I wish I could be honest with myself, but it is true honesty so bare and unashamed, that makes me afraid - afraid of what I might find beyond the darkest depths.

Jigsaw

I had my first workshop writing critique session today, and I must say it is beyond encouraging to know that it has received generally favourable responses. It has always been such an enigma to me when it comes to writing, because I always feel like I might be over-complicating things which really do not intrigue people the slightest. There are so many stories out there that have been written (and waiting to be written) by people who want nothing more than to share the imagination and magic of their minds with other people, and hope that somehow this magic fascinates another soul.

I have not been writing here as regularly as I have thought I would've, which I must say I have no excuse for. However, I find myself more observant and attuned to my senses recently, and therefore have had impulsive bursts of inspiration and literary moments at random times during the day. They sometimes come like shadows - slowly, creeping - into my mind but make home there as more than just an incorporeal entity. Other times, they come as vivid impressions and tangible visuals that I find myself taken aback by the sheer beauty of these images.

This is a paragraph from the writing I have submitted for the workshop:

I stared straight ahead through the foggy windshield and saw the lights interplaying between red and green. Through the glass they looked like magical orbs; almost iridescent, but not quite. I imagined there must be an oblivion beyond that screen, where white wasn’t just white, and black wasn’t just black. Everything that existed there would bear a tinge of grey. Grey, like the clouds hanging from above and shadowing the light of day. In that world, nothing is vivid – not the thoughts that serve as memory, not the words that were whispered to me, and not the face I last saw - before the impact sunk in brutally.

Believe it or not, this was inspired by a journey I took on the bus out of school recently. As I sat at the upper deck of the double-decker bus, zoning out to my music as usual and staring blankly ahead, I realised that the windshield (sort of, because it doesn't have a wiper) had fogged up because of the heavy rain that has just dwindled to a slight drizzle outside. Through that frosted pane I could see the traffic lights in the distance, and they displayed orb-like qualities due to the refraction caused by water droplets on the pane, and I knew immediately that this was literature material. Even then, I felt like I could never do sufficient justice to the magical moment that transpired before me.

But isn't that the beauty of it? Words, images, and music, even, can evoke but never capture the unique emotion that one feels in times like these. They can't be reconstructed, manufactured, or reproduced under any circumstances; always close enough, but never exact.

No, these moments were not lost forever. They only filled a void in our soul where they were destined to fit - piecing the jigsaw puzzle that should never be completed.

The Binge

I'm truly a pathetic creature. It is no longer appalling to me that I am a person of regrets. I would often walk about trying to seek for something fulfilling in the realms of the living but I am in fact a dead man walking. I am the epitome of the "you only know something something when you lose something something" philosophy. For umpteen times I let indulgence get the better of me and live more in the present than I would permit myself to think of the future. I have absolutely no intention to emulate James Dean (he's overrated anyway) because for someone as similarly confused about adolescence, I actually do think about my future, regardless how bleak it might be.

Part of me is excited for school to start soon; a matter in merely 2 weeks. Another part of me seems to be reluctant to forsake the abundance of time I have on my hands - enough to binge-watch 3 full TV series (that's 8 seasons for you right there). I also happen to be investing my time very liberally on a dozen of movies. Per week. Once in a while I still feel a little surreal about my situation. Considering the audacity and absurdity of throwing away a somewhat promising course of study that would apparently be "more secure" in terms of prospective employment, for something so volatile and unpredictable, I sometimes find myself in a bewilderment of my own life choices. But despite all my regrets, this is not one of them. I need no reassurance on something so charged and propelled by an inner dedication and passion. I just know; I won't be the conventional person that B&F will churn me out to be. I am ambitious, competitive, and emotive (I really don't think I'm at all intelligent haha), but to quote Amy in Suits: Money bores me. Somehow this is such a ludicrous notion to many, especially to a person educated in the "meritocratic" Singapore. I maintain that although nobody ever finds money excessive, there is always a certain amount that is a sweet balance between "counting pennies" and "filthy rich". I think I always have. I grew up counting pennies. I never experienced any semblance of financial freedom till I was about 17 years old. I rarely had the opportunity for exuberance. All these have not made me money-savvy; ironically, I tend to be rather imprudent when it comes to money. I think it's because my idea that "money should be just enough" has always made sure I wasn't short-changing myself within my means.

Reality

Today marks the end of my 6-day ICT. I dreaded going back because this really is an annual disruption to my otherwise uneventful civilian life. But I don't know why... I seem to be bewildered by my inexplicable zealousness. I have been told many many times that I'm over-committed to a purpose too fucked up for salvation, and each time my verbal denial just doesn't correspond to my actions. I'm done lying to myself or anyone, about not caring. I'm done feigning nonchalance. The truth is doing this gives me certain sense of accomplishment and I feel happy, weirdly. I'm not siao on or garang or whatever; I'm just simply someone who likes to see a nascent ecosystem evolve and grow into something I can be proud of.

