Grapple.
So things that I've seen, heard and observed has triggered what I like to term "chain reactions": somewhere in the back of my brain a synapse is sparked off and then whoosh! The signal gets passed on like electricity, the speed of light: my mind, my thoughts are light years ahead of the typing speed as my fingers bang away at the laptop, coming to a year old. Is it already one year? Time flies.

Yes, time flies.

Having a sizeable number of older friends and relatives, the number of weddings attended, or to be attended, is on the rise. Will be on the rise, is more like it. Ironic that when you're young, being the youngest is a huge disadvantage; in contrast, as time goes by the tables are turned. At least, for the number of years you lost being unable to do "grownup stuff", you get it back in terms of boundless energy and youth and time and seemingly unrestricted freedom. And when all is paid and done, you are set into a fixture along with the rest of humanity.

I'm rambling. People ramble for a variety of reasons. They have a lot on their mind, they're anxious, they're excited, they're nervous, they're eager...the reasons for rambling runs the whole gamut.

I don't know where I fall. But I do know that day by the bridge, what you said, despite it being reasonable and it being true, tells me how much more I have to go, as well as how inadequate I feel at times because some parts of the idea of a relationship are still so new and foreign and strange, even though it's been a while. I do know that when the emcee says "Presenting Mr and Mrs (insert groom's name" at a wedding, or when I see it printed neatly on a schedule, while most of (my being? my heart? my feelings?) what I feel is happiness for the couple, a little bit of me dies inside as yet another woman's name is subsumed to that of her husband's. Pretty lame, pretty much like a grammar Nazi, pretty much like what a sociolinguist-in-training would say...but I don't feel like I'm speaking as an English Language undergraduate. I'm merely speaking my mind, whether it is foolish or vain.

Sometimes I wonder how a bride feels as she stands there, pretty as a beautifully taken picture, in a ridiculously fantastically expensive gown that she will only wear once in her life. Content to stand there quietly and meekly next to her husband as he gives "their first speech as a couple". Or to be more exact, his first speech as a married man.  Everyone is watching them, being happy for them. She should feel happy, and she does. But an expensive rigamarole, flashes of her new relatives and many stressful plannings later, I'm not sure she feels as much happiness as a certain relief that everything is finally going to be over and accounted for.

That though, is only the beginning.


Call me someone who thinks too negatively about the future, someone who's not willing to settle down so quickly, or at least not be able to go down without a fight. Call me someone who is too overly feminist, even. But the real heart of the matter is that I am all of these, and I am afraid. 

It looks like a trade-off. Freedom but potential loneliness. Companionship but a whole slew of responsibilities. For some, the start of a family is a new beginning. For some, the start of a family means more babies, children naturally coming with the package. Come give us more babies, they cry, so that we can replenish our flourishing economy and keep the nation going like a well-oiled machine. Come give us more babies so we can carry on the clan name, the family name, so we can use them to make up for the mistakes we made while bringing up our children. While marriage and children go hand in hand, co-relation does not indicate causality, or that it is natural that A follows B.

Elsewhere people worry about expenditure, about how to feel and react to certain things without engendering or worse still, provoking the emotions of others around. Once upon a time they could be indifferent, even to the extent of giving the finger, vulgar and rude as it is. But now they need to care. Too much.

The adults say don't worry, don't let your mind run light years ahead of you and trap you in its paranoia. Some say they've been through some of it, and they understand. Some say they never ever though through so much in detail of the significance of these acts, what is universally known as the milestones of life. Some say the people of this generation think too much. Some say even that we are too selfish, and we need to learn the joy of sacrifice. Sure, certain sacrifices are worth it when you see those who benefit being joyful, but with my current state of mind I would not be able to say I wouldn't feel the pang of buried dreams in my heart, even as I watch others' joy. And that is something that shouldn't be felt for it to be an unconditional sacrifice.

If ever I have the guts to say yes to getting hitched and take that great leap of fear, I know what awaits me at the end of the "bridal march" (if you could call walking down the aisle in a gown with uncomfortable shoes a "march") is not supposed to be a knife hanging over my head, but love and a new beginning. But still I feel the slight gust of the suspended knife each time I try to rationalize the situation out in my head and I cannot help but shudder.

At the end of the day, when I graduate, putting down my books for perhaps the last time and venturing out into the brave world that is both old and new, is the world my oyster? Or does this oyster have automated claws, either clamping down on me when I have taken a certain quota of pearls or allowing me to take as much as I can, provided I give something of equal value back?

I'm still rambling.

Imagine God up there in Heaven, looking down on Earth. If He is omniscient and knows and sees all, he must have felt the feeling of information overload far too often, watching the world's drama and strife. Also how contradictory His creations are, as they contemplate on the best course of action and then revoke it later, not realizing they need just that one bit of faith, which is so near and yet so far.

We hate the rain when it fills up our shoes/But how we love when it washes our cars
We love to love when it fills up a room/But when it leaves, oh we're cursing the stars. 

Aerial View.
It was just yet another normal trip up to Daniel's house in the Bukit Timah area for rehearsal on Tuesday. However in the interest of time I opted for the old school route (literally) over the more sheltered route that only came into existence a few years ago.

