them into her world of pain, and she kept smiling. One particular friend, Aurelie, was an officer at the local station, and she, more than anyone, tried to get Sarah to share, to testify against her irresponsible husband. She would sometimes make surprise visits, to find Sarah sitting in the middle of their sparsely furnished living room, tears rolling down her face, over her bruises. Aurelie was infuriated, but for Sarah's sake, she never confronted Nicolas unless Sarah allowed it.

On the nights when they did make love, it was quick and rough, and Nicolas fell asleep immediately after. However, despite his lack of affection, Sarah still felt content on those nights, because every one of them brought her hope of finally having that child. One dark morning, while she was sweeping the stone steps outside her house, she suddenly felt nauseated. To most people, it would mean a bad case of diarrhoea, but to Sarah it was a wondeful feeling, not only because she had only drank water for breakfast, but because she knew it was a sign of her wish coming true.

From that day on, Sarah worked harder than ever in the village, saving up as much money as she could. The villagers, who heard the news of her pregnancy, were only too happy to give her a little bit more. Her husband wasn't so elated. In fact, the night she told him the news, he became even more enraged, and lashed out at her. She had hoped he would slowly come to love her unborn child, but he came home later and later, and on some nights not at all. Sarah perservered, and continued cooking him meals, and putting them into the little fridge in the kitchen, while saving money at the same time. Her friends became more and more worried, and asked her if she needed any help. They said she was becoming paler and weaker, and she looked ever so fragile, but she happily replied that it was just the pregnancy taking its toll.

One day, in her seventh month, she took a little trip to town with her savings, and went to the only baby store, located between a kitchen appliance store and a grocer. While she was there, she looked around, and finally found what she was looking for. There, amidst a sea of fluffy toys and rockers and prams, she found the most beautiful pair of shoes. They were a pale lime colour, and had little stars with mirthful faces on them. She joyfully took them to the counter, and took her little bag of coins, saved up over the past six and a half months, and poured them out on the counter. The cashier, looking somewhat unsettled, counted them and gave her back two coins and wrapped the shoes up in thin paper. Sarah went to the grocer, bought two potatoes and returned to her home with a smile on her face.

Sarah returned home in the late afternoon, and after putting the potatoes onto boil, unwrapped the baby shoes and looked at them adoringly. Her mind started picking, as it often did in times of silence, names for her child. "If it's a girl, Helene, Charlotte or Laura, if it's a boy, Quentin, Jeroen or Thomas.". She thought about getting ideas from Aurelie when she came over to visit later. She wondered what Nicolas would want to name their child. She didn't hear the sound of footsteps, the glaring eyes at the shoes on the table, not until she felt his arms tossing her at the wall did she realise he was there.

There was a pain in her stomach. She felt the tip of his soft soled boots against her side, over and over again. She heard gunfire and screaming. Then it was all black.

When she awoke, she was in bed, feeling faint. Aurelie was by her side, as was the village doctor. When she saw their faces, her tears began to flow.

For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn.

For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn. - Edition Two

Mrs. Tan enjoyed her life, working for a prestigious accounting firm, keeping her portfolio profitable She was a meticulous about everything in her life, even her choice of husband. Mr. Tan was well-groomed, clever (but not as clever as her) and religious. He was grinding his way up as an engineer in a medium-sized company, but he was simple, and fertile (Mrs. Tan made sure of that). Mrs. Tan's mother, who lived in Singapore near her mahjong friends and was always telling Mrs. Tan to give her some grandchildren.

It's not that Mrs. Tan wasn't trying, she just never seemed to be lucky. They were both healthy adults, so why couldn't they bear children? All of Mrs. Tan's friends had their children already, and she sometimes felt like she was missing on the fun, the motherly chats (her friends had told her that discussions of the latest stock developments wasn't as interesting as she thought.) . So she decided to try something new. One evening, Mr. Tan came home to the smell of wonderful curry and to the texture of beautiful steamed fish, and his wife's body.