It took me 15 minutes to get back home from camp, and the moment I reached home I showered and changed into home clothes - all ready to resume the daily activities of my monotonous lifestyle. It then came as an utterly obtuse juxtaposition: it was that easy and simple to assimilate back into reality from a one-week hiatus. There was chaos and crises for one entire week, and then there is just peace - a calm I have been deprived of for a week. The lack of sleep and mad rushing tired me out but it was also invigorating in a totally strange sense. I know that the only reason I survived this was because of the people that were around. It also made clear that despite of how much joy this ICT brought, it's not my life. It will always be the holiday that I deserve.

In the end, I asked myself: What is there not to love? What is there not to be proud of? What is there to hide? From now on, I shall always be excited.

Sleepless

Of all of my vile and repugnant qualities, procrastination must the the most abhorrent of them all. I only have myself to blame for putting everything till the end. I want to keep this short because I've been staring at the screen far too long to be considered healthy. There is a petulant voice inside me that keeps telling me to push all these things away, and I am very obliging to it. As I sit here munching on my early morning toast and sipping on my way-too-sweet orange juice, I am constantly reminded that ICT is less than 2 hours away. I am also suddenly assaulted by the fact that it is pouring out there and I have so many things to carry to camp. It almost feels like this journey is meant to be wet and soggy, a considerably merciful comeuppance for my major screw up in my entrusted assignment and a way of saying "Hey, you better wake up your idea!"

I feel so dreadful now with these heavy eyelids and incompatible black spectacles that I need to put on just for this period. It's not that I haven't done sleepless nights before; we do it all the time for mahjong in the past. Perhaps it's only exhausting because I am getting old, and boring, and lethargic.

Just keep me alive until I get there please.

Mornings

Waking up early morning has proved to be therapeutic for me. I'm used to sleeping without the air-con on, despite this morbid weather. Given there were a few fitful nights of discomfort as I lay in mild perspiration, I'd say the nights are generally cool enough to make me sleep like a baby till the alarm goes off at 7 in the morning. What I enjoy the most, though, is waking up to the smell of fresh air as I peek out of the window. As the rays of sunshine begin to seep in and illuminate the neighbourhood, I immersed and basked in the serenity of the moment. Then, like the sun, the people trickled into motion. There it was - the neighbourhood unfolding itself before me, like an animal sprung into motion, like a baby awoken from the sweetest dreams, and like a flower blooming into its full glory. I let the gentle breeze caress my face as I closed my eyes and take in a deep breath.

It was a moment of seraphic peace.

Locked Doors

I have just finished watching one entire season of a TV series in one sitting (or at least multiple seatings in succession). As with every completion of a good book or film, I am usually overcome by the sense of inexplicable ambivalence. Some call it "withdrawal symptoms", and others call it "returning to reality", but the truth is, it just means the continuation of the search for another fantasy to fill the void caused by the mediocrity of my life. I am slowly beginning to understand why I gravitate towards film or literature - it is this innate emptiness in me that needs to constantly feed on the happiness of the whimsical fantasies created to please the gaping soul. It is the only escape to a world where I can demand to see protagonists be happy, the antagonists condemned, and the beauty of humanity restored to a derelict mankind.

If there is any consolation to the demise of a fictitious journey, it is that another awaits. The runaway train stops for no one. It carries on with its pilgrimage, purposeful and relentless, but with no destination in mind. It is like the shark that keeps swimming for its survival because if it halts, it ceases to live. There are hundreds and thousands of silos, basements, and dark rooms that people escape into; they are all but a figurative representation of a sensual experience in solitude. Writing, listening to sad music, or taking long, circuitous walks - we all become the habitual recluse once in awhile. Film and music just happen to be my drugs.

Each time I immerse myself in these escapades, I plug in, but I shut out. It is no secret that I have been estranged with my family for awhile now. I do not relish in the isolation, but I appreciate the corresponding freedom it awards. If I wanted to assuage the guilt of my alienation, I would console myself with the reason that they are better off without my involvement. It has become a habit now, that every time I enter my room I would lock my door. Sometimes even I feel the disenchantment it must bring to my parents when they hear the definitive click of the locking mechanism - a harbinger of another solitary confinement. Each time it happens it's like a part of me is locked away from them even more than it already is.

In film and music I would look for beautiful moments and words that evoke a deep desire for care and affection, just to assure myself that somewhere, somehow, somebody feels something more than the conventional sentiments of a wearied soul that is incapable of transcendence. To me, a world where currency signs and numbers dominate is a parallel universe. In my world, literary expressions are strangely gratifying.

So when I see you struggle in your endless pursuit of happiness amidst an arguably self-inflicted grief, I almost feel sorry for you. Ironic, I know. I sound like a sanctimonious idiot who probably doesn't even understand the meaning of true happiness - at least not enough to be giving a lecture about it to another - but if you ever see this, I just hope it strikes a chord in that delicate heart of yours. I truly, earnestly, hope that you would stop searching for a perfect happiness that would be the envy of many for years and years to come. It isn't that I don't believe in its existence. I do, but a fixation on finding it with every other person is not going to be helpful. In Before Midnight, Julie Delpy finds incomprehensible the notion of being conjoined in matrimony with another for 74 years. It may sound heretical to many, but I actually believe that the heart is capable of loving more than one person in a lifetime, or even at any one time. We grow, we change, and we evolve. At different junctures in our life we may want vastly different things than we did before, so is it really that surprising that there are different people who can fulfil these disparate desires? By insisting that a same person satisfy our changing needs is to force them to grow and keep pace with us. It is stifling to individualism. Yet if achieved, these spiritual evolutions in tandem would do more good than harm to a couple. Nobody will blame you for trying, but in its wake of destruction, try to look through the debris to see who are the people truly hurting.

