we cannot change the cards we are dealt,
just how we play the hand.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
8:57 AM
Homecoming
the coldness suffuses the air in tangy crisps, and i wonder when the monsoon would pass. the bloody weather had been responsible for the so many incidents i've nearly lost myself into tiny glistening bits of blood and tears, and the so many darlings i've nearly lost in a fit of anger.
yestermorning was horribly fucked. two of my pals had me for swimming, and i decided to walk to the nearest bus stop (i've shifted, you see.) on the pretext of exploring my new neighbourhood, only to be drenched in crashing raindrops which bit into my skin like nail polish.
so i sought shelter beneath a stinking flyover, and i was half fucked by the time the rain ceased its pelting missles. no half-fucked-half-drenched nitwit would like to meet two of his pals who were zero-fucked-fully-drenched-from-swimming just in case he lost his marbles, so this half fucked nitwit headed home, only to receive a call from shortpal that they had just reached.
so this three-quarter-fucked-half-drenched nitwit took a cab down, only to land up at some forsaken transview club which i swore must have been fit for transvestites, walking from toilet to toilet hunting two of his pals down, finally landing at the swimming pool which they weren't there.
so aha. the ninth-outtof-ten-fucked-half-drenched-leg-aching nitwit said to himself "wrong place you nitwit (conveniently forgetting his fitting 8 word prefix)", and he went round Singapore Poly, little knowing how big Singapore Poly is. mind you, i have pretty damn long legs but i still felt like a Polly Pocket doll in that forsaken Singapore Poly, all the while trying to hunt down a bloody swimming pool.
but alas i gave up. course that bloody monsoon westerlies decided to turn the ninth-outtof-ten-fucked-half-drenched-leg-aching nitwit into a ninth-outtof-ten-fucked-FULLY-drenched-leg-aching nitwit, and after getting caught by two security guards for walking around in half transparent swimming trunks, caught by 4 lecturers for too bloody good looking hair, caught by the receptionist for wearing slippers, i gave up.
and to add cream to the platter of wonderful adventures that just seem to creep up my morning schedule, i was finally on my way home for some peace and quiet and my friends called, after ignoring me for blatant hours.
and thats just half the story. i wouldn't want to ramble on how the ninth-outtof-ten-fucked-fully-drenched-leg-aching nitwit morphed into a fully-fledged-ten-outtof-ten-fucking-fucked-fully-drenched-till-my-dick-had-wrinkles-leg-dropping nitwit, but if i could erect my middle finger in perfected salute, i dedicate it to the monsoon.
i agree zhizhong, its the little things of this and that which accumulate into an inferno's rage, and a piercing numbness that takes away everything including one's rational and sanity.
but pity my long held-upon ideals to always look upon the bright side, and my mask of pretence which was deserving of awe. i lost myself to the little things of this and that, and i took it out upon the people i loved most. i realise that a rising valhalla is highly contagious, and it infects the people who are around you. the transient ethereal whispery fleeting strains of rain made me lose a happy basketballer, a happy badminton player, a happy princess, a happy queen, a happy cousin, a happy aunt, and a happy me. but of course, it might have not been rain's [weather] fault, but its always easier to pin it on something than someone, for God so made the world that objects cannot rebuke.
and as i awoke this morning, i stood hovering my sink, the face of its water was so silently still that the sheet of its surface glistened in the grey morning sunlight. and i saw my face flushed in black from cheek to cheek. the colour of death. yestermorning continues.
and then i gripped the sides of my sink. and something prodded me to think of the wonderful things, the wonderful things of me which were worth a thousand patronus, the ball, the sport, the hoop, the dunk. the class, the people, the hamster, the teachers. the girl, the princess, the one, the only. the seven, the club, the trip, the laughter. the friends, the he, the her, the them. and i smiled.
that slight smile of enlightenment, my black eyes uncovered from its burrowed lids, my darkened skin soothed from its wrinkling tautness, it was the most beautiful smile in the world.
and then the sheet of the water surface rippled, from a bead of hot tear. and the deathly black face was lost forever.
the voices in my head-
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
6:32 AM
Obligated Tragedy
there are so many things i want to write about, yet i can't because all of me is obliged to be with somebody, to do something, or perhaps just to fulfil a purpose.