The sunset is to my right as I look out the window, earphones plugged in. I try to snap a picture or two, but after one frame have to satisfy myself with just watching as the bus rolls along the outskirts of MacRitchie. Mere humans can't reach the sun, I muse, but we are always stretching out for it, chasing it, longing for some sense of spontaneity and combustible energy that it represents for us. Like Gatsby and his green light: sometimes we want too much, and sometimes we fall.

"Journey" begins to play on my ipod as the bus clatters onto the expressway. I lapse into thought again,the lyrics being given a new meaning in the light of reminiscence and nostalgia. Just a few days ago there had been a class outing and we had all mused about how we had grown and moved on beyond the two years we had shared on the same campus.

Bittersweet, a lot of it. I continue musing as the music transits to 我吃得起苦 (literally "I can take the bitterness") Easily the most volatile period, yet I emerge more grounded and ready to take on more things later in university. The song lyrics talk about how despite coming from afar one is able to take hard knocks, because God does not throw us a dead end, but a way out. There is always a way out, no matter how cornered you seem. How long it takes to realize that though, is another matter. I never realized till I was well on my way out of the gates as a graduate.

It has been a long while since my thoughts have turned back to the gamut of emotions that associate themselves with this area. Some of them still swirl around in my head as I stop off at Coronation Plaza to get Gloria and I some dinner. I had mentioned to them at one point in time that Jin Ji sold cheap and good food and that I would get them to try.

Perhaps because it was the holidays, Jin Ji was down to its last half an hour of business for the day. Half the store space, normally filled with students, was shut off and only one shutter on the other side was open. It was a lot more quieter than I remember it. I order the takeaways and wait as the song plays on and ends. A moment later, Bosson's One in A Million comes on and I just smiled.

Halfway through the song, the takeouts are ready. Midway through keeping my change I drop the ipod. The thud is loud in the quiet and it stuns both the shopkeeper and I. I emerge red-faced from the table after diving down to retrieve it and sheepishly apologize. The shopkeeper laughs lightly and says it's alright. The magic of the song is lost though, and I have to replay it from the top.

It strikes me at this point that there's a lot of times we don't feel like we're one in a million, like we're worth it. Is there a justification that we should feel validated all the time? Sometimes it's a keening need and we feel bad about it because it can come across as being too whiny and needy for attention. Obvious excess is obviously unwelcome, but most times it's the case that we need to treat ourselves a little better. Sometimes someone has to be the one to give us an mp3 player, shove the earphones into our ears and rewind One in A Million from the top to remind us that we matter, that somehow somewhere out there, someone cares.

As I boarded the bus to meet Daniel's cab midway, I wonder if I read into it too much. Writing it all down like this, my ipod may sound smart, or that it was as if I was being directed to think about these things and do those things on cue. Thing is, I'm probably the only one who will see meaning in all these. Chances are that whoever reads this will take it as a tl:dr post. It has meaning because I choose to interpret it this way. If I did not give much thought to all the small things it would just be like any other ordinary day, with the actions having arbitrary meaning.

This time though, the thread of my thoughts keep getting broken by messages and calls as Daniel and I figure out which bus stop to meet at. Meanwhile, Find You There by We Three Kings blares continuously. I start to laugh quietly to myself. Perhaps this sudden wave of nostalgia and reflection was a way of coming to a conclusion, a closure. The past is done, the end chapter written. But there is a next chapter, and the next and the next and so on.

The present is here, the future awaits us.

Faith.
Cathedral steeples were built as high as it could go so clouds would gather and bring rain.
Cleanliness, it was said, is next to godliness.

But cleanliness is not the sprinkling of innocent babes for a pardon they have yet to comprehend or understand, a token gesture that has little meaning. Cleanliness is not taking an oath to something you don't believe in, much less decide the fate of your descendants.

Cleanliness may mean one is ritually pure, but there's no use if one is spiritually dead. A shell that's clean on the outside but empty and hollow within.

Cleanliness comes when one is convicted through hearing the Word. That's real faith and belief.

I have staked my life and my happiness on Your promise.

Help me. Deliver me. I know You are near. 

Candle. 
I am a candle. I don't know how long I am, how long I have left, only know that the spark of light has been ignited on my wick and I am burning. I am on fire. I am alive, burning bright. 

Many other candles. Immediate circle, expanding circle. Passing floaters.

I hear bits and pieces of speech overlapping each other discordantly. General noise, background noise, the babble of many simultaneous conversations between different people all congregated within the same air-conditioned space. Next to me three working ladies talk about family and fertility.

It's the work that makes him so stressed out, I'm worried for his sperm count. If we try for a baby I will make him take a week's worth of leave. Sometimes it's the women who want children. Marx and Engels, your theories don't explain this phenomenon. Unless of course it's the process of socialization that's drumming dogma into all our heads. "You are a woman. You are motherly. You have a maternal instinct. You want children. You yearn to nurture people. That makes you a woman."

Make it two weeks! Take a holiday. Make a holiday baby. Not bad. Who says Singaporeans don't know how to be romantic?

My sister had a honeymoon baby. Shucks! You're barely getting used to the tone of a different name and what with the financing and all. The notion of a honeymoon baby may sound romantic to some but when it comes to practical sustainability...