Because I stayed for the party while your ship sailed away.

And all I could do is watch.

Don't Tell

I keep telling everyone around me that I am a very idle person, but there are always times when everything significant just aligns at a focal point and I feel myself suffocating for some reflection time. Lately I started wondering if I have become boring. To be fair, I've never been particularly interesting to anyone anyway, but recently I just feel I've become one of those people who has a tag on my forehead that says "leper". Social interaction has never been my forte, though intimate conversations tend to delight me. Despite an inherent lack of allure and charisma, I shamelessly yearn for company at times. Is this the feeling of being lonely? (Sorry I suddenly have the Backstreet Boys song playing in my head)

The time will come soon when I have an alarming revelation of the number of friends I can truly talk to about almost anything. Maybe I'm destined to be that piece of drifting wood in a vast sea, subject to the mercy of the ebb and flow of the waters, carried off to anyone who just need a temporary hold onto something insignificant. I wouldn't even dare call myself a safe harbour, because people actually want to dock at harbours, and right now I'm as undesirable as can be.

I spent the last semester learning about self-esteem, self-efficacy, self-fulfilling prophecies, etc., but they all seem so pointless to me at the moment. All these methods on how to feel better about yourself, self-encouragement, self-belief - BULLSHIT. It's all self-aggrandisement. Realise how all these words start with a self- at the front? What if I'm tired of doing it all by myself? (Celine Dion starts playing here) At the end of the day, I get by like I have to, I exist even if I don't mean it, and I only serve to antagonise myself further each day as I see the mockery I am.

There are dark places where I roam without reign. Perhaps something is wrong with me. I just don't want to admit it yet.

Brave

And so the wait is over.

My reply came in today and I'm beyond ecstatic, yet all jittery at the same time as I contemplated what this means for my future. In some sense, this decision conforms to the societal equivalent of "throwing away your future", but I just have a very good feeling about this. I used to think that venturing into foreign ground is a jeopardy to myself. Familiarity was a particularly important component in decision analyses.

Now I am no longer afraid.

Cast aside the wishy-washy trepidation and hesitance and instead embrace what a new challenge can bring to your life. I cannot guarantee you or myself an easy journey but I think adventures always prove to be more fulfilling than daunting after we're past the first impression. Seek your own today, and be brave.

Why Are We Waiting?

The only obsession that has been filling my mind the past week is the impending reply of my application. In the most gruelling sort of agony, it has consumed me in a way that I am not proud of. While my superfluous concern might be an affirmation of my tenacious desire for a positive outcome, it has also unhinged my usual calm and collected self. Indeed, the over-zealous and anxious anticipation of answers always seemed rather familiar with me, probably due to the need for some sort of ratification that is characteristic of the middle child. These expectations are analogous to being perched on the verge of a very tall cliff - one motion away from descending into an abysmal imbroglio and being graciously rescued onto safe ground.

I happen to be the type that dwell and brood too long over matters that are already beyond my control, typically job interviews, examination results, romantic could-have conversations that I thought might have impressed, and other issues of similar nature. There must be a term for this behaviour. Not paranoia, I hope.

The new week starts tomorrow, and hence also the vicious expectancy cycle of an outcome I pretend to be sanguine about. I really ought to be less neurotic about such things. Geez.

Random Thought

Today marks my first driving experience on an expressway. I'll admit I was a little nervous because I haven't touched a steering wheel in months and surely it would be daunting to do this after such a long hiatus. But I have my father to thank. He was guiding me patiently by my side and somehow I do feel more confident for the entire journey.

I was actually heading to school for a short briefing, but ended up getting stuck there for awhile due to the torrential rain. I usually don't drink my coffee hot, but I thought with the weather and all, it might be more sensible to savour a cup of my favourite beverage warm. I don't attempt to illustrate in an exaggerating or particularly artistic manner the pitter-patter of droplets on the stony peripheral of the walkway, but it did produce a rather rhythmic pulse that evoked more melancholy than excitement. In moments as such it seems difficult not to be tempted to allow oneself to muse deeply. So as I stared out to the pouring rain, it dawned on me that so many things in my life are taken for granted. We usually find the heart to award gratitude to the major events in our lives, but somehow unconsciously neglect the mundane and repetitive activities that have imprinted themselves to be nothing more than a routine norm, to be expected of unhindered performance in most ordinary circumstances. Isn't it wonderful that the kettle is always filled with water to quench a thirst? Isn't it wonderful that the water is heated for a shower on such a cold day? Isn't it wonderful that all the clothes are neatly folded and hanged in their rightful places? So I asked myself, "How long has my father been driving the family around now?"

Of so many things I can't imagine myself living without, it seems odd that only a few manage to pop up on my list of items to be thankful for. I urge you to review your habits once in a while so that you might consider dishing out a few thank-yous where they might be due.

