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Everyone has his own story. Some are the stuff that makes best sellers, some are fairy tales and others are ordinary novels. Ordinary yet extraordinary in their uniqueness. We fill the pages simply by being, we start each page when we open our eyes and shake off slumber. Some pages are one long climax on their own, others are uneventful ramblings of the mind, with no rise or fall. Who is to say which is better? But that isn't the question.
Do we all start with blank books? Does God pen our stories? Or are they written by the stars?
He didn't believe in marriages. He couldn't understand how people could wake up every morning with the same person in bed. He couldn't see himself facing the same person every day of his life till one of them dies. He didn't believe two people could be bound by simple words alone.
He didn't believe in love. He believed emotions are chemicals released in the body He didn't believe chemicals could override Nature given instinct for self-survival.. He didn't believe in the larger than life fairy tales about love. Nor the silent kind.
All he knew was he hated being alone.
Oscar Wilde was well aware of the importance of double lives. But perhaps wrote too well on it. It is not to say we are all Jekyll and Hydes, but masks we do wear. Or do we? What exactly is the difference from not revealing too much of oneself and wearing a mask? A thin line between the two exits for me. A thin line, but a line nonetheless. One may wear a mask in order not to reveal too much of oneself, but one need not wear a mask to hide.
Have you hidden a portion of yourself today?
I could tell you about the trip to Chinatown, the people I saw, the sight of an ancient temple defying Modernisation, the discovery of Eden in the concrete garden, how this place is my Mother Land (Mother ship, Home and Root), how I love it despite my protests, the anticipation and nervousness of meeting someone new yet old and who are the same, how steamed cheese cake tastes, why mourning for a dead man matters and what it feels like when someone calls from the other side of the world.
But life is no fun if I tell you everything.
There are some days when I have no words and there are some days when I can't sleep with all the thoughts and words spinning in my head. I have no words today. Or rather, I have. But what use are words if they can't move you, make you feel, change you? What use are words that serve no purpose? For if they can't do anything, they might as well not be spoken. But speak we must. Even if it is just to chase away the holes in our souls. And I just have wasted five minutes of your life.
I suspect the ants in my house worship a water related god. That would explain why so many of them throw themselves to their watery graves everyday. Into the kettle, the pails, the basins and what random puddles to be found. I wonder if they are role playing the movie, Joe versus the Volcano. I wonder if they make little antsy "whee" noises before they jump (for what other sounds do ants make but antsy and little?). I think there are really two kinds of ants in my house. The believers and the non-believers. The latter tend to live longer.
I think I'm learning how to put things down and walk away. In the past, it would have been unthinkable. I held onto things. But right now, at this moment, I think I can simply let it all go and walk off if I don't like the situation. I've closed two years of my life, I've deleted my past and I have destroyed what I've built in the last three years. And I can close down the blog and journal now without looking back. This is what I've turned into. This is the allure of new beginnings. Everything is possible.
They say there is a reason for everything. Why our veins are tinged blue, we behave the way we do, whales are mammals (and not fish which would just be easier), penguins wear suits, cockroaches do the Funky Towel Dance when people are not looking and why tacky and/or cheesy music sticks to the brain and won't go away.
And sometimes, the reason is God/we/I/you/they/he/she/it felt like it.
[So maybe it is not a very good reason, but we only live once. And that includes the Big Man Upstairs. (Well, unless you are J.C. But that is a different story altogether.]
People never do stay in one's life forever. But perhaps that isn't the point. What is important isn't whether if they do stay forever, but how long they stay. It won't be easy (nobody said it would) and it takes two to tango. But I believe that some people in my life are worth holding on to. People are like jigsaw puzzle pieces. It isn't easy to find someone who complements your piece. It is even more difficult to find such people when one grows older. (One gets tired of telling the same stories to random strangers at some point.)
Been spending whatever time I've left doing random things. Watching movies that I don't like, downloading movies that I think I like, searching for books (and reading them), listening to too much Placebo, enjoying the feel of cool air on soft bed sheets and trying to spend this period of time for myself. No obligations, no worries, no duties. Just a period of time where I belong solely to myself.
The parcel from NUS arrived today. Strange that I should have pined so long for this acceptance, when it comes, I don't feel much. Just this strange tiredness and frustration.
There are too many shoes I will never walk in, too many people I will never meet and too many sensations I will never experience.