A few weeks later, the plus sign appeared. Mrs. Tan started spending all her time purchasing various baby accessories. Mrs. Tan even bought a pair of shoes, in a colour that would be suitable for both genders. (She didn't like to waste hard earned money.). Even Mr. Tan would put in the effort, preparing a room in their house for the child. Mrs. Tan's mother booked a flight over, and sent her daughter various baby jewelry. Mrs. Tan started reading books about baby care in her free time.

The day the baby was born was a Friday, and the kind Australian doctor who delivered her baby brought the little boy to her, smiling. "He's beautiful" the doctor said (even though Mrs. Tan thought that was quite obvious.) As she slowly unwrapped the child, she noticed something unusual. Where his feet were, there was an unusually large bump. "He has incredibly large feet too," said the doctor "But don't worry, it's usually a sign of a tall child". Mrs. Tan frowned.

For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn.

Growth

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 03:58:13 GMT

Watching the Olympics and seeing specimens of human perfection displaying their physical prowess, breaking world records, proving themselves best in the world (like a certain American swimmer) , has lead me to wonder about something: "Is the human race becoming stronger or weaker?"

Humans are creatures of change, we improve through change and we learn by experience. Ignoring the cliche'd arguments between Creationism and Evolution (and anything that falls in between, you crazy cultists), operating under the concept of humans adapting to improve their situation, it would seem that humans are becoming more intelligent as the availability of education increases and the knowledge of previous generations is inherited. A possibility also exists that the disparity in intelligence within populations is increasing (so basically, smart people are getting smarter, dumb people are getting dumber..or staying dumb.), as opposed to people actually getting smarter.

Humans are perhaps getting smarter, but this intelligence is also connected with our ability to make tools to make our work easier, more convenient. Computers, supermarkets, cars, massage chairs, mobile phones and fast food have become essential components of our life (especially the massage chairs) and have made the need to exert ourselves to survive totally unnecessary. Why plant your own cabbage when you can get it from the grocer? Why decapitate and defeather your own chicken when your butcher does it for you? (Admittedly, the guys at Coles didn't do a very good job of defeathering. Would you eat a chicken wing if it had two long, burnt feather stalks sticking out of it?) Convenience has made physical fitness lose its expediency, and the only justification to maintain a robust healthy body is recreation and procreation (apparently bulky girls are no longer desirable. Perhaps fertility is no longer a seductive trait among women.). Yet, we see atheletes breaking world records over and over again. Genetically, those record setters should descend from a line of gold medalists, but often the record breakers are just normal people, from normal parents who shop at supermarkets, communicate using a phone (as opposed to using a running messenger or smoke signals.) and eat KFC (or McDonalds, you lousy clown lovers).

So, is humanity becoming more able-bodied? Why aren't we adapting to become more reliant on convenience and lethargy? My explanation (the obvious..explanation) is that the elite are getting better training, learning from their predecessors and following stricter, more beneficial diets. The normal people are becoming lazier, fatter, slower, but most importantly, smarter.

Note: Apologies for the somewhat abrupt and anti-climatic ending. But today is not a good day for writing.I don't have my headphones and the library is full of distractions in the form of mobile phones, chatting freaks and beautiful girls.

Pain Relief

Thu, 14 Aug 2008 09:08:09 GMT

After a few hours of playing volleyball (on a girl's height net. the other guys are just regular height you see.) my outer thighs (or you might call them...legs?) are aching, and every step up the library stairs is a shot of pain. This may or may not be associated with the fact that I weigh some hundred and thirty kilograms (being unnecessarily tall does not help my B.M.I.) , but all the same, I'm safely in the humanities library again, once again surrounded by the likes of Roald Dahl, Charlotte Bronte, Ann Radcliffe and Walter Scott.

Somehow, it's peaceful here. (Despite the noisy little bleached hair Asian clan-girl.) The library is a place of relaxation, where I'm free from the normal distractions and noises that surround me at my home. It also helps that my classes are over until Monday; but I still have a few things I have to get done. I have to buy books, templates, apply for a transfer into Law, renew my learning permit, fix my computer, return that stupid portable HD, get a job, exercise, clean my room, discover the meaning of life, get a girlfriend... and the list goes on (It's sorted by priority. Obviously.) But when I'm here, I can forget about that, I can forget that my stomach has not touched food since seven in the morning, I can forget that the undershirt I'm wearing makes me smell like cat urine (the only reason I know what it smells like is because my cat insists on pissing on everything he sees.) , and in the silence of the noisy air-conditioning, all I think about, is what I'm thinking about.