There is no certainty for eternity.

Watching

In a perpetual state of loneliness I seek the company of another being. Part of growing up is to lose people in your lives, but nobody really taught us how to deal with it. We ultimately choose the outlet of expression most representative of our disappointment, frustration, anguish and pain. I've read that the saddest people write the most beautiful stories and songs. Perhaps it is the raw authenticity of emotions evoked during the creation of these pieces that really reaches the heart of the audience. I cannot tell how many times I must have "felt" a story or song, and related to its words. I remember the times I would come across a song from one of the oh-so-many flicks I've watched, fall in love with it, loop it on replay, and just try to understand what it is about the song that makes me gravitate towards it, like how two unlike magnetic poles invariably attract each other. I can't help but think that the most delicate of sentimentalities must have been conceived in this particular process.

I've been bombarding myself with endless films from a bottomless supply of them since the start of vacation break. This egregious and decadent manner of passing one's time must be the envy of many, I suppose. How liberating it must be to cast away all the tiresome responsibilities of adulthood and instead indulge in a delightful hobby that must seem pretty vacuous. Thankfully, my investment in this endeavour is not entirely imprudent. I've taken an interest in films, and exposing myself to different genres and styles of TV and film would considerably broaden my perspective of them. To appreciate the works of auteurs such as Alfred Hitchcock and Wes Anderson is just as refreshing as enjoying the comedic productions of the wonderful Richard Curtis. Of course, once in a while, I come across a few films that do not deserve my already thinning disk space, so naturally they are ruthlessly booted. Keeping all these films is such an unsustainable enterprise.

I will now return to my beckoning collection of visual wonderments.

Shed Your Masks

Another day, another session. I've been studying pretty intensively these few days now, but I think "intensive" is rather relative because I know there are definitely people out there who are more dedicated in terms of revision. I know now is probably not a good time to do this, but amidst my revision, I still find time to do the things I enjoy. I don't know if this is compromising my grades, but clearly I couldn't care less haha. I'll let my thoughts wander once in a while, and allow my senses to relax for a moment.

It will never be proportionate. The cramming and the results. Throughout the years I've realised how studying really does require techniques. My chat with nicole the other day makes me conclude that the less you try to clog your mind with truckloads of information, the more likely you'll find what you need when you need it. The mind palace, as Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock puts it. Having an organised assortment of knowledge in your mind certainly empowers you to selectively extract what is really essential; there is only so much disk space in there so why waste it? We already subconsciously bombard it with useless media everyday that we don't even realise how the retention rate of our minds are slowly being eroded. But interactive media is the new black, so instead of shunning it we should really learn how to manoeuvre through all that gunk and pick out the gems that genuinely improve our minds.

Going back to watch the recorded Stats lectures (because I skipped all my lectures; I know I'm a bad student), I saw how my Stats tutor is relentlessly consistent in his preaching. He would insist that we will never beat the computer, so let's not try to. Learning an analysis methodology is way more beneficial for us, and I'm not gonna argue with that. It does. I learn so much better by seeing the logic behind each formula and each assumption and each consideration. Formulae are after all, condensed logic that have been tried and tested.

In NBS, everything is a competition. Everyone wants an A, but if is it indeed a bell curve, then someone gets the D, isn't it? (see what I did there ;) haha) How many of us actually think getting a lousy grade means we're not as good, and how many of us truly believe it's inadequacy? The whole grading system is a competition, and we're all pitted against each other. There is only one outcome - aggression. People start picking team mates strategically, consulting A+ reports by seniors who have clearly done something right, and guard our GPAs as if they were incriminating national secrets. But really, if you're played out like that, there isn't much choice. Many will say "I don't want to compete if I had a choice; I'd rather we all enjoy this journey", but only a few genuinely walk the talk. We do what we have to; no shame in admitting that and definitely nothing wrong with that. But is it not exhausting to constantly maintain these fragile relationships so mercenary in nature, threaded together by merely mutual benefits? Or has it become so commonplace that we have stopped seeing how grotesque this is? Regardless consciously orchestrated or unconsciously manipulated into, let's cut this pretence. Don't live in denial - tell people how you really see them. How you judge them. Friends, allies, partners, stepping stones.

I know what you're gonna say - "But it's like this everywhere else! Stop being a weakling and suck it up. That's life. That's reality." But that is your reality, not mine. I want to believe that genuine people exist, so don't deny that from me. And my only advice to you is to hold on as hard as you can to these people in your life if you haven't already chased them all away.

Inspired.

Being inspired and having the ability to inspire are distinctly two different concepts altogether. Few people possess the latter, while many have misunderstood the meaning and implication of the former, therefore allowing a fleeting moment of passion wither into yet another unfulfilled resolution.

I know for sure Charlie Lim is one of those people who inspires.

I watched him perform live for the first time last night at library@esplanade and was completely blown away. I've heard so much about his talent, listened to his songs on YouTube, knew he was one of the acts in Mosaic Music Festival 2014, but nothing really exemplifies the man's ingenuity for me like last night's performance. It was truly magical. Every second of his performance indicated the enormous amount of hours and effort that went into perfecting his craft.