Your boyfr-oh sorry, husband now! So after getting through to adulthood suddenly there are the following aspects to truly cement you into adulthood: a job and career, preferably a spouse, and then reproduce.

The ultimate universal production line. Is this the story of our lives eventually? Is this the story we as storytellers wish to tell, our happily ever after fairytale ending?

Candles. We're all the same, mirrors of each other. Many revolving mirrors, changing reflections, each the same variation of the next blurry flame. Different coloured wax, thickness, varying length...but still the same. Hold fast to each other's heart, keep the flame burning. Never let them go.

Speed of Light, Hamster on Wheels.
As you can tell from the scarcity of posts on this space, it's been a busy semester. 0,0 I used to wonder why the rate at which seniors blog slowed down dramatically when they reached university...I understand your pain now hahaha. xD

Uni has been fun and fulfilling, both semesters of the first year. For once, reading up on stuff does work and the staring method ("stare-at-the-book-until-the-point-dawns-on-you") technique has correspondingly been working well enough. I tend to get riled up when I cannot understand how things fall together. The point of a point (excuse the pun), if you put it that way. Sometimes it takes time, sometimes it's an immediate connection. I've had both of that, and although 13 weeks can often be too rushed to fully appreciate 5 modules' worth of academic worth and significance in the flurry of essays, reports and presentations, it's been a wild and fun ride. One side effect is that after a while one tends to get one, or more than one, or all of the following:

1. A nerd-out moment. For example in reply to a vague sentence the reply "Your sentence is ambiguous in meaning" happens with alarming frequency, thanks to the power of Syntax.


3. Hearing the way people speak and having facts replay in your lecturer's voice in your head: "In Singlish, the /l/ and /r/ phonemes tend to be interchanged; "Rolex" becomes "Lolex" and "Don't play play" becomes "Don't pray pray" a la PCK." (Unique to EL majors)

4. As memory space for work fills up, correspondingly there is less memory space for other things.

As a result of #4, there are times where it's hard to start topics when talking to people because suddenly random facts will pop up in my head and chances of me blurting out something totally random, unrelated and possibly gibberish to the poor person in question is relatively high. Yet that's what the summer is for: rewiring in progress. Hahahaha.

Jokes aside, there have been many people I've had the wonderful opportunity of meeting, getting to know them better and work alongside them, both the new and the old, inside and outside of university. No matter at what moment there always seems to never be enough time to catch up or expound on a particular conversation topic; time in fact seems to fly past between the jokes and the laughter, playful bantering and (sometimes) serious discussion and rants. Laughter truly is the best medicine, especially as assignments start to roll in in the second half of semester. It's seriously like a dam just burst. And we willingly run on the exercise wheels like hamsters, except that the hamsters are getting physical exercise and we're getting unfit, but getting plenty of mental exercise. 0,0

Non-academically wise, I directed a play for the first time. Again, with a first time comes many moments of differing shades of emotion. Wrote specifically about it on a Facebook note after both shows were over, but it was one of the best times I've had in uni. (: Went on a 48-hour weekend film competition with the same team, breaking my personal record for the least amount of sleep possible in that time period but the adrenaline rush was worth it. :D

One down-side though, is that with writing becoming the bread and butter of the course, there hasn't been much time to think through, reflect fully and write just for myself, as I used to. The only poetic-like snippet I've written is this tweet:

days flew past like the wind gently blowing the fallen leaves down to the ground down down not a sound is made save for a swish and a sigh.

And sometimes it does feel that way. With all the days flying past quickly and so silently that one barely has time to register the previous day before the next is gone, it's become more important to treasure and hold close to ourselves the things precious to us. Family, friends, the bf, and last but definitely not the least, God who was there from the beginning and who will continue to be there.

And So.
The semester finally ends. Year 1 of uni life has ended.

Two years ago it was hard to imagine where I wanted to go and even going to the NUS Open House left the beginnings of a goal but with no map on how to get there. Fast forward to now and while the cliched dramatic 180-degree turn of events does happen, it has also taught me a lot more than what I tend to go on about here, like a broken tape recorder.

New things do broaden one's horizons but it does not necessarily make life easier. New situations may often challenge and frustrate but if there are people around you know, trust and eventually form friendships with, the situation doesn't turn out so bad. And of course, plenty of laughter always helps: with others, at oneself, at the content, with others at the content...laughter may not directly solve everything, but it's almost always a start and never fails to make you feel a little bit better.

While taking an academic hiatus in the summer holidays is bliss, eventually after re-charging it's time to dive headlong into books again. Slowly, easy does it. There's still quite a bit of time to go. (: Similarly, God has done His part this hectic semester and it's time to help out where I can. (:

Eventually I'll start writing better stuff up here. It's a bit hard getting the engine re-cranked and re-started, especially since it's been a while since writing was for myself and not for work. In the meanwhile, patience. This dry spell shall pass!

I am in love with you.

It sounds impassioned, something different from how reserved I usually am. But the statement makes it feel more real. As if words are needed to make the truth conditions of this statement more visible, more authentic. It is a stand-alone statement, yet wanting a reply and knowing that the reply will be the one the statement wants. The one the person who typed this out wants.