its tiring to make choices, each day i awake asking myself what i would do, whom i would meet. choices, unending, undying, imbued with anticipation for continuity of tomorrow. since the book of my hwachong life has drawn to an end, the subtle sense of purpose is lost as i packed my two years of notes bristled with faces and aWak3n|nGs into two cardboardy coffins. now i wake upon each day with a breathless uncertainty, a wandering soul as time passes by, obliged by the order of nature to make choices which do not matter anymore.
its about time for a little confession. some tell me i've just about everything, but i must say i've been a good actor. sometimes i fool even myself, i think i'm this and that just cos someone tells me i'm this and that. and i'm obliged to feel i'm this and that cos thats what everyone thinks anyway, but upon introspection, the man alone may feel not at all lonely yet the lonely man may be not at all alone. i need to be alone for some time, to be able to think as much as i love, to be able to foresee as much as i recollect. for the coming years would be a test of what i truly am, as independence looms overhead, i'm obliged to be one of responsibility and character.
i love my family with a love so unconditional yet obligatory, or some might say i'm lying about the former. and now sister's off to study in melbourne, mum's fleeting around the continents, dad's setting up this and that in vietnam, china while i'm here to serve the country, face buried in soil and toil. it all seems so faraway, the years ago when we used to collect stamps and walk the macritchie, clouded now by a gossamer quality of a fairytale. never would it happen again would it, yet as i peered into myself i would only have myself to blame. but perhaps, just perhaps, i don't really care anymore, i was just obliged to care as a son to my parents and a brother to my sister.
i've had a few questions about myself, and each night i would ask he in the mirror how he had really felt, but he gave no answers. so i'd take a bath and enjoy the sensation of the tepid liquid swishing around my leg like foam, beseeching me to forget what i wanted to ask.
perhaps in the coming weeks i would come to a consensus with myself, whether i would live in a life with my head above the water amidst the scent of the fragrant morning mist, the warmth of the sun, the songs of the gulls; or would i plunge head deep into the dark waters for deep understanding and be acutely aware of the sharks, urchins and sea monsters.
in short, blissfully ignorant or knowledge at a price?
with that, i would need some time on my own, a little time off courts, a little time off love, a little time off web. my internet connection would be down from 12 midnight anyway, and so i'm here, obliged to give you faithful readers yet another bit of my life.
and i like the word 'and', and i use it a lot, i think i am 'andsessive' and i have the complusion to use it in every phrase and in every thought because it signifies the start of the end, the end of the start. there is no definite end, no tangible start, and life is just full of ands, and no beginnings or ends, and is a circle.
and perhaps i'll be back, or perhaps not.
but i would let you guys know ya?
there see. i was obliged to use and in the last paragraph, and i succumbed.
the voices in my head-
Monday, January 12, 2004
9:35 AM
Elephant
Enid Blyton once told me that the happier we are, the more we laugh. and by laughing so effervescently, we suck in ever more air, enhancing the length of our noses.
its 1:38am,
i just looked into the mirror, guess what i saw?
the voices in my head-
Saturday, January 10, 2004
8:57 AM
Simplicity
i was just pondering the other day, what i would have done if time could be turned back. and then i saw myself reliving my past, with fewer tears, fewer laughs.
a simpler life, one might say.
and today, it suddenly struck me that i could turn back time.
if only i dared.
the voices in my head-
Monday, January 05, 2004
8:54 AM
Politics
they say politics change like the wind.
but even doctor m checks the bed for semen before anwar goes in
but even mister bian bian has time to act cute before china retaliates
but even bushy george gives an ultimatum before troops march in
i say, some things change faster than politics.
the voices in my head-
Sunday, January 04, 2004
5:17 AM
2003
Its the new year.
Bored as a peking duck beneath scorching heat of a butchering stall, i tried to foresee the future, but to no avail. what i could only predict is a continual year of endless possibilities and ending probabilities. yet looking back at the year that has whisked by me, 2003 has been in a word: m-a-g-i-c-a-l.
pardon my rambling recollection, but i could still recall january to be of twisted mists of sunlight and sprays of rainbow arcs. my mind has willed itself to believe that all will come right eventually, and i still gave no farts to my academics. kudos to shiping for being the loveliest mortal one could ask for, and i dedicate janurary to her and her class.
then february came, and went. some lonely nights i'm still pricked by an image of the girl with long swift hair, sitting on the antique rickety swing, so desolate that she herself wouldn't bear to leave it. swaying her neck ever so gently to a long lost tune, eyes shut, ears pricked to the wispy strains of a lingering memory. its as if she savours not the parting shot of the moment, but the solidarity that swing offers. and i did not.