In our world full of complex dichotomies, between thought and action, peace and war, speaking and listening, voluptuous and flat, there is one, perhaps unexplored or obscure dichotomy, one that perhaps, may not be a dichotomy at all.

It is between benevolence and logic. At this point, the more kind of you may say "Well, I suppose it can be difficult to live by plain logic and still help people out." ,while the more cold-hearted ones might say "This guy's an idiot, I'm going to look for a blog with REAL stuff in it. Like Chinese politics and fanfics about magical people. With pictures" . So a little warning, from this point, it's nothing but boring ranting about human's inability to be selfless and logical at the same time.

Benevolence is charity, generosity, kindness and leaving the last piece of fried chicken for your little brother (although, there's a myth about never getting laid/married if you continously snipe the final morsels on a dish). It's putting others before yourself. Sometimes, we associate it with Mr. Gates and his generious foundation, dedicated to making the world a better place (with no political implications at all.), some might think of the kind, scrawny, somewhat good looking boy who offers up his place to the grandmother with the seventeen bags of grocery shopping (leaving in his wake an aura of guilt), some of the more biblical among us will think of the good Samaritan who aided the robbed and injured Jew. Whatever your role model, most people have experienced or observed the selfless altruism in one place or another. Such things are pleasant and admirable, admittedly, but it brings to mind a question: 'Why do they do it?". Why would someone who has cumulated large hordes of wealth give it out to the people around him? Why would that boy, comfortable in his seat, give up his place for some granny (who may or may not be on the brink of death, but let's not get morbid.) , and why would a godless man give up his time and money to take care of a stranger on the road? It defies logic.

Logic is sound judgment, logical actions are performed like a chessmaster: purposeful, self-benefiting and well-thought out (and pompous.) , perfect logicians (soppy human emotions aside) would claim total and utter selfishness as their life's code. Scientists adore logic, with their fancy robots, perfectly white labcoats and colourful equipment, which they use to put other less logical, less intelligent people in their place (and subsequently cast themselves out from society). Where would we be without logic? If the first cavemen (if you believe in them.), after some fantastic procreation, thought to themselves "Well my goodness, that was absolutely smashing! I shall never do it again.", then humanity would be met with swift extinction. My friend once told us a puzzle, about a hundred blue-eyed and ninety-nine brown-eyed people on an island, and if they could, by perfect logic, figure out the colour of their own eyes, they could leave the island.

Now a normal person would say, "Hey, you wanna get off this island? Well, let's tell each other our eye colours." And then everyone would be off the island by the end of the first day (unless they all played a cruel prank on someone.). But no, the logicians have to wait night after night until they mathematically figure out their eye colour. That is the nature of logic. It doesn't allow for guesses, for emotions, for screaming and profanity. Logic would say to Mr. Gates - "Hey mister, you've created all this money through your monopoly over the software industry. Now, it's time for you to take your money, and MAKE MORE MONEY. So you can get stuff." Logic doesn't allow for benevolence, doesn't allow for sacrifice. Logic demands total benefit of self. Hence, my argument, there is a dichotomy between benevolence and logic.

Or is there? (At this point, I'm pretty sure most of you can guess what I'm going to write, so you may..skip along.) Logic says that there should ultimately, be gain behind a person's actions, that they will not act unless there's something in it for them. So, in acts of self-sacrifice, jumping in front of bullets, giving away things you've spent your life earning, what possible gain could there be? The gain is emotional profit. Benevolence is trading of physical things for emotional things. (To put it as unromanticly and as bluntly as possible) Humans help other humans because it makes them feel better, makes them feel nice and warm, and even in the times when a person sacrifices things with for no outer emotional reaction, inside, they feel better, because they are doing the right thing, their morals are being upheld, it brings them a happiness of sorts. A man (or a woman, as rare as Hollywood is willing to maintain a false sense of equality.) diving in front of a total stranger to take a bullet can live the last few seconds of his life knowing that he was a hero, that he saved a life. (and wouldn't that just make you warm and fuzzy? Oozing blood aside.)