Saturday. I went to see you, watched men and women in their military finery march out onto the parade square. It was hard to spot you at first. Everyone looked the same. Everyone was supposed to look the same; in these kinds of things it's not about the individual, it's always collective.

You stood out, though. Literally.

As the parade went on, as fellow spectators in the stands clapped as formations were seamlessly woven, among my scrambled thoughts was the line "O German mother dreaming by the fire". Perhaps a combination of studying too much and the timing at which I came across this poem, but it made me think. What is it that makes people come here; fill the stands just to watch, just to clap and cheer and crowd to catch a glimpse of these soon-to-be officers, young and full of vitality? Why be proud? "You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,/Or wounded in a mentionable place./You worship decorations; you believe/That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace."

Does it feel sacrilegious to only be able to appreciate them, acknowledge this parade as the cumulation of their efforts and training only when they're at their best, dressed smartly, bearing their rank?   

You don't have to be attired as such to stand out.

But perhaps that's why we were all here, the horror of war being far from our minds, a distant memory written on history textbooks chronicling events of old. We were all here because you stood out in our minds, in our hearts, even without the rank and the uniform. You were just you and we were happy for you.

Your expression was serious, formally bearing the epaulettes to your parents to affix them on your shoulders. I hovered by uncertainly, unsure of nothing, unsure of everything, only the shutter of your parents' camera stopping me from wringing both my hands together. Still hovering, awkwardly standing next to you until you reached for my hand and held it firmly, confidently. 

Quietness does not mean the lack of thought; it often means the opposite. I lapse into silence, staring at the changing moving view flying past the bus windows, often wondering if I am much more than I think I am, if I am enough. 

In the time that has passed between then and now, in the talk and in the comfortable silence, the answer had been stated. Not with pomp and circumstance and fanfare, but subtly, casually, quietly.

And here I will say it again. I am in love with you. I am, you are. I am, yours. 

Just, Fine.
This morning my Dad was talking about how beautiful the lightning looked last night from the window. My Mum thought it was weird because lightning is scary, not beautiful.

But it's both at the same time, I said. Lightning looks beautiful from afar, but you do not want to be the target of a lightning strike.

Just like appearances. Appearances can be beautiful and yet deceiving and dangerous.

And yet my distaste for form is coming back to bite me in the ass. Hard. True, substance always trumps form, because anything can take a beautiful form. Substance isn't something you can slap on with the help of a powder puff, makeup brushes, creams, oils and whatnot. Yet sometimes people will look at both the packaging and content; perhaps ditch the content and take the packaging. You know, save the gerund and screw the whale.

But wait, it's not all black and white. You can actually have form and appear to have substance. You know, dripping with sweetness, knowing exactly when to say what and what to say. Knowing just what to say to impress people you know, such that they'll take notice of you. Who knows, they already look favourably on you and you already know it. So you only need to nudge their minds just a little further to show them you're worthy of their trust. Who knows, they'll fall over themselves trying to get things for you. That promotion, that slight salary rise...even their sons and daughters too.

My apologies, I've never really liked this kind of people. Not because I have a case of sour grapes, mind you, but because they don't know what it's like to work their guts out for something only to realize it wouldn't matter because people want style, that nice lasting finished, polished sheen that says "swag". Call it the X factor, whatever. It is that Chemical X that no one can synthesize, no one can create. You either have it or you don't.

And sadly, people only look at that. A polished shiny nice new appearance, perhaps only a still, existent for just a moment, before they decide that that's the person they want for the job. Not just in terms of workforce jobs. Other things like, I don't know, choosing another family member is pretty much like applying for a job position. You can just imagine them comparing resumes isn't it, except that they aren't resumes you can write.

"Look at the way she walks, she looks like a cow."
"What the hell is she wearing?"  
"Ah, that girl that girl, good for our ah boy. See, she looks so pretty, so demure, so guai. Not like that girl, she looks like she couldn't shoulder a hard day's work."

See, just like lightning. We're all dark stormy clouds hanging overcast, waiting to become rain and wash the earth anew. But people look at the lightning, not at a raindrop. People don't even know it's raining until all the raindrops fall on them at one shot.

That's how I feel sometimes. A single insignificant raindrop.

But I'll be just fine.

Babylon-David Gray (Boyce Avenue Version)
Friday night I'm going nowhere
All the lights are changing green to red
Turning over TV stations
Situations running through my head
Well looking back through time
You know it's clear that I've been blind
I've been a fool
To ever open up my heart
To all that jealousy, that bitterness, that ridicule

If you want it
Come and get it
Crying out loud
The love that I was
Giving you was
Never in doubt
Let go your heart
Let go your head
And feel it now
Let go your heart
Let go your head
And feel it now
Babylon, Babylon 

Saturday I'm running wild
And all the lights are changing red to green
Moving through the crowd I'm pushing
Chemicals all rushing through my bloodstream
Only wish that you were here
You know I'm seeing it so clear
I've been afraid
To tell you how I really feel
Admit to some of those bad mistakes I've made

Well,
If you want it
Come and get it
Crying out loud
The love that I was
Giving you was
Never in doubt
Let go your heart
Let go your head
And feel it now
Let go your heart
Let go your head
And feel it now

Let go your heart
Let go your head
And feel it now
Let go your heart
Let go your head
And feel it now
Babylon, Babylon.