But I ate a large apple today, watched a movie where a garden gnome travels round the world, lost an online game (again), listened to Brian Molko sing about a boy's ass (and how nice it was), met a man who thought he was a haunted house and thought about the ghost soldier who used to watch me play the piano.
Was it as good for you as it was for me, my fellow voyeur?
The Pair. What is interesting is that one will always be there will be a "smarter" half who pokes fun at the other, but will remain a reliable lighthouse when the sea of hell breaks loose. The other half will be the air-headed/less intelligent one who is somehow gifted in the art of getting into scraps.
In a Trio, one person will always feel left out. The Pair may try to include Plus One, but the Pair is still the Pair and Plus One is alone.
Relationships in groups larger than three people are a mish-mash of the two relationships.
I don't like making decisions. Cat would say I'm the sort of sheep which always thinks the other side is greener (before reminding me that plastic grass exists). When I've made a decision, my mind starts coming up with all the "What if"(s).
I'm the sort who never sticks around for long. My cousin once banned me from playing Risk because I would play all three minutes before moving on. How would a banker know he has a baker in him if he never tries baking?!
I envy those who know exactly where they want to end up in Life.
You can choose your friends, but not the ones you love nor family. Sad, but true. There are days where I loathe the bonds and others, rather please for them. I just wished I could be the sort of wacky fun aunt or devastatingly charming uncle I always wanted to be. Unfortunately I seem to inherit not only my father's genes but also his manner and beliefs in child-rearing. Except frostier. And sterner. All which do not bode well for me retaining good relationships with Generation 3.2 and 3.3. I don't know why I am bothered, but I am anyway.
I went for my usual walk today and realised that I was thinking too much. I like doing sports precisely for its mind-numbing effect. This is why I never play sports that involve too many strategies. Sure, thoughts tumble about but I don't actually register them. The body is on auto-pilot. I stand back from my mind, in some pleasant blank state and feel the thoughts flit in and out, muscles stretching and concentrate on just breathing. What I do then is purely by instinct, result of practises.
I would like to have that blank state of mind again, thankyouverymuch.
Re-established contact with an old friend from my secondary school years. Why we lost contact, I am not quite sure either. Sometimes, it just happens. But I never found re-establishing links particularly difficult. Because I tend to keep the ones I feel comfortable with. As it is extremely difficult to find people one can be totally comfortable with. Such friendships are like clicking of minds. When two minds click, they should still click despite long periods of silence (and sometimes, slight misunderstandings). The link might be shaky at re-contact, but. And some days, I wish I could articulate better. Yea.
I suck at the game that is Scrabble. (I suddenly have a vocabulary limited to four-lettered words and below when I play.) I am getting way too round around the edges. (I noticed the beginning of a DOUBLE CHIN today. Holy shit and Mother Krice.) I hate all that is administrative paperwork. (Waste of time and trees.) I think NUS has obscene amounts of sunlight, heat and humidity. (Family is yapping about whether it was a good choice to reject SMU. We are the sort who will regret about regretting at our deathbeds.) And I am very very tired. (Thud.)
I was licking icing sugar off my fingers and reading some online original fiction. But that isn't the point. What really interests me is how people think and behave. Love is chemical. Beauty is really symmetry, the Golden Ratio (1.618: 1) and Evolution. Personality is environment and genes. So what about thoughts and ideas?
Neo would say he doesn't believe in Fate because he cannot accept that he has no control over his own destiny. I don't think we really have the control. If animals out there have no say in their destiny, why should we be the sole exception?
Have I ever told you how much I love books? I'll not sing sonnets to them, compose poetry in their names nor whisper sweet nothings to their pages. But I'll hold them in my hands, enjoy the feel of the pages, marvel at the worlds they show me and keep them where I can protect them from wear and tear. But as all things grow old in this world (for even stars die out), when they grow old, I'll take them out and revel in the different beauty that they possess, different from the brand new volumes when first bought.
I met Cat on ICQ moments ago, one thing led to another and I ended asking for handcuffs and she agreeing to get them. I also now know that she watches more pr0n than I do (even if I read more of it than she does), is amused by people sticking weird things in weirder places and apparently has a stronger stomach than mine. She is also a reader of many things, talker of crap and owner of a swagger and the spelling skills of a twat whenever she is online (but spells perfectly fine otherwise).
I wuv my Cat.
She once asked me if I had to give up either my hearing or sight, which would I choose. I couldn't answer her then, I couldn't answer her now. I need both.
