So I'm gonna leave town for a while for overseas training (in Taiwan, to be exact). Not looking forward to it immensely (nothing exciting about foreign jungles), but still nervous anyhow.
On a side note, I've been feeling rather empty these few days/weeks/months (if you haven't already noticed, in which case you must surely be blind). Not quite sure why. Might be army, might be my inability to pursue my interests for whatever reasons, might be my personal problems/obstacles/difficulties, might be a mid-life crisis (at 19!), might be the weather. I don't know. I'm just hoping that this out-of-country experience will do me some good (or let me breathe some fresh air, at least).
Wish me luck. Till then (a month from now), I'll be missing you guys.
October 26, 2009
October 18, 2009
Addicted to that Rush.
Tonight, I witnessed passion in it's purest, most unadulterated form.
Tonight, I was graced by a splendid display of pure art.
Tonight, I understood what it meant to connect emotion and music.
Tonight, I saw a marriage of four musical gods born to play together.
Tonight, I saw a group of four old friends waving their final goodbyes as they sang their hearts out.
Tonight, I saw Mr. Big.
Tonight, I was graced by a splendid display of pure art.
Tonight, I understood what it meant to connect emotion and music.
Tonight, I saw a marriage of four musical gods born to play together.
Tonight, I saw a group of four old friends waving their final goodbyes as they sang their hearts out.
Tonight, I saw Mr. Big.
October 10, 2009
Shadows in the Fall.
I'm sitting by the corridor, and it's lit a brilliant white. The florescent stings my eyes.
It's cold, so fucking cold.
I hate them. Someone turn them off.
I want to sit in the dark.
I want to sit in the deepest, blackest darkness. I want to sit in the shadows, the warm, warm shadows, where I can't see, and where I will never be seen. I want to sit somewhere where I can disappear, and never be found.
The lights sting. They burn. They light up everything around me, and I hate it.
I want to sit in the absence of light. I want to sit in the absence of sound. I want to sit in the absence of everything.
I want to sit where there is nothing to remind me of who I am, of who I used to be, and of who I'll become. I want to sit where no one will ever look at me, where no one will judge me, where no one will say a word about me, or to me. I want to sit alone. Without light. Without sound.
The lights are still on, and they piss the fuck outta me.
In the light, I can see everything. I can see my past, my present, my future. I do not like what I see.
In the light, I'm bare, naked to the world and exposed to everything in it. I'm exposed to every lie I've ever told, every grudge I've ever borne, and every fucking heart I've ever broken. In the light, I can see clearly, and it disturbs me. It shoves my footsteps in my face, and I hate it. I fucking hate it.
I don't want to look at myself, cus I know I won't like what I'll see. I don't want to hear the sound of my voice, cus it disgusts me. I don't want to think, cus every sentence that forms in my head disgusts me. The voices in my head disgust me. My eyes disgust me. My feet, my hands, my fingers, they disgust me. Everything disgusts me.
Someone turn off the lights.
I want to sit in the dark, where I am most comfortable. In the dark, I feel at home. I feel empowered. Empowered with honesty. Empowered with pure, unadulterated sincerity. Empowered with a voice that I am comfortable with, a sight that I can bare to see, a thought I can bring myself to think. In the dark, I am familiar. I am all-knowing, I am all-powerful, I am all-encompassing. In the dark, I can be whoever the fuck I want to be. I want to be powerful. I want to be famous. I want to be tall and muscular with great skin. I want to be your Jenny Craig, your David Gilmour, your Jesus.
The lights. The god-damned lights.
I want to be invisible. I want to be gone. I want to be gone. I want to be gone. Dead to the fucking world. Dead to my past, my present, and my future. I want to disappear, and never be found.
I want to sit where I'm alone, without a single soul to speak to, without a job to do, without a thought to think. I want to sit where I cannot do these things, for they scare me. They scare me. They scare me.
My every sight scares me. My every word scares me. My every thought scares me.
God, someone turn off the lights. They scare me. They scare me. They scare me.