 

At last, a proper post. And the year at the back of the dates has changed once again. As the old cliches predictably go, we look back and look forward, look up and look down; perhaps because the beginning and end of something has always been a flagpost, a milestone worthy of significance for us humans. The beginning of new life warrants birthdays and celebrations, the beginning of life together signifies weddings and perhaps revelry, the end of life signals funerals, vigils and sobriety.

Wearing the lenses of hindsight sometimes tints your vision, because you subconsciously paint some things in a rosier light, some things with harsher tones. Many of us, myself included, have been guilty of this. But the occurrence, the memory of what happened from your perspective is still yours, and most of the time it stays true. Nostalgia may kick in at times, but the past often cannot be brought back. Even a recreation, an imitation of it, is weak, a shadow of its former self.

Nevertheless this doesn't mean that we shouldn't look at things from the past, because we learnt from it, and grew stronger for it. This year the suffix "-teen" will disappear from my age and I've mixed feelings about it. In one homeland I wish I could stay younger even as I'm aware I have the capacity to take on more responsibilities and helping out to a greater capacity. In the other my youth puts me at a disadvantage no matter how old I am, and I feel a compelling need to increase stature by increasing age, to be on par, to do things that people with all the arrogance and entitlement of their age can do.

Yet I know I am where I am for a reason.

Let God. Let me learn to love more, work more. Let me learn to forgive myself for my mistakes because one will always be one's hardest critic, and I know that at times I've been too hard on myself.
Let me learn to succeed without letting it get to my head and let me take obstacles without letting it get to my heart.

and all those words inside of me.

More about the New Year tomorrow but for now...first post of 2013! :D

Discordance.
Don't drown your sorrows in wine, drown them in tea because:
1. Wine makes you drunk and do reckless things that you would normally not do. Like what happens in so many TV dramas and
2. You're sober and clear-minded when you drink tea, and it helps you think.

Glass Ceiling.
Hope like a glass window beckons,
yet that thin sheet separating us
from what we see and where we are
frustrates;

sometimes the scenery out there
looks bleak and we wonder
how long we can stay hidden,
sheltered even, behind the panes.

Flimsy protection,
iron-bound barricade.
Have you ever considered
that I hate the mundane

not solely because of its inherent worthlessness
but because in the fuss you throw,
I see my future reflected in your present
and see no joy? Except perhaps for the tired harridan way

you stop up holes that prevent water from entering
into a submerged watertight compartment.
Like the Titanic. 

I press my nose against the glass,
trying to catch a glimpse of tomorrow.
Yet watching is passive.
Your hands, my hands,
they shape tomorrow but lie idle,
bound by the spell that observer's paradox weaves. 

So we woke up this morning to a different sun,
but we'll still be staring at the same side of the moon.

You make colour breathtaking.

Buckle.
Sweet nothings,
small undercurrents of tranquility
amid still waters that run deep.
Ring of gold,
gilded shackle that feels cool,
then chokes.

Love.
Noble, makes you
bend over near backward
for whoever lights your torch.
But sweet innocence can change,
turn ugly, all of us becoming puppets.

You say she did.
I believe in her integrity,
self-preservation, rebellion.
I say she didn't.
But who are we to judge, speculate? 

Is blood thicker than law?
Reason is clear, rational but
fairness is moot.
Blood still has vetoing power,
stranglehold because she was there first. 

Spiraling smoke of meaningless
offers to inanimate statues that do not hear.
Wrapping round tradition, the old cliche.
Clouding, cloaking it layer upon layer,
becoming hegemony.

Give me five years, ten, fifteen.
Give me forever.
Give me everything and nothing,
because some buckles can never be unraveled.

Sands.
It's funny but I didn't realize for a while that 151 passes by NUS and hence straight past college on the way home until a friend showed me the other day. Once upon a time I wanted to be free from my past when I transited over. Or rather, assuming my sorry ass ever made it to uni; the Eponine complex that still gnaws sometimes was even worse back then. At least I now know better, though not yet the best. 

And yet your past never really leaves you. It's softened in most cases though, the hard parts treated as weathered cliffs which you triumph over, or at least get by with much gritting of teeth and exertion of strength. The good parts, the best parts still stand out in their pastel glow even if they were later somewhat tainted. Even the taint goes away somehow. Perhaps time dulls the pain, or when you look back it doesn't matter anymore.

Since realizing this, I've often found myself taking it as an alternative way back home when A2 doesn't show up that fast, maybe sitting it out to the expressway or dropping off at Botanic Gardens. But when I'm alone I'm always looking out of the window at the view. Like how I've been doing since I was a kid, and how I do now when I brood and space out. Hanging around, somewhat still lingering around the area, feeling as if I've never really left. Feeling as if this area and I have been the best of friends for more than just two years.

Now the juniors have graduated. Perhaps along the way we all have learnt that motto that the band Fun puts into one of their songs: Carry On. Move along just to make it through at times, like that All-American Reject song goes. More songs, entering into my head one by one, popping out of shuffle like my iPod has its Genius services turned out, tuned into my thoughts, tuned into the music that played back then. Half of my heart. Collide. The Saltwater Room. Forgive me.