It wasn't till lately that I realised Singapore is brimming with crazily talented people. The other two acts last night - Samantha Rui and HubbaBubbas - were equally incredible. I've first caught Samantha's performance when she was showcased with Gentle Bones at the Esplanade concourse. I was so mesmerised by the mellow acoustic voice this girl produced. Then there's HubbaBubbas with their pop rhythm and sensibilities which I first discovered when they performed at Bugis on the Taylor Swift Red Tour bus - the trio that had my feet tapping and grooving.

I wished for more nights like these, where there is good music, silent appreciation and genuine feelings. No, it was more than that. It was everything from sensory trance to mental liberation to anatomical tension. Surely there was more. It is something layered with complexities yet delivered in such a simple way and with uncomplicated intentions. I try to find a word for this feeling; out-of-the-world? Enchanting? Music.

Yes, it was music.

Hiding My Heart

So, today marks the last day of lesson for my first year in uni, but I don't want to talk about how time flies or exams are in two weeks time. None of that.

I remember entering school all starry-eyed and excited, as well as having these mixed feelings. Most people would have felt this way too I guess; after all, it's a new journey in life and you wouldn't know exactly what to expect. But as the year goes by, I start to accept the new ways of studying, the new environment, and the new system of scoring. Perhaps it was the nature of short semesters that make fleeting friendships a characteristic of uni. You might or might not have stuck it through with the people you know, but we move on regardless. My first few days reminded me of the same of those in JC. I knew no one, and felt kinda lost. I contemplated changing schools back then, but my wonderful class saved me from that unfathomable consequence. In retrospect, it seemed very much like an impulsive decision - one that presented an escape route, nevertheless. I thought about doing it. But I didn't.

Accepting. Maybe that's what I'm used to. Accept what I'm given. Accept what is expected of me. Accept that I could never be different or more than ordinary. (I could list a few words off my head to describe myself now, but "dull" and "reclusive" are the closest contenders for the top position.) There is no more accepting this time. I'm taking that leap of faith. If I told you what I'm doing you might think I'm insane, but I don't want to pretend any more. I want to stop living in a personality that's not me. It's probably not a good time to think about changing courses so near to examinations but I cannot help but start thinking about how at the end of it, I need to choose a specialisation from six choices but I want none of them. Is it not telling that something must be wrong? I ask myself so many times, because the accepting spirit inculcated in me is screaming in defiance at this blasphemous idea. This time I've muted it.

Is this an escape? But if you're running away with a destination in mind, is that still escaping? To run away is to escape. To run toward - could it be to pursue? I find myself in the same situation as my first days in JC. However, this time round, I know for sure it's not because I want to get away from the unfamiliar to the familiar just to find security. I know it's because I want to be honest with myself and stop over-thinking about all the things that could or might happen, but take the chance at something for once in my life. To do what I want to do. To be selfish. To desire.

I can't spend my whole life hiding my heart away.

A Not-so-typical Day

It was one of those lamentable days when I had to wake up early, 5.30 am to be exact, to attend a 8.30 class. Trust me; I am not exaggerating when I say that a 2-hour journey should be planned to travel all the way to school - a place that is often called an island by its own. The reason for waking up even earlier is to dress up for a marketing presentation in school today.

I wouldn't call myself a morning person, strictly, but I do prefer mornings to nights, although I'm very much adaptable to both if given some time to adjust. I love the wonderful breakfasts, the warm sunshine, the hint of dew in the fresh morning air, and the fidgety feeling of having started a new day, so yea, you could say I'm a morning person.

Commuting to school has become my regular solitary time for a little reading, but this morning I didn't bother. I tuned in to my music, and survived the 1.5-hour journey in gaiety. It's sad that reading a book has become such a rare sight on trains nowadays where people are more interested in drowning themselves in IT gadgets instead. Call me weird or whatever, but I always feel an inexplicable sense of connection with another reader on board; I naturally assume the best of a person who can steer away from the constant distraction of technology in our lives to opt for a more educational recreation. I had just finished The Lovely Bones yesterday, and watched the movie after. I thought the movie was a gross misrepresentation of the actual story and a waste of my time, but I suddenly recalled having seen a 38% positive rating from Rotten Tomatoes before I saw the movie, went on with it nonetheless, and therefore decided that I had deserved it, though I can't say I'm a fan of the book either. (The sex scene at the end was clearly unnecessary, so much so that I suspected it must have been a personal fantasy of the writer to have sex at a motorcycle garage.) So I decided to take a break from reading on the train today, and take some time to relax my mind after cramming into my head a tiring amount of prose in a mere 2 hours the night before.

You may already have noticed that I am extremely prone to sentimentality for no particular reason. So as I stared out across the lake in the Chinese Garden, I thought about how wonderful and magnificent it would be to just be able to stand next to the lake doing nothing at all, just like this woman in her tracksuit, inhaling the tranquillity and serenity of the surroundings. I saw the low-hanging sun cast its rays upon the water, striking its surface at an angle to reflect the perfectly oriental structures in this gigantic watery mirror to create convincing caricatures. Then I thought about what I would do if I were in that position - stare wide-eyed at the marvel of the scenery, or close my eyes and absorb the perfect atmosphere. I realised then, that there were no choices for me. I wanted them both.

