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?