I miss Hwa Chong. I miss Cedar. I miss even primary school, even though I was an innocent idiot back then with a lot of words inside of me. I miss the past of who I was then and when I turn the pages of the mental archives in my mind I see all of them waving to me, flawed and wonderful all at the same time. And yet as I am, I am them all at the same time. Because I know that time brings along with it experiences, and experiences changes. Changes me, changes you, changes everyone around you.

Love. Learning to love others, loving voluntarily and unconditionally. Sometimes after a long string of incidences when nothing looks up and you just feel so tired, you wait for the drop. Wait for the inevitable fall, expect your heart to be irreversibly and thoroughly shattered once that final drop comes, like one of those amusement rides; only to have it bounce off a surface and land with a dull thud, the inertia of lying stationary being even more tiring to overcome than the rest.

Defences are either easily broken through or else self-destructive, because once the paranoia starts it takes a while to be sufficiently controlled. And then we all go "God, why leave the heart to be tender muscle and brittle bone and not armour plate it?" He then says, "Because you need to listen to Me and Hear."

Meet Me On The Corner-Lindisfarne
Hey Mr Dream-seller, where have you been,
tell me have you dreams I can see?
I came along, just to bring you this song,
Can you spare one dream for me?

You won't have met me, and you'll soon forget me,
so don't mind me tugging at your sleeve.
I'm asking you, if i can fix a rendezvous.
For your dreams are all I believe.

Meet me on the corner when the lights are coming on,
and I'll be there, I promise I'll be there.
Down the empty streets we'll disappear until the dawn
if you have dreams enough to share.

Lay down your bundles, of rags and reminders,
and spread your wares on the ground.
Well I've got time, if you deal in rhyme,
I'm just hanging around.

Meet me on the corner when the lights are coming on,
and I'll be there, I promise I'll be there.
Down the empty streets we'll disappear until the dawn
if you have dreams enough to share.

Hey Mr Dream-seller, where have you been,
tell me have you dreams I can see?
I came along, just to bring you this song,
Can you spare one dream for me?

The Beaker.
You could have chosen
any of them on the shelf:
the slim measuring cylinder,
the flashy test tubes,
even the ornate burette.

But you chose me,
this nondescript beaker
with plain inaccurate markings
and a few hairline cracks.
Sure, the rest were nice
to have around

but I was always your partner.
Give me anything to be
weighed and measured.
You know I can.

People talk though.
I'm fragile,
my etchings are wearing away.
Why not something sturdier,
something more precise?

Why not something
that won't give way
when exposed to the elements?

We all have our faultlines,
it's just that you know mine too well.
You fear I'll break,
it'll cut you

but it's a piece of me
that will fall off in your hand.
I fear you one day saying
coldly that you won't want me
and drop me in the sink,

a silent death
contained in metal.

Checklist.
We all have a checklist of what certain things mean to us. They change and shift at one point in time because priorities change as you go through life.Whether you get wiser with age is another thing altogether. But different experiences, interaction with different environments and different people mold you into who you are. There's this intrinsic feeling of unease when someone tells you a new ideology or idea that you haven't considered or are strongly opposed to, because they're telling you that change is needed, important and necessary. And everyone hates change, no matter how many memes have been posted on the maxim "Change is the only constant".

People have a checklist for themselves, but sometimes they run the checklist against someone else. Many someones, all with different sets of criteria for what passes and what fails, measuring everyone else. It's like that film whereby a box gets delivered to your door and you can press the button and get one million dollars at the sacrifice of someone else's life whom you do not know. Later the box is taken away from you and you are told that it will be given to someone else you do not know. Similarly, everyone passes judgement at some point in time often because it's a case of "I don't know these kind of people but I've heard about them and boy, they are..."

Of course sometimes there are those where you realize someone is not doing something right or have changed for the worse and you need to give them a rain check. By "not right" I mean universal criterion, and that is often done out of love, care and concern. But what about those who impassively bang the gavel down without the respective parties being allowed to have their defense? That's unreasonable.

I get that feeling of unease when someone gives me the once-over. Yet inevitably there will be times whereby I HAVE to have someone give me the once-over, even if not in person. Records for jobs, school, portfolio...but also records for meeting people that would not necessarily be work/school-related. Show me what you have. Prove to me that I'm not wrong in that nagging thought at the back of my head that you're right as rain, or wrong in that nagging thought that you're trouble. Or the converse.

And that's what scares me sometimes. It's like Murtagh when he refuses to subject his mind to examination by the Twins: the fear of letting someone inside your head because that's the only place where you're safe. It's also the most dangerous place because it hides what someone is really thinking. Is she looking at me with contempt and disgust even though there's a smile on her face? Does he think I'm weird even though he calls me a "cool kid"? Do they all check me over thinking "What ugly attire" when there is more to me than just what I wear?

Because the criteria varies, you don't know the standard. You don't know what hits home, you don't know if your criteria and their criteria sync, and your analysis greatly differs. What is awesome to you is crap to them. What you think is rubbish is gold to them. So on and so forth, to the point where you react strongly and personally to certain statements made, from astonishment to anger to jealousy to quiet expectation, depending on your state of mind. The list is inexhaustible.