So, my final conclusion is that benevolence and logic can live side by side, and that in the moments when we do good things, we should remember, that not only are we brightening the smiles of the people around us, not only are we warming the hearts of our friends and peers, not only are we making the world a better place, but we are also being wonderful logicians.

Recognition

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 09:53:30 GMT

The world that we live in is vast, majestic and boundless in the eyes of humanity. No man will ever fully comprehend the way we think, feel, grow, hate, love, nor why the wind feels so good sometimes, why the sea brings us peace, why the earth bears the weight of our feet. Existence is an enigma, explained by religion, psychology, science, philosophy and even our own beliefs. No one knows the truth, and we pursue the paths we believe in.

The wisdom we have, that perhaps differentiates us from the fellow living things that share Earth with us, makes us bear the burden to seeking. Seeking the truth to life, seeking purpose, seeking wealth, seeking fame, seeking love. We live by more than just instincts. We create around us systems, communities and limits, contingencies to the order which we seek. This wisdom, perhaps endowed, perhaps developed has allowed us to learn, laugh and live, and to seek recognition.

In a world where every human, every person is connected, where all people are as complex, as wonderful as we are, we search for recognition, something that reassures us of our existence, something that reminds us that we are part of this vast, majestic and boundless world. Be it the pursuit of beauty, the recognition that we are pleasing to those around us, the pursuit of intelligence, the recognition that we know as much, if not more than those around us, the pursuit of power, the recognition that we have the ability to control those around us, the pursuit of wealth, the recognition that we can have what we want, the pursuit of creativity, the recognition that we can create things unique to others, the pursuit of sex, the recognition that someone desires our body or our intimacy; these pursuits confirm our existence and bring purpose to our life.

Sometimes, in the search for recognition, we bring ourselves to perform shameless acts, to perhaps rely too heavily on those around us, and sometimes when our search feels insignificant, when we reap no results, we may despair, we may tire and we may give up all together. But, the search for recognition is a long one, one we may continue all our life, and we should never give up, never forget our purpose, lest we leave this world without knowing the true meaning of happiness.

The Fourth Hour

Mon, 11 Aug 2008 05:10:03 GMT

I sit here in front of the computer. My eyes staring straight ahead. The thoughts that had flooded my mind have left me. All that remains is the feeling of my long fingernails knocking against my keyboard, while a climatic Explosions in The Sky song begins its ascent. In the silence it is easy to become restless, in the stillness it becomes easy to listen.

Solidarity is a gift to those who find themselves attached to the concept of creativity. When we are surrounded by people, we tend to lose track of our ideas. Brilliant new innovations and ingenious new inventions are wasted by those who begin to appreciate what they have around them, those whose lives are occupied by constant tormenting love of friends, children and spouses.

Perhaps that is why we pursue a many hobbies and interests at a young age. It is the age of sampling, a time of finding, where our paths lead, where the truth lies. So let us take up the mantle of isolation, and allow our inner genius to release itself.

The corporate world believes in teamwork for problem-solving, decision making and brain storming. They believe in the power of groups. The undeniable power of a group to change a community, a country, a world. Being part of a "group" gives purpose to our actions, forces us to monitor our own words, thoughts and direction to suit those of a group, so that we may feel a sense of belonging.

When we feel belonging and acceptance, we feel like a large, warm blanket has been placed over our heads, we feel like we are sheltered from the outside world by our fellow members. Groups are created through a leader, an individual who through solidarity, has brought together people, each needing a sense of belonging, into one entity. The leader is weaver of the blanket, the carer of the souls inside.

The leader may not stand out, they might not even be known to all the members of the group, s/he may simply be the one that has called the group together. The group works because the people are there to listen to what their fellow group members have to share. The success of a group exists in its ability to create acceptance where there was originally nothing.

We should be appreciative of our leaders, and the fellow members of our group, be it a high school clique, a close family, a blogring, a college club, or the karaoke gang. Mankind, like beasts, plants and all species of life, have a propensity to form groups. In groups there is safety, care, understanding and purpose.