They scare me.
They scare me.
They scare me.
It's cold, so fucking cold.
I hate them. Someone turn them off.
I want to sit in the dark.
I want to sit in the deepest, blackest darkness. I want to sit in the shadows, the warm, warm shadows, where I can't see, and where I will never be seen. I want to sit somewhere where I can disappear, and never be found.
The lights sting. They burn. They light up everything around me, and I hate it.
I want to sit in the absence of light. I want to sit in the absence of sound. I want to sit in the absence of everything.
I want to sit where there is nothing to remind me of who I am, of who I used to be, and of who I'll become. I want to sit where no one will ever look at me, where no one will judge me, where no one will say a word about me, or to me. I want to sit alone. Without light. Without sound.
The lights are still on, and they piss the fuck outta me.
In the light, I can see everything. I can see my past, my present, my future. I do not like what I see.
In the light, I'm bare, naked to the world and exposed to everything in it. I'm exposed to every lie I've ever told, every grudge I've ever borne, and every fucking heart I've ever broken. In the light, I can see clearly, and it disturbs me. It shoves my footsteps in my face, and I hate it. I fucking hate it.
I don't want to look at myself, cus I know I won't like what I'll see. I don't want to hear the sound of my voice, cus it disgusts me. I don't want to think, cus every sentence that forms in my head disgusts me. The voices in my head disgust me. My eyes disgust me. My feet, my hands, my fingers, they disgust me. Everything disgusts me.
Someone turn off the lights.
I want to sit in the dark, where I am most comfortable. In the dark, I feel at home. I feel empowered. Empowered with honesty. Empowered with pure, unadulterated sincerity. Empowered with a voice that I am comfortable with, a sight that I can bare to see, a thought I can bring myself to think. In the dark, I am familiar. I am all-knowing, I am all-powerful, I am all-encompassing. In the dark, I can be whoever the fuck I want to be. I want to be powerful. I want to be famous. I want to be tall and muscular with great skin. I want to be your Jenny Craig, your David Gilmour, your Jesus.
The lights. The god-damned lights.
I want to be invisible. I want to be gone. I want to be gone. I want to be gone. Dead to the fucking world. Dead to my past, my present, and my future. I want to disappear, and never be found.
I want to sit where I'm alone, without a single soul to speak to, without a job to do, without a thought to think. I want to sit where I cannot do these things, for they scare me. They scare me. They scare me.
My every sight scares me. My every word scares me. My every thought scares me.
God, someone turn off the lights. They scare me. They scare me. They scare me.
They scare me.
They scare me.
They scare me.
October 03, 2009
Right Where It Belongs.
So I was at Robyn's last night, along with Feng, and we had what I'd like to call, in childish terms, a heart-to-heart talk. Between then and now, nothing much had changed; we're still living in our different stages of life, we're still moving on in our different stages of life, and we're still accepting and beginning to understand what it means to be in those stages of our lives.
A little something had, though. I felt a certain comfort, a certain reassurance that, out there, at least someone (or someones) still gives a shit. And that makes me smile, which is an occurance that is becoming rather rare these days.
Last night made me think about friendship, and what it really does to people. I remember when we first met, about a year ago, with us randomly bumping into each other in the canteen extension. I remember our little gatherings, where we would make fun of each other and laugh together. I remember our study sessions, which always start out with great conviction, ZOMG-I-shall-study-for-184387589237-hours, but always ended up a little less than productive. I remember our little talks, where we would dig deeper and offer words of encouragement/advice to each other.
Fast forward to today, and things are quite different (naturally, of course). We're all facing our own challenges, trying to overcome our own obstacles, fighting our own demons. Some of us know where we're going, some of us are lost. Some of us are happy, some of us are sad. Some of us are doing well, some of us are not.
That being said, I wouldn't change a thing. I don't wish to turn back time to when things were alot simpler. I don't wish for perfection, nor idealism. I don't wish for regular get-togethers with all of us always being there, always ready to meet, always having fun and laughing our heads off.