Which is why hard questions surface, and things happen which we have to face up to sometimes. Especially in things that you can't afford to lose because it will either affect your head or your heart. "Never let success get to your head, or failure to your heart" is easy to say, but in practice? Perhaps the one with success is more commonly understood, but what about the second one? The darker spots of failure, the chinks in which some of us fall through, able to see wispy threads of light shining through them but unsure how to actually get there-we feel the struggle to keep the equilibrium and stay true to the course.

Why sometimes you're stuck in a quandary, to the point whereby it is hard to say yes or no. Perhaps hard to say no, but it is even harder to nod your head and say yes. Because the outcome may discourage you (I won't say kill you, but the gist is there) and you get one of those moments whereby you actually feel something snap, your heartbeat stop for a moment. In that moment somehow you're dead as you feel the full impact and implication of the situation.

You can calculate and keep second-guessing. But it's so painful to keep doing so, because you get chary and wary of so many people you forget to love. And keeping oneself from hurt as the fundamental principle makes something inside of you shrivel up, because the raw ache you thought you could shush up and null just comes back in full force, each pulse more raw and needy than the last.

Fantastic Worlds and Fish That Can Integrate.
It's been quite a while. 0,0

Uni has been fast-paced and the stamina needed to keep up is just as much, if not more than in JC. Yet it's more interesting, firstly because the subject material is different and secondly because you actually get to plan your timetable and hence get free days!! Okay granted free days are more like catchup days but at least it's a breather in the week where you can wake up late and get time to actually absorb stuff. Catching up on sleep and material, haha.

In between the crazy pace here are some short snippets of what I can remember being some of the more impressionable highlights:

Information Overload.
You know this happens when after a lecture four of you emerge rather dazed, and three out of said four individuals does or says something dumb while still in a haze. Or after a while you catch your friend's eye and the both of you give each other sheepish smiles that translate into "I smile, because I have no idea what's going on." Afterwards you try breaking down the whole lot and arrange these bits of information into a flowchart, a story, something digestible. Even if it means imagining that fish can integrate because they have an "ish" in their word that corresponds to said symbol.

You also realize the irrelevancy of being able to recall some information that still stay rooted in your brain after being forced there by reverse osmosis. For example, how some Greek symbols in linguistics still look like "delta", "theta", "upside down omega" and "the integration sign". It's as if the ability to absorb information and the ease of recollection share an inverse relationship. Heh.

People.
Profs are all very nice and knowledgeable and engaging, with plenty of moments that make everyone burst out laughing, even if the subject matter can get dry at times.

And peers. From all walks of life and all with different experiences and backgrounds and philosophies, you spend a great time laughing and chatting over lunch and breaks and other funny moments.

Although one thing is that with the flow of people walking in and out from time to time, most of us might be able to catch up and stay close through the four years, but then what? Sometimes the hardest thing to get is not the number of people you come to know, but who you will be able to truly call a friend, instead of a mere acquaintance, in the time to know. Having said this it's been truly a great pleasure to get to know every one that I have met, and I hope that even for that fleeting moment we'll treasure and enjoy these times together. (:

Travel Time.
When previously the maximum time to get from one place to another was at most half an hour, this sudden extension by thrice has been...requiring a bit more time to get used to. xD However you get more time to fully wake up on public transport and listen to music and (for me at least) read the Bible a little, so by the time you get to school you're fully alert, or at least not feeling like roadworks have been operational in the depths of your skull. And another common topic to talk about with those who don't stay in hall is where we live and to talk about travel time too. xD

Economical Value?
Many times people have asked where I'd want to go with an arts degree. See, the thing with arts is that it has no specification attached to it. For example if you're taking a degree in Engineering it is highly likely you'd be an engineer. If it were Law you'd practice Law, if it were Medicine you'd be a doctor and so on. So right here when it appears we're merely taking humanities to a higher level, the common question posed is, "So do you want to be a teacher?", as if it was the only path left after graduation.

Which isn't the case for everyone. True, I'm not sure what I'd do after I graduate if it's not teaching. I could be aimless four years from now and unsure what the next step is (and no, the next step is NOT to settle down in the conventional way). I do know I want to keep moving though, to be constantly engaged, to never ever be stagnant and get that feeling that I'm standing still amid a flurry of movement. As noble as the profession of teaching is (and kudos and an early Happy Teachers' Day to those who've been really dedicated and caring, you know who you are), because of the amount of effort and patience and love it takes, I'm not sure I could do that full-time without being drained out completely. And from personal experience, a teacher who is personally drained out cannot effectively look after those entrusted to his/her care.

Sure, perhaps there'll never be another platform other than academia to discuss theories that play an integral part in society and yet are rarely explicitly expounded upon in the outside world. But it's good to learn about this, broaden your mind while you still can and learn to transcend the nitty-gritty. Not to pick on the small details, but to see the big picture and internally check your sense of equilibrium too. To make sure you know what you really stand for, as a friend shared earlier this afternoon.

Perhaps one day my thoughts will switch from flight and wanderlust to the yearning to slow down, steady myself and settle down, for lack of a better word. But for now I know I do not want to settle and solidify into a set mold from which there is the mundane and I am shackled to it, with no way out. That fear alone will keep my feet tap-dancing, wandering and searching until I can learn to tread and moderate the thin line between gentleness and acquiescence, between self-assertion and selfishness. To learn not to cower or be easily pricked by criticism, but to keep on trusting God all the way through.