and then my first and last, one and only season marched into march. and april too. i could remember my debut match, the heights i soared alongside 11 other fantastic beings, and the remarkable 3 point mond unleashed right after my first (and only) foul in. the victories and the glories, the honour and the zest, spins and spins till the world dissolves into a frosty psychedelic swirl, till the world fades and nothing matters anymore.
then came may. maybe may may had been the worst month of them all. the month where everything crashed into reality and the frosty psychedelic swirl stopped the moment the final whistle blew, shattering the wintry air like breaking glass. indeed, it was the start of an ending that stretches into the distance with the gapping black hole. and i will remember it, and honour it, for as long as i live.
june. oh june! how could i forget. the month that we all tried desparately to find a substitute for something so dear we've lost. and amidst the mountains of notes which bear no pinnacle, i found myself lost in the abyss and chasm of endless knowledge, convulsing in fear and apprehension of what was to come. but hanging precariously from the precipice of defeat i met different strangers, who have slowly became quiet aquintances, and now whom i've solemnly treasured as friends.
july, august, september, october. and we all fumble in the fog of uncertainty, tripping over one another, struggling to be atop of the best. the yearning of excellence provided the impetus, the drive beyond any imaginable force to keep me glued beneath moth bitten lamps, grouchy aged security guards, and the waning of the moon.
maybe some will grow weary, pooped out from an overwhelming fatigue, yet they will continue the motions of their search, for the yearning is too great. it wasn't about eliciting an even greater yearning for something unequivocally beautiful and perennial, instead it was a yearning based upon the most fundamental foundations of the last 18 years of our life.
and in this i found no counter argument, and so i succumbed. i diffused my butt into the wooden chair of my room, and the benches were stealthily defaced by trademark ornamental decorations. but thanks be to god, for i wasn't alone. amongst these dirty months came along mystic hope, hope for the end to come, hope for the pretty la la lands we'd visit after its all over. i may not see you, but i feel you. your touch, your whispered promises that sends a shiver down my back and your euphonious hum that leaves my heart in constant ache.
and how could i neglect the subtle presence of the hes and hers which brought me through this tide. i thank you, fangxi kelvin vernon amidst the host of angels, not little things with pretty haloes but majestic beings with warm hearts and ethereal beauty.
sweet november. innocent and pristine, sitting pretty, a mellifluous voice. and so i thought, goodness. yet another perfect little girl for the perfect little lover. february would return to haunt me, i knew for sure, for despite that intangible connection, i know that love ain't meant to be perfect. but little did i know i had stumbled upon the perfectly imperfect girl of my life.
then december came, and like every other december it came as the 12th month of each year. contrary to popular opinion, it didn't serve as a creseundo but rather a fading lake reflecting speckles of the iridescent months which preceded itself. i still remember the days which galloped by, the present rippling into the past, and the future taking over before i could even digest anything that had happened. things happened, so fast, so rapid, but regrets are only for twits who have nothing better to do than ponder about the mysterious what ifs.
the irony of it all. so here i am, the biggest twit in twitland, blogging about the months that have passed before me, of candy and fluff, of bile and venom.
and so i'm back. all those insecurities of yester-years seem to surface again. back at square one. back at january.
dear god, i've prayed least a 1000 times but do answer this request of mine, and i'd promise never to backslide, ever in a million years whether the brown dessicated ground turn moist and green with blooming ever-white trillium. i'd make new friends but may i keep the old ones too? may i never forget the funkiness of 69, the happiness of hfc, the spirit on the court, the nostalgia of ocip and all you people who have made my life worth living. you people have loved me like the waters of the lucid sea, loving me like your own, sliding and rolling off me, covering me in a film of peace that incites me to live on, fight on. and i thank you, a million times over.
but right now, may i efface the past and embrace the future, after all,
Its the new year.
the voices in my head-
i love my girl. a love so beautiful, symmetrical, tangible
God loves me. a love so great, unconditional, real.
my life in a nutshell. working towards loves of sorts. beautiful, symmetrical, tangible, great, unconditional and real.
a page, deliberately left blank.
Love is patient, love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It is not rude, it is not self-seeking.
It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails.
I Corinthians 13:4-8
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