I'm happy now, really. (Wow, that surprised me.) I'm beginning to understand that what makes life what it is is not the good memories, the happy moments, the fun times, but the hard ones, the ones that depress us and makes us sad, the ones that challenge us and strain our relationships.
I'm beginning to understand that what makes friendship is not meeting regularly and celebrating each other's birthdays, but having that someone you would want to call whenever you're feeling down, hearing that honest voice you know will try to understand and offer sincere advice, speaking to that patient and unjudging listening ear you know you can rely on.
Now that's friendship, and I'm happy to say that I'm right where it belongs.
A little something had, though. I felt a certain comfort, a certain reassurance that, out there, at least someone (or someones) still gives a shit. And that makes me smile, which is an occurance that is becoming rather rare these days.
Last night made me think about friendship, and what it really does to people. I remember when we first met, about a year ago, with us randomly bumping into each other in the canteen extension. I remember our little gatherings, where we would make fun of each other and laugh together. I remember our study sessions, which always start out with great conviction, ZOMG-I-shall-study-for-184387589237-hours, but always ended up a little less than productive. I remember our little talks, where we would dig deeper and offer words of encouragement/advice to each other.
Fast forward to today, and things are quite different (naturally, of course). We're all facing our own challenges, trying to overcome our own obstacles, fighting our own demons. Some of us know where we're going, some of us are lost. Some of us are happy, some of us are sad. Some of us are doing well, some of us are not.
That being said, I wouldn't change a thing. I don't wish to turn back time to when things were alot simpler. I don't wish for perfection, nor idealism. I don't wish for regular get-togethers with all of us always being there, always ready to meet, always having fun and laughing our heads off.
I'm happy now, really. (Wow, that surprised me.) I'm beginning to understand that what makes life what it is is not the good memories, the happy moments, the fun times, but the hard ones, the ones that depress us and makes us sad, the ones that challenge us and strain our relationships.
I'm beginning to understand that what makes friendship is not meeting regularly and celebrating each other's birthdays, but having that someone you would want to call whenever you're feeling down, hearing that honest voice you know will try to understand and offer sincere advice, speaking to that patient and unjudging listening ear you know you can rely on.
Now that's friendship, and I'm happy to say that I'm right where it belongs.
September 30, 2009
Electric.
My knee hurts.
My knee FUCKING hurts.
I swear, if you give me one more ounce of shit, just one more, I will snap and I will blow your fucking brains out.
Good night.
My knee FUCKING hurts.
I swear, if you give me one more ounce of shit, just one more, I will snap and I will blow your fucking brains out.
Good night.
September 19, 2009
Palimpsest.
It read, engraved bold and deep in the marble,
S/Sgt. Edward Jacob Reeve, September 04, 1923–April 29, 1943, WWII
I'm kneeling, my beret in my hands, his tablet one amongst thousands upon thousands of others.
The air smells of freshly-cut grass, and it's a clear November evening.
Edward Reeve, anti-aerial support commander, Delta wing. 2 years in regular service. Drafted to his unit after a disapproval for his application for an aerial vocation, due to his age and lack of experience.
It was April 28, 1943, a day not unlike today, clear and still. His arms on the shoulders of his junior gunner, eyes squinting off the reflected sun on the horizon. The junior gunner trembles slightly as his hands clasp the cold steel, his knuckles white from gripping the trigger-guard all morning.
Everything was routine. Aircraft-carriers in the docks. Fleet-transports forming a line just a little off the shore. Anti-aerial gunners scanning. The air smelling of carbon and stale oil.
Fast forward to April 29, 1943.
Edward Reeve, anti-aerial support commander, Delta wing, declared dead after a zero fighter exploded at point blank range as it hit the gunner. The gunner escaped with third degree burns across most of his body as the loaded fuel ate his Kevlar and tore his skin to shreds. The body of Edward Reeve was never recovered, lost in the debris of burning metal.
His grave lies empty today.