Spinning Spoons.
So I was born with a copper spoon
in my hand, or perhaps stainless steel.
Anyway, you get my meaning.
I am destined to work and toil with
my hands within the next few years,
becoming an anonymous face among
the throngs of the middle class.

The colloquial Singapore dream is
to essentially accumulate wealth,
gather and harness the power of the 5 'C's.
Some were born with a silver spoon
in their mouth, not needing to toil as much.

But copper spoons still have their freedom,
as much as those with silver spoons do.
Woe to those who, for the sake of riches
trade in their independence at
the altar of holy matrimony;
they are only electrolyzing
the bars of their cage from dull copper
to gilded gold.

Is wealth and commercial value
the only things that will give us happiness?
Must we sell, barter, buy just to feel
that we are of worth?

Perhaps we drain ourselves of happiness
by selling our souls.
When Gandhi came in brandishing his chakra
and urging others to spin their own cloth
some were unamused. Why use our hands
when British cloth is ready-made, the effort
required merely handing over some money?

Metropolis.
So here we are weaving
through the crowd, walking
along different parallels
of the same road to
our various anthems,

convergent perhaps
for only a few moments before
the rush hour beckons us
forward to our stations,
like moths drawn towards light.

Is this true redemption,
or are we even in need of saving
by means of cold hard cash
or printed transcripts upon
special paper, flimsy fickle
keys that perhaps

open more untested doors
that might lead to a pot of gold.
Yet where, or what is
the end of a rainbow?

It is perhaps the ghosts of
being stagnant, driven into
a dead end or the prospect
of iron bars over a shut frame
that spurs us on, us

shifting unsettled beings
constantly glancing over our shoulders.

Phase G0.
You know, I sometimes wonder why I loathe you, dread facing you and at the same time love you and miss you.

When I said hello to her one row down, I thought the person sitting next to her was you. Sure, her hair was longer than yours (you had chopped your wispy locks for a more angular look) but you could have decided to let it grow bob style. Either way with that trusty Alice band it'd have looked okay still. Only she had hairpins and you didn't. You didn't have black nail polish on your fingers either.

But she doodled. Like you did. Like you probably still do. And oh boy was I ready like a cat prepared for a fight, all hackles raised. When I said hello to her I expected the girl's body to turn around showing your face with your blue rimmed glasses and natural blush. Or perhaps you wouldn't have worn them. Then what? I was prepared to pretend I didn't know you if it was indeed you. That would have done easily better than forced acknowledgement of the bad blood between both of us.

Advancements in communications and new media speak of technological tools backfiring in a sense, limiting the extent to which one can interact with another and hence maybe worsening a situation. But what you and I had was face to face contact, or rather the purposeful avoiding of it. Perhaps that shows a total communication breakdown between two individuals who were once close as sisters, but the bridge between us got blown up like how the British blew up the Causeway. Boom. I would like to say it got repaired but I'm not sure what would happen if it were. As it turned out the first time the Causeway was destroyed it stalled the Japanese soldiers, but not for long. Inevitable destruction.

As it did I tried to mend bridges before I got sick of it and like a Coke fountain gushes out of a bottle with a narrow neck after a Mentos sweet has been thrown into it I exploded. Cue the 1812 overture, except spontaneous combustion did not come by the hand of a masked anti-hero with a sultry voice and a surprisingly soft spot for the girl he loves. You had it coming but then I didn't know if I should be apologetic or stick to my guns that I just had had enough, period. And since then we've walked out of each other's life completely, not even acknowledging the other's presence.

As it turns out it wasn't you next to her. Perhaps you are indeed one of the faces among the thousand strong and I would have to meet you again sooner or later. Perhaps you're not, blissfully unaware that I am yet again thinking about you, even though you probably don't give a flip about it. When things can't quite reach a threshold where you make peace with it, it gives you that uncertainty and unease. And that unease is even worse than imagining you finding fault with me should we ever meet in a theatre collaboration and I ticking you off for not standing in the darn spotlight if you accuse me of moving a fixed spotlight and jeopardizing you because of this childish, stupid bad blood that shouldn't even have been here in the first place.

Perhaps one day you'll realize that I still have your number and that thanks to Whatsapp I know it's still functional and that your profile picture is that of Thor shouting that he can do anything he wants, if I ever have the courage to Whatsapp you. Perhaps I've finally forgiven the hurt, but I haven't forgotten that awful feeling when you upped and left me behind. Perhaps if I ever see you again I'd still have that bone to pick with you before we bury the hatchet for good, if we ever do. Perhaps I might not speak to you at all, or perhaps not even have that chance to cut off our interaction. But despite all this I still smile at our photograph taken that day at the carnival and hope that where ever you are you're still well, mushy and odd and freaky and stalkerish as that seems.

Vignette.
Stills and snapshots
litter, linger.
So many moments,
so many colours.

You could almost touch
the slipstream of wind
as it touched us in a way
all the words in the world
never would.

Wish for no grey,
perhaps burnished silver;
but for now it's just
black and white.