Indisciplined

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 00:28:31 GMT

Currently Reading
To Kill a Mockingbird
By Harper Lee
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Home - Indisciplined

I wake up in the middle of the night, and I think to myself "Oh man, I could totally blog about that right now."

So, I've woken up, and now naturally I've forgotten what I was going to blog about. I can't even bring myself to finish the post I was working on for two days. But the upside is, thanks to last nights rather unpleasant, highly interrupted slumber, even now, I still remember one of the dreams I had.

The dream came to me after I fell asleep watching Mushi-shi. When I "woke up" my body was on its side, with my back exposed to the cold suburban air. When I say "woke up", I mean that state of not really being fully asleep, but on the verge of it. Well, the subconscious part of my mind (actually, seeing as I still remember it, it might have just been my conscious mind.) decided it would give me a nice little pleasant dream. It was a dream of a girl.

The girl was standing in a dark cave.

The girl had no face.

In place of her face, was a huge, gaping, bottomless hole of darkness.

The shivers ran down my spine, just like they would if right now, you thought of the woman who broke into prison to try and get her husband out, but before she could find her husband, she was caught and hung, and her final wish was that she'd be dressed in black. And on some nights, the prisoners would see her floating through the corridors, dressed in a ghostly black, with the rope still tightly wound around her neck, calling out for her husband. Yes, that feeling. It may only last for a second, but last night, it just kept growing and growing, those shivers down my spine, until it felt like my whole body was becoming numb.

So that was my uneventful night.

When I grew up I wasn't told many stories. My father sometimes offered up gems of his impoverished childhood, and we gladly lapped it up and were never content. So he decided to buy us a collection of Enid Blyton, to assuage our endless need for stories. Those stories were easily understood, simple to follow and most importantly, morally upright. I learn of stealing (or more accurately, the vice of stealing) , making friends and sharing.

Sometimes I think the imposition of adults morals upon children through books and school can be highly unnatural. When I was in primary school in Malaysia, we had these lessons known as "Pendidikan Moral", or teaching of morality. They were things like "Don't step on the grass", "Help the old lady cross the road", don't do this, don't do that, in fact, it felt a bit like a reinforcement of the school rules, rather than an attempt to make us all model people. I feel this is not the right way to educate a child on the rights and wrongs of society. Children learn from experience, from what their parents teach them. They shouldn't learn from a textbook, which may lead to them associating the "right" way of doing things with the "rulebook" way of doing things. Admittedly it isn't always bad to follow the rules, seeing as the rules are generally created by decent reasonable people. But it might limit their imagination, lead to them being easily withdrawn, avoiding conflict, being highly risk averse. And doesn't that just stunt the growth of their entire economy.

But there's an upside to things too. In my everyday life, those morals which have been innately built into me give me a strong conscience. It makes it easier to offer help, makes those morality decisions more clear-cut more "black-and-white". even when I step on lawn in my neighbourhood sometimes I think to myself "Maybe I shouldn't walk on this, ruining their beautiful lawn.". Funnily enough, despite all those lessons and that conscience, I still trample right over their lawns.

Oh, to live in an bipolar world.

Home - After the Olympics

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 01:39:37 GMT

Ah, the opening ceremony was magnificent, and watching it with friends, perhaps old friends who you never really felt that close to, old friends who were distant yet warm, and friends of friends, just makes it all the more delightful.

In the warm lounge of a friend, we watched the countries unite under the Olympic Flag. If you saw the opening ceremony yourself, you'd understand that it was so amazing, so grand, and so harmonious, that it leaves me with no words to do it justice. (I have to say, the final torch running was the pièce de résistance, ah to be able to fly.)

Speaking of being able to fly, I had a dream last night about Superman. I think I was supposed to be fighting him, and he took me and flew through the roof, and suddenly, I realised that I was Superman too.

It made me feel bad about myself. I wanted to be ripped like Clark Kent.

Vanity is like a search for perfection, seeking to be the most beautiful person possible. Like rainbow chasing, it is a chase after an image, a chase which never ends until the day you come to realisation that you are already beautiful. That's like finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Home - Burning

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 11:01:32 GMT

And all of a sudden it ended.