He loved, and was loved well.
The date today is April 29, 1999. The beret of Edward Reeve lies beneath the marble, along with his service badge of honour.
The air smells of freshly-cut grass, and it's a clear November evening.
I remove the plaque I received earlier this year, and place it by the base of his tablet.
It reads,
Eddie Reeve
Anti-aerial gunner
14th armour division.
S/Sgt. Edward Jacob Reeve, September 04, 1923–April 29, 1943, WWII
I'm kneeling, my beret in my hands, his tablet one amongst thousands upon thousands of others.
The air smells of freshly-cut grass, and it's a clear November evening.
Edward Reeve, anti-aerial support commander, Delta wing. 2 years in regular service. Drafted to his unit after a disapproval for his application for an aerial vocation, due to his age and lack of experience.
It was April 28, 1943, a day not unlike today, clear and still. His arms on the shoulders of his junior gunner, eyes squinting off the reflected sun on the horizon. The junior gunner trembles slightly as his hands clasp the cold steel, his knuckles white from gripping the trigger-guard all morning.
Everything was routine. Aircraft-carriers in the docks. Fleet-transports forming a line just a little off the shore. Anti-aerial gunners scanning. The air smelling of carbon and stale oil.
Fast forward to April 29, 1943.
Edward Reeve, anti-aerial support commander, Delta wing, declared dead after a zero fighter exploded at point blank range as it hit the gunner. The gunner escaped with third degree burns across most of his body as the loaded fuel ate his Kevlar and tore his skin to shreds. The body of Edward Reeve was never recovered, lost in the debris of burning metal.
His grave lies empty today.
He loved, and was loved well.
The date today is April 29, 1999. The beret of Edward Reeve lies beneath the marble, along with his service badge of honour.
The air smells of freshly-cut grass, and it's a clear November evening.
I remove the plaque I received earlier this year, and place it by the base of his tablet.
It reads,
Eddie Reeve
Anti-aerial gunner
14th armour division.
September 04, 2009
Staying in the Firefight.
It's funny how we're so easily defined by our surroundings, and by what people tell us we are. We're so easily swayed off the road we have originally mapped out for ourselves in our head, on the very basis that everyone else is taking another path, an easier, less undulating path. It's so easy to forget, sometimes, how far we've come, and how much we're gonna lose by giving up. It's so easy to put down and under-estimate our strengths and our mental abilities to hold on to what we want, to stay in the fight, to keep going even if it means putting ourselves through another few months (or years, for that matter) of unnecessary hell.
The past two weeks saw me experiencing both ends of the psychological spectrum of being a rifleman in the SAF, and really opened my eyes as to what it means to stay in the fight till the very end.
My section started with 13 people, and it's down to 6 now, even before our first book-out. All around me, I've heard people discussing how they're gonna get themselves out-of-course, either by stepping down their pes status, or by obtaining an excuse that will make them unable to participate in the army as an infanteer (like an allergy to grass, which will excuse them from field camp). I have to admit, I've seriously considered that route myself, with my knee now in constant pain (which will enable me to get at least a couple of months off) due to a previous injury, and the life over here being pure physical and mental hell. It's really demoralising, to say the least, to spend every day in camp with everyone around you pushing you off the road, telling you that you don't deserve this life, telling you not to do this to yourself, suggesting that you just take the easy way out and get your ass into an admin position in the HQ as a clerk or something.
It's getting harder and harder to stay in the firefight with every passing day. Good god, do I wanna become a clerk. No outfield, no SOC, no change parade, no stupid leopard crawling in the mud. Air-con, daily book-out, lots of free time. All I need to do is to send in the MRI scan for my knee.
Voices, voices, voices in my fucking head.
Anyhow, even with this big cop-out of a situation, there's still a tiny silver lining, a little beam of light streaming through the fucking storm cloud overhead that's swelling with rain and god-damned lightning.