Music paints pictures, forms stories in my head, comforts and has more than one occasion, allowed me to communicate better with people. Sight enables me to enter new worlds through books and allows me to enjoy some of the most basic pleasures of this world (leaves in sunlight, curls of cats).
I see to better appreciate music and listen to see more. Pity Time yields to no man.
I love Lou Reed's "My Love Is Chemical". The beats! The whole boogie-inducing-ness of it all! It makes me want to wriggle and strut to it. (A certain ballet dancer is also to be blame for the effects, but I digress.)
I have absolutely no idea what to make out of that man.
I had a sudden idea to send out handmade postcards to anyone who wanted them. Then I realised that blogs were also a form of postcard sending. Some postcards carry serious messages, some have the sender's random thoughts written and others may not make sense at all.
"What is that that you're doing?"
"I am aware of that. I am also aware that a caveman breathes in this very room."
"Fine. It's online magnetic poetry."
"You? Poetry?" Nim peered over Rius' head to get a better look.
"Whatever it is, I doubt 'six hundred R2D2 make lone country' is poetry."
"Hey, watch it. I won the round. People acknowledge my sheer talent."
"You hear that sound?"
"What? That's Depeche Mode if you must know."
"No, Rius. That's the sound of dead poets turning in their graves and live ones screaming out for blood."
I read an author's journal and was reminded of something my Lit tutor once mentioned.
There are times when one has to wonder if the reader is over-reading the author's work. For example, "a fish in a bowl, in a room". On one hand, it may mean precisely that. On the other, one may interpret it on a different level. ("Is he trying to illustrate the many facets of truth? Or are we like the fish while the universe is the bowl and we shall never know what lies beyond it?")
Sometimes we're all looking for things that aren't there.
I'm sitting here with R.W playing into the earphones and feeling like some seachange of emotions.
I am confused about too many bridges.
I think Life is meant to be lived. To the fullest. But.
Everything I like seems a little bit sweeter, a little bit fatter, little bit stronger, a little bit harmful for me.
(But he's awfully nice and sweet, isn't he? Shit.)
My head hurts. From sugar.
I think being content is far too under-rated and Happiness over-rated.
I suggest a reading of a Lesson in Tightropes.
I've feet made for the city.
Cogito ergo sum. Hn.
There was a War of Thought Bubbles moments ago. "Go!", "Don't go!", "Don't be a moron!", "I am NOT a moron! You are!" Very nice. Ha.
So. I said fook it and decided to put to use what I have learnt in the past year or so. Always leave a door open. Because while God is God, it doesn't mean He likes micro managing your life. Ninety nine point nine percent of the time, windows do not simply open by themselves. They obey the Laws of Physics too.
Mont Blanc pens, Dior's latest watch, Birkin bags and sad sad songs.
Horses on merry-go-rounds, movements graceful as they sink and rise to the music, in the yellow light. A world weary man playing on a piano (on some lonely red planet with a light blub for company while the winds howl?). Bitter old glam rock Queens in leather pants, painted fixed sneers, disdain for the masses, egos overblown and drowned in insecurities. A woman on her back, staring at the blades of a moving ceiling fan, rivulets streaming on dusty floors. A man going out every night, drinking, flirting then returning home to play the gramophone to mourn for the dead.
There is yellowish light streaming through the windows. The windows in the other room show me slightly greyish skies. My windows show me unbearably white and blues. There is wind blowing in (from the fan), there is a man singing (voice slurred and slightly rumbly) and I feel like I should just curl up somewhere and snooze (paw in face and nose to tail optional). I woke up at three in the afternoon. Barely two hours awake.
I have a comfortable bed with crumpled sheets and too many pillows. Now, give me a nice warm body to curl up to.
The body is a marvellous piece of art. Whoever came up with the idea can be my god. Look at your body. Flex your fingers. In that one split second, messages are sent from your brain. And the muscles of your fingers! They pull and push whenever you wish, however you want. A network of nerves for your pleasure (or pain), parts that try to repair themselves as much as possible and evolve. Isn't it amazing how your joints fit? The way ligaments work? How we have alveoli, capillary networks and valves? And that they all have their specific purposes?
There are some people who take too much. There are also those who give too much. One give can give till there is nothing left of oneself. All in the name of pretty excuses. But at the end of the day, when you realise that people don't really care, you have only yourself to blame.
If there is only one thing I can say, it is "stay alive". Live when you're happy. Live when you're sad. Because if you shoot yourself in the head today, you will never know how tomorrow will turn out. The wheel may just turn tomorrow.
The Tip Jar