The room was filled with little toys, robots with large feet to balance upon, foam tigers with round clawless paws, cast iron toy trains with smiling faces on them, trucks with trailers that opened to reveal the vicious spring-loaded cannons on the inside. The boy wandered around the room, his ticklish fingers pressing every button they found, turning every figures arms, dragging every single wheeled toy along the soft, thinly carpeted floor. But the boy was, as all boys are, easily excitable, and each new toy his eyes fell upon left him with no interest in the current one. So he scoured the room, never understanding how the other children could play with thier lego blocks and their barbie dolls for so long, and treat them with so much care and passion. The boy sometimes felt lost, wanted to call to his mommy, and have her caress him in her loving embrace. But the boy always found a new toy to play with, a new toy to occupy his time.

The boy sometimes thought he was having fun, but he still felt empty, like the toys surrounding him were there to draw his eyes away from something else. Something better. This made the boy angry, and the boy began to vent his anger on the other children, stealing their food and messing up their toys. The other children began to dislike the boy for his uncontrollable tempers and his erratic behaviour, and they soon left him, taking with them their favourite toys. The boy just laughed at them as they left, telling them they were dumb for leaving him with all the toys, and so he continued to play. He felt lonely but he pretended not to, and occasionally the toys he was playing with would break and fall apart. The boy knew it wasn't his fault. He thought that the other children, or maybe the adults had left him with faulty toys, and one by one he began discarding them, or ignoring some of the toys altogether.

The room the boy resided in became larger and larger, and the colours on the wall, once bright and delightful, were slowly replaced by shades of grey, which were biased towards black. The window which once shone glowing ripples of sunlight upon the happy toys was clouded by the boy's own rage. The boy found toys that, although sometimes fun, hurt him and never really felt satisfying, never long-lasting. But for some reason, the boy couldn't stop playing with them. When he was playing with those toys, for a second, the room was no longer grey, the windows no longer dark, and so he went back to them, over and over again. He had nothing else to fill the void he had created.

One day, while the boy was sitting on the carpet in the pale light thay squeezed through the window, he saw something lying on the ground. It was a toy he used to play with, a toy he and his friends once used to dance to. It was a musical box. The outside of the musical box was coloured in oaken shades of brown, and embroidered with bold golden-yellow branches and tiny mint-green holly leaves. It was small enough for him to cradle with his hands, and yet big enough to that every detail on the finely carved exterior felt alive. At first, the boy contemplated throwing it away, into the amassed pile of forsaken toys he had built up in front of the door into the room. But the weavings of the box attracted him, willed him to wind up the dusty golden key, to open that door again. So he turned the key.

At first a little music, mellow and peaceful, trickled out of the tiny gap that had opened in the musical box. Then, much to the surprise of the boy, it burst open, showering spinkles of golden flakes and silver speckles into the air, then a beautiful melody of horns, flutes, harps, violins and cymbals erupted out of the box. The musical box itself was radiating, the golden branches and leafs suddenly appearing more full of vibrance. The boy, startled, rushed to the box to shut it, but when he looked inside he saw the sky, the sky which had long abandoned him, and along with it, the sun, and the clouds that were swirling around within the box, making the sunlight shining out shift and dance on the ceilings and walls of the room, flashing shapes of happy families laughing around dinner tables, young men and women holding hands in meadows of tranquility. The boy felt excitement rising in him, the feelings of joy and bliss flooded his soul. The cold stone coating of his heart, developed over days of desolation, slowly began to dissolve.

He had never felt so perfect in his life.

Letting Loose

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 09:45:48 GMT

My laptop releases soft chimey music while I sit and listen.

But my computer emits rather violent sounding classical music (which I only use when I'm studying. Brian Eno's pretty good for studying too.) , and forces me to stop Winamp on my laptop. But then the song changes, perhaps to something by Mozart, and it is light and uplifting. My room is bathed in the dim orange light from my bedside lamp, and the National Geographic (Wow, I'm really going to town on the copyrights here.) Earth at Night poster on my wall, with it's twelve box folds, cannot be clearly seen. The obligatory Mashimaro clock (forced upon me by my family) has it's batteries ripped out, as the racket its ticking creates is unbearable. My multiple (unfashionable, uncomfortable and unused.) beanies are crowned on my JBL subwoofer.