But last week in school I was given the revelation that everything in life is essentially a trade-off. Whatever we choose to do, we will inevitably give something up for it. Simply, we can't have the best of both worlds. If it seems that you are indeed having the best of both worlds, chances are you're missing out on a third, fourth, fifth, or multiple other worlds.

I took a long ride into school - this is the most ridiculous waste of time because it takes a full 20 min (hence the island) - and arrived just in time to grab a cup of kopi-c kosong bing. I've learnt to drink everything without sugar nowadays, and the murderous humidity here makes it hard not to have a cold drink in your hand all the time. As I walked to class at a slightly quickened pace, I felt myself sweating uncomfortably with the back of my shirt sticking onto my skin. Tropical country woes. I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for myself. There I was, coffee cup in one hand, a bottle of water in the other, and a folio precariously yet masterfully clasped between my ring finger, little finger, and my palm: think how you would hold your hand out when using Fleming's Right Hand Rule. I started to wonder if this was what my life would be in the future, then proceeded with a slight shudder.

Throughout the morning my head was solely focused on how much I dreaded marketing and how I wished the end would come soon. It was such an immense relief after I presented, but I felt completely drained.

My next lesson involved watching a 1.5 hour film, in black and white... I've watched it before though, so I convinced myself I could afford to doze off for a bit, but really it was mostly because I was so mentally depleted that I struggled to stay awake. Thankfully the lesson ended on time, but all I thought about was: Shit. I'm gonna waste 20 min getting out of here.

On my way home I plugged into music as usual, and allowed Adele's moody serenades to carry me home. It was peak hour, and as usual I had to squeeze and compress into a mosh pit of stone-faced, unhappy, unemotional people. "When was the last time the train wasn't crowded," I thought, and in an unexplainable sudden vigil, opened my eyes wide and looked around, for I feared my weariness and lethargy betrayed my senses and I might have mused aloud. I sunk back into my musical sphere after seeing no visible response or startle from the crowd. I wouldn't have known, anyway. They were too preoccupied and mindless as me to have noticed.

I couldn't wait to get home. I fought to open my heavy eyelids once in a while, creasing them as I did so, which momentarily created the beautiful folds that I yearned dearly. In contrast to the morning's journey, there was nothing happy about this one. In fact, it might even have been slightly depressing. I was so tired I didn't bother humming to the songs playing into my ears, which I always do in harmonising tones and a discrete hush. When I finally got home I thought I would concuss but I didn't. I watched my shows and did some exercises and took a shower. The boring routines have set in.

My life is once again a constant wheel system.

Storytellers

Many people have told me that they lead the most uninteresting and boring lives. I'd like to think people like us are somehow represented by Walter Mitty - constantly having dreamy melodramatic escapades of the wildest sort twirling in our heads. It's only usual to envy those who could brag about having gone skydiving, finished a triathlon, or won some international award for being too awesome in something. These are great accomplishments, really, and we should aspire to be like them. But I also happen to know people who envy the popular people who drink too much, go to the club too often and genuinely don't give a fuck about how other people see them. Kind of like how some people worship the likes of Bieber and Cyrus. There is something admirable in this quality of self-confidence, but mostly narcissism takes over and there is only decadence that follows.

Somehow people who lead mundane lives seem to have a greater memory of the events in their lives that were significant (after all we only have that much to remember). We remember the details of even the most inconspicuous happenings; at least I do. There is a mild oddity in the small things that makes it memorable for me. They seem to me the most wonderful storytellers.

Mosaic

It is rarely exaggeration to say that writing is catharsis for many. I personally feel that the experience of losing oneself in a musical sanctuary is superior to writing, though I know that I adore both too much to let either go. There is something in effusion that is so raw and candid, that it seems only natural to leave them pristine and untainted.

I had the fortune of chancing upon an interview session with several musicians who came down to Singapore to perform for the Mosaic Music Festival. The interviews were conducted in the oh-so-charming Esplanade library which oozed artistic culture and debonair. A particular artist, Olafur Arnalds from Iceland, caught my attention as a fervently supported musician in the bunch. My interest was therefore aroused and I was promptly introduced to the man's works and productions through the event brochure. He is nothing short of talented, as I believe that I can say with conviction as well for all the other artists performing for Mosaic. When I got home and listened to one of his self-recorded album, I fell in love instantly with the soft melodic instrumental pieces that tell a varied tale of joy, melancholy and hope; for I swore that moment was magic. I am not an ardent fan of instrumental music but this just completely blows me away. Perhaps it was the imperfection in the tunes, or the ebb and flow of the emotions elicited with the masterful employment of crescendos and decrescendos, but I am certain of its distinctive emotional quality. I listened to Living Room Songs, a compilation of composes he had performed and recorded in his living room and uploaded for listeners to download within 24 hours. He mentioned that when he played it back and listened to it again, there were nuances which he would have been tempted to correct, but admits that the time frame prevented him from over-polishing his pieces, and the freedom allowed him to express his music in a stripped down manner so bare and exposed that multiple interpretations of the same song by his listeners he found gratifying.