I saw true courage and fighting spirit in one of my section mates during our field camp that commenced on Tuesday till last night. He's a Muslim fasting for Ramadan, and holy shit, what bitch that is to keep up with. I mean, it's hard enough keeping up with our training well-fed and fully hydrated, much less without any food nor water. I remember being in the middle of one of our missions, burning under the sun, whining and bitching to myself about how I don't deserve this shit, and how I'm really dying under this helmet and bloody field pack. I then saw my Muslim friend, who hadn't consumed a single drop of water, nor a single morsel of food since 0430 (it was then already mid-afternoon). I myself had guzzled at least 4 litres of water that day, and had already eaten two full meals, yet, I felt like dying under the heat and combat load. Just looking at him, though, was a huge slap to my face, and a very blatant reminder that what I was going through was nothing.
Context, is all.
It's funny how the voices that strike us down, the ones that demoralise us and tell us that we're worthless, that we're tired, that we're hungry, that we're in pain, are so fucking loud, and the motivating, inspiring voices within us, the ones that tell us to keep going, to press on, to stay in the fight, are fucking whispers, very often drowned by all the shouting in our head.
Stay in the firefight, Marcus, stay in the god-damned firefight.
P.S. Sonia once laughed about how I tend to go into little soliloquies and monologues when I talk. I'm starting to realise now that it's true. Hmmm.
The past two weeks saw me experiencing both ends of the psychological spectrum of being a rifleman in the SAF, and really opened my eyes as to what it means to stay in the fight till the very end.
My section started with 13 people, and it's down to 6 now, even before our first book-out. All around me, I've heard people discussing how they're gonna get themselves out-of-course, either by stepping down their pes status, or by obtaining an excuse that will make them unable to participate in the army as an infanteer (like an allergy to grass, which will excuse them from field camp). I have to admit, I've seriously considered that route myself, with my knee now in constant pain (which will enable me to get at least a couple of months off) due to a previous injury, and the life over here being pure physical and mental hell. It's really demoralising, to say the least, to spend every day in camp with everyone around you pushing you off the road, telling you that you don't deserve this life, telling you not to do this to yourself, suggesting that you just take the easy way out and get your ass into an admin position in the HQ as a clerk or something.
It's getting harder and harder to stay in the firefight with every passing day. Good god, do I wanna become a clerk. No outfield, no SOC, no change parade, no stupid leopard crawling in the mud. Air-con, daily book-out, lots of free time. All I need to do is to send in the MRI scan for my knee.
Voices, voices, voices in my fucking head.
Anyhow, even with this big cop-out of a situation, there's still a tiny silver lining, a little beam of light streaming through the fucking storm cloud overhead that's swelling with rain and god-damned lightning.
I saw true courage and fighting spirit in one of my section mates during our field camp that commenced on Tuesday till last night. He's a Muslim fasting for Ramadan, and holy shit, what bitch that is to keep up with. I mean, it's hard enough keeping up with our training well-fed and fully hydrated, much less without any food nor water. I remember being in the middle of one of our missions, burning under the sun, whining and bitching to myself about how I don't deserve this shit, and how I'm really dying under this helmet and bloody field pack. I then saw my Muslim friend, who hadn't consumed a single drop of water, nor a single morsel of food since 0430 (it was then already mid-afternoon). I myself had guzzled at least 4 litres of water that day, and had already eaten two full meals, yet, I felt like dying under the heat and combat load. Just looking at him, though, was a huge slap to my face, and a very blatant reminder that what I was going through was nothing.
Context, is all.
It's funny how the voices that strike us down, the ones that demoralise us and tell us that we're worthless, that we're tired, that we're hungry, that we're in pain, are so fucking loud, and the motivating, inspiring voices within us, the ones that tell us to keep going, to press on, to stay in the fight, are fucking whispers, very often drowned by all the shouting in our head.
Stay in the firefight, Marcus, stay in the god-damned firefight.
P.S. Sonia once laughed about how I tend to go into little soliloquies and monologues when I talk. I'm starting to realise now that it's true. Hmmm.
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