Why am I telling you this? Because, for all you know, I'm lying to you, and this is in fact a figment of my imagination. Perhaps I could have described a warm, comfortable girl's room, with cuddly cushions, warm lights, gentle sweet perfumes, and that might have left you feeling either snug or nauseous (depending on your taste.) . The point is, if simple words can evoke emotions (as they often do.) , then can you imagine what kind of effect your wild and limitless imagination will have on your thoughts?

Hm. A good story is one that can send shivers up its readers spines or warm its readers heart. Perhaps it's not a bad idea for you to let loose once in a while, let your imagination run free. When we are young, our mind can create little worlds of its own, with each character having their own personality, each location having its unique feel. When you are feeling down, maybe you should enter that world, and escape from the cruel realism that people in this world live by.

Reliving Those Thoughts

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 09:17:14 GMT

I may be ethically bound not to repost on my first, but my second most certainly does not live by those principles.

**Reid Library - Delayed Afternoon**

Today is the only day I have a busy schedule in the morning, and is also the only day this week that the skies have been blanketed by cotton clouds, some dark, but glowing with the light of the sun on its edges, and some thin and almost formless, but none ominous. It looks to be a fine day tommorow too. I personally love light that has been shrouded by the clouds, although it may seem at though the life and warmth has been seeped out of it, I see it as becoming more gentle, more tactful, more kind to the dwellers on our Earth.

I'm going to try a little experiment. Normally when I blog, I am bespectacled (or be-contact lensed, as the case may be.) , normally I can see everything around me in fine detail, from the dark spots on the craggy library walls, to the fine people lying outside. But now I'm going to take off my glasses, and instead of blogging with what I see, blogging with what is perhaps, obvious, blog with my four other senses. (But you'll have to forgive my large amount of typoes.)

In my ears, the rising climatic composition of Le Memoir, by Otsuka Ayako, pulls me along with magnificent rises and falls, its quiet moments emitted like peaceful childrens music, while its build-ups heighten my enjoyment to the point where I close my eyes, enveloped in its wonderful piano and majestic strings.

In my mouth, the sweet remainding taste of the Orange Eclipse I just ate, tangy and feathery, freshening but not overbearingly so. It leaves a lasting aftertaste in my throat, so that every sip of water I take is filled with pleasant reminders of its candied flavours.

On my fingers, the soft pattering of the keyboard, feeling each key sink, then rise again, the warmth rising from my laptop, the comfortable and rub of my jumper against my skin. The obvious discomfort from this rather low and squashy table and this unexcitingly hard chair.

In my nose, the smell of the library, the musky yet lively smell of people all around me working. (my nose is actually incredibly numbed right now.) Right now, I would love to smell, the sweet remnants of a girl's perfume as she lays cuddled next to me. I wonder how nice that would be.

In my eyes, just a blur.

There is disparity between what we write and what we say, between our thoughts and our words; While our thoughts are floating around in a void, being processed, incomplete, we hide them from people, stash them away in our minds cache. An incomplete sentence does not want utterance, a fragmented thought does not want sharing, a premature child does not want birth. Yet, we sometimes force upon ourselve the duty of bringing to life something broken, perhaps because we cannot bear the embarassment of giving nothing, or maybe because we want to hide what inside us, for fear that the people around us, who think they know us, realize that within us is a beast, a ravaging monster.

But I urge you, do not hold back, do not refrain yourself, let those who are around you see the true, ugly self. For in that revelation, with the truth bared before their eyes and your own, you realize that you are infact a beautiful swan.

The First Post

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 09:01:38 GMT

I was considering using today's post from my other blog as my first post, but I suppose that would just be impolite, like giving my mistress a rose from my wife's bouquet. I've decided to blog here because I feel that I've been surrounded by too many distractions, too many misdirections, and that I no longer receive the appropriate response to my (perhaps patronizing) posts.

I believe in a world of imagination, where you can let your mind roam wild and free, but I am constantly reminded of this worlds disapproval for those with their head in the clouds. Sitting at a table, tapping away on a keyboard, we can create worlds that open up pathways to friendships, relationships, fights, and love. So please, take care of me.