I confess that my train of thoughts are often derailed enough to border insanity, or that idealism sometimes gets the better of me, or even that I occasionally struggle internally to appear less reticent, to no avail. I wouldn't describe myself as assiduous or sagacious is any sense, but I wished I were more so, because the wandering mind may not be the best trait in a person. What must I do to stay buoyant? 

Do you ever stop loving someone?

Do you? Or do you love them less? Or perhaps you think you don't love them any more, but the slightest tension or temptation will sweep you off your feet and make you long for a brief embrace to reignite a lost feeling of warmth and security, reminiscent of a moment so carefully tucked away and put to rest in the magical box of I-shall-not-touch-this-ever-again. Despite all your violent attempts to lock these redolent feelings away and the ominous trepidation of a dangerous arousal, you defy all instinct and decide to be the loving person to him/her again, because that's what makes you human. That's what makes you complete. That's what makes you vulnerable again.

It makes hurt seem almost blissful, and love nearly sinful.

When two people, once in love, each decide to share that exclusive emotion with someone else, it is inarguably the nadir of their relationship. Perched precariously on the edge of a precipice, hoping that everything is illusory, they sink into the oblivion of self-denial and mild psychedelia. "Just how long more is it gonna hold up?"; that is the question. All you need is a gentle nudge, a playful jolt, or an insensitive quip to release an avalanche of burgeoning contempt. After all, love and hate have always shared a mere gossamery divide between them. When reality and fantasy once again become distinctly immiscible concepts to be dealt with by a couple, there is little left to hold that divide.

If I haven't been emphasising enough already, it is my greatest pleasure to be studying a film and literature module. It sometimes baffles me, in an amazing way, how I'm intrinsically attracted to the Arts, yet never had the self-efficacy (or aptitude; but that would just be sad because that means I'm insanely delusional) to pursue something along that line. I don't know what it is, but I guess to simplify and put it in the most saturated sense, it is how a freedom of expression - visual, aural or textual - capturing a feeling or emotion from an individual's perspective, invariably means something to someone else when propagated.

A common language, spoken with such grace, that all who shared a moment in it cannot help but unwittingly replace or mend a part of their soul with its beauty.

Taking these lessons widened my horizon and beckoned me to explore the different forms of love that exist, and even question the motives behind some of these expressions of passionate emotions. We pondered over how outer beauty was considered a portrayal of inner beauty, but has been debunked much too often. We questioned whether Beauty could really love Beast if he didn't become a ravishing Prince Charming, or if Kim could really love Edward and his scissorhands. We will explore how a brief encounter transcended to an extramarital affair, and if the heart is really a captive of violent passions. Concluding Beauty and the Beast and introducing the theory that attraction is fundamentally primitive - a search for someone of greater physical quality so as to alleviate the shortcomings in ours and produce a physically appealing offspring - seems to be too warped an idea for me to conceive. But hey, I'm here to open myself to the things I could never fathom, so that I learn something new each time.

So I'm sitting here in the library@esplanade trying to soak in all the artistic qualities of this place (haha so naive), plugged in to Adele's concert performance, and reading something of utterly gross contrast (research stuff; it's really as dreadfully dry as it can get), but still enjoying the comfort I am in and typing this out.

No matter how hard I try to conceal myself or put on a mask of any sort, I am truly, honestly, and unwaveringly, an emotional person who always feels too much, wanders too far in my mind, and full of idiosyncrasies - and always will be, even if I'm only this person to myself. I can't change who I am, and I shouldn't have to. Because one day I hope to love someone with all that passion in my heart, and have someone love me back for that.

I'm Kissing You (Love Theme from "Romeo and Juliet")

Fictions of Love

In these 2 weeks or so, I've watched multiple renditions of the famed Shakespeare tragedy - Romeo and Juliet - since it was a course requirement. I've taken the module "Fictions of Love - Film and Literature", which must be my greatest fortune. I mean, to be able to watch films and read classics, what more could I ask for?

I remember first reading the play 8 years ago in secondary school. At that time it was probably too intense for Sec 2 students to read what seemed like gibberish. I recall that our English teacher would painstakingly explain what each line in the text means, sadly, to a bunch of disinterested youths who wanted nothing except for that dreadful class to end. Of course, I tried to pay attention but in the end, I would always leave the class feeling more confused what "thy" meant, "where art thou" really was, or why Shakespeare would wanna ruin the play for everybody by beginning it with a huge spoiler. It wasn't until my teacher showed us the film that we expressed some insipid interest for the first time in the entire semester, and even then, they spoke in that same weird literature so I guess we weren't that much more enlightened after all.

My point is, I had to re-read the text... to refresh (or reintroduce >.<) what would have been a nebulous memory of the play. I did know Romeo and Juliet died, though, but everybody knows that so it probably counts for nothing. But I'm glad I re-read it, because at my current level, I wield an entirely different perspective of the play. It made sense now, even without those translation notes, and I am surely in a better position than I was 8 years ago to think and talk and write about love.

I watched the 1968 Franco Zeffirelli version first, then the 1996 version by Baz Luhrmann (not in full; I was slightly turned off by the frivolity of this version), and finally the most recent one by Carlo Carlei. All 3 renditions differ greatly in style, captured storyline, and delivery methods. It was good to have the contrast, I must say. Call me old fashioned, but I prefer the one by Zefferelli most, although the other 2 versions do have considerable merits.

It seemed pretty pointless to watch so many versions of the film, especially since I already knew what was going to happen and how it's gonna happen. But it wasn't just that. Every time I watched a different version, I feel the helplessness of the star-crossed couple again, I see the destruction that excessive love (arguably lust) can bring, and I hear them proclaim their undying love for each other once again, in this exclusive world they have created for themselves to shut out all the animosity and hatred that plagued their families. It isn't the same. A love so timeless it transcends centuries to be told again, and then decades, to be reinvented and reinterpreted and presented to the audience in a whole new light. I was moved. All 3 times.

But it wouldn't make sense. I already knew the story. Then why did I feel new emotions every single time I watched it again? And that is the beauty of film. It is a visual text designed to evoke a different set of emotions with the way it is presented. It doesn't matter if I watched it another 10 times (I'm sure there aren't so many versions), because I would feel so diverse at the end of it all.

I didn't expect myself to fall in love with a module so contrasted with those I'm doing full-time. Lately I find myself gravitating towards everything that is unconventional for me, and I distant myself from those that are familiar. I find it harder and harder to concentrate on what would be my curriculum, but instead drifting towards the things our society would never put enough value to. I've begun to distant myself from a lot of things to make time for even more things - things that I care about. I've started to neglect people. It's not that I've stopped caring for people, but I feel that I am invariably cornered into solitary existence, because that's when I feel at ease.

I don't know how dangerously deep I am in this but right now it feels so good.

My mind is a whirlpool containing thoughts that threaten to destroy any convention left in my life.

Stats

Yesterday, I walked into Stats class with a heavy heart. Clearly this was the most dreaded subject we had to complete this semester, because it was mathematically intensive. I don't know why I had a preconceived notion about my teacher (perhaps it was a derivative of the many slanderous rumours), but I didn't think much of him. He is a Chinese, has a strong accent, but fortunately discernible. As soon as we settled down, he kicked off the tutorial with the question "Why do you come to a uni to study?"

And then he challenged the class with this equation:

cos(α+β) = ?

He opened to the floor his challenge, and was pretty confident none of us knew the answer to it. And he was right.

The point he tried to make was that many of us, after so many years of education, still cannot deny that these years were spent on cramming information in our heads and imprinting them on a piece of foolscap - all for that few hours that we thought our lives were determined by. Amongst this wisdom, he further surprised me with so many personal philosophies which I come to ardently admire. He opines that the process of thought and the exercise of the brain is core to learning. The application of logic to derive at answers is not only relevant in academics, but also everything else in life. Without a logical thought process, our world would merely be an unsolved puzzle with the pieces strewn around, unconnected and without meaning. He also points out that anything technical or quantitative in nature can essentially be completed by a computer, and hence only a fool would think to compete with it; similarly, only a fool would hire someone to do what a computer can perform at greater precision and speed.

Often I think about how I would have done things differently. More radically, I have recently harboured the thought of changing my course of study. I know it to be insane, but I did admit that I want crazy, so it doesn't really shock me that much.

It feels almost painful to think about.

Mandatory New Year Post

I might have gone slightly too far past my dilatory habits this time round but... late is better than never? So here's the mandatory New Year post I owe myself.

Let me first explain myself. I was actually prepared to write this post on New Year's day. I really did. But it was unfortunate that my clumsiness with water resulted in a malfunctioning keyboard that did not allow me to. Nevertheless I admit that this is late so I am making up for it now.

It is now 20 days into the new year, and I can say that nothing much has happened in these 3 weeks that is deserving of a mention, except that I went to Bangkok for a short getaway in the first week. I don't know why, and I wouldn't call it a disappointment entirely, but I thought my trip was far from my expectations. It wasn't about the people or the place itself, so I guess the only reason would be company. Perhaps we have all changed, and I cannot hope to hold on to something so long ago or try to bring that back. It has opened my eyes though; not only about you but also about myself. It made me realise that, just maybe, we don't need certain people in our lives any more, but the letting go process is never easy. Cutting people loose was never my thing, but if I allow anchors to hold me down, then someday I will suffocate and drown, and I'd think back and say it's too late. I don't know how this will go, but for now, I don't want to think too much about it. Painful as it is, I think I'm done.

Looking back at 2013, there really weren't spectacular moments. Then again, nothing else in my 21 years of life had been particularly spectacular either. I'm a boring person, as many can tell. I found my passion and dream late last year, which I think I've already covered, so I'm pleased to say that wraps up 2013 for me. Unlike my first post, I am not going to do resolutions any more. I've learned that motivation for goals are never about how many items you have on your list, how achievable these items are, or the fact that you have a list (and thus keeping in check its progress). Those are goals. To achieve these goals we need motivation, and that's what is important. A goal will always remain a goal if no motivation exists to see it through. We find motivation from everyday events, people around us, and our passions. Trust me when I say they are hard to come by, but when you find them everything else will fall into place and you will lose yourself in self-discovery.