Lest We Forget

Moved

2010-08-28T01:52:00.001-07:00

http://electricliquorsky.tumblr.com

sorry blogspot, I've betrayed you for someone sexier.

Jesus can go kiss my ass.

2010-07-29T01:27:00.000-07:00

Christians say that religious faith is about letting go of all your problems and worries, and letting God decide how to run your life. It's about letting 'Jesus take the wheel', just like how that god-awful song goes. Sometimes, life throws you lemons, and when it does, just let go and let God do his work, they say. If you're faced with a tough life decision, just let go and let God make the choice, they say. Give your life to God, and live your life for God, cus that's the only way you'll truly be happy.

People, take a step back. Take a step back and listen to how ridiculous you all sound.

Jesus take the wheel,
Take it from my hands
Cus I can't do this on my own
I'm letting go
So give me one more chance
Save me from this road I'm on
Jesus take the wheel

This song is supposed to be a motivational song? What the fuck? It sounds fucking irresponsible to let God solve all your problems just cus you can't. I mean, grow up, people. God is not going to save your sorry little life. If you're just going to sit there in your pool of shit singing songs about losing control of your life to an invisible man in the sky, then you're fucking pathetic. Really fucking pathetic.

Don't get me wrong; I believe in God, I really do. I believe that this world was created by a higher power, and that his spirit exists in all of us. Saints or sinners. The God I believe in, however, is not as egoistical as yours. He does not need me to worship him on my knees all day long, begging and praying to him for grace and salvation. He does not need me to give him a percentage of all I own and earn. He does not need me to poke my nose into other people's lives and tell them all about Him and his pseudo-greatness. My God is greater than that, and he is omnipotent. Truly omnipotent, not ominpotent in the way Jesus is, cus that's just retarded and honestly a very, very flawed representation of that word.

Religion is really just a huge factory of lies created to make people feel better about their sorry, sorry little lives. I'm sorry. The truth is brutal, and the truth hurts. But yea. If you, for one second, believe that religion is going to solve all of your life's problems, then I'm afraid you're a sorry sack of shit. Take a step back and look at the religious God. In my humble, humble opinion, he's the biggest prick in the world. Honestly. Take a look at him. He expects so much from his little minions, and gives so little. Just take a step back and look at all this bullshit.

Religious people really make me hurt alot, cus God is not like that. God is so much more powerful than you all make him out to be. Power of the REAL kind, not the kind that you get when people worship you. The God I believe in is the God that trusts our paths, that believes that everyone, saints and sinners, have choices, and that everything we do in our lives, be it for the better or for the worst, is a choice. He doesn't condemn people who make wrong choices. He doesn't expect everyone to spend their whole lives trying to be as godly as possible. He doesn't expect people to spend their whole lives chasing some elusive dream of perfection and nirvana when the truth is we will never be perfect.

I've asked many religious people what they think their purpose in life was, and they all say that it is to worship God. I mean, WHAT THE FUCK? You're telling me that your purpose for existence on this planet is to worship God? You were put on this earth, BY GOD, to WORSHIP HIM? How the fuck does that make God sound? It makes him sound like a complete asshole to me. Oh, I'm all-powerful and all-mighty, therefore I create little minions and make them spend their whole lives worshipping me. Good job, great man in the sky. Good fucking job.

Religious people, I rest my case. Do what you will with your life, but don't tell me about your Jesus and tarnish the name of God - the REAL God, not the God you idiots created to feel better about your fucked-up little lives. Have fun spending the rest of your life as a slave.

"God has no religion." - Mahatma Gandhi.

Ghosts.

2010-07-15T18:29:00.000-07:00

I close my eyes, and the ghosts of yesterday come back like they never went away. They wear sneers on their faces, eyes crossed right into mine. They are laughing hysterically, their lips a huge gaping hole in their faces.

They scream in my face, who the fuck do you think you are? The fuck you think you're doing? Don't you know that everyone you love will fuck you over and leave you one day? Everyone you pour your heart and soul in will fucking destroy you. They will leave you, and what will you have left, then? What the fuck would you have left?

Look at yourself. Look at your weak, pathetic self. I gave you power beyond imagination. I gave you complete and utter control over everything in your life. I took something dear from you, and in exchange I gave you something better. Something that will make you invulnerable and impenetrable. Something that will never let you feel the sting of heartbreak, something that will never let you feel the stab of loss.

Stupid you, look at yourself. You gave it all away, and for what? This? This, this is what you want? You want pain? You want suffering? You want agony of the highest degree? You stupid fool. You stupid, stupid fool. Look at what you're doing to yourself. Look, look. You stupid, stupid fool. You think you're good enough. You're not. You're fucking pathetic, and you know it.

I open my eyes, and I scream, fuck off. Fuck you. Take your fucking lies and shove it hard and far up your ass. Fuck off and die, fucking demons. Come take me. I'm right here, waiting. Waiting for the gates of hell to be unleashed upon me. My arms are wide fucking open. I am naked to the world, defenseless against everything you have got coming towards me. Come take me. I dare you. I fucking dare you. Give me all you've got.

My eyes are wide open. Come get me.

Time After Time.

2010-07-12T01:50:00.000-07:00

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah my foes, and oh, my friends -
It gives a lovely light.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

Time has, once again, demonstrated it's power. Nothing lasts forever. It's a simple fact of life. Pictures fade. Buildings crumble. People die. Yet, nothing in the world has ever looked more beautiful than the glimpse of infinity in a moment. Right before my eyes, I see the beauty of the ephemeral. I am in awe of it's power.

Tomorrow, these buildings will be relics of the greatness they once were. Tomorrow, these plants and animals of nature will be reduced to the dust from where they were born. Tomorrow, I will cease to exist, and so will she.

Tomorrow, we will all die, but it doesn't sadden me. It doesn't sadden me that time has it's way of taking back what it has given to you. It doesn't sadden me that death still stands as the great equaliser. It doesn't sadden me that all things beautiful will end one day. Tomorrow, we will all die, but I don't care cus today, she is fucking beautiful.

Heroes.

2010-06-08T09:37:00.000-07:00

Perhaps, all we need is just an afterthought, an intent. Just an inkling of a decision, a slight hint of a response. Words that never mean more than just that, actions that never speak more than as expected.

Perhaps, what we lack is a little introspection. A little dive into ourselves, the deep depths of our psyches that hold all the secrets of our lives. A little make-believe that something better can be made out of all this. A story that's left unfinished only to be re-told.

Perhaps, we can all be heroes if we close our eyes.

Stars.

2010-05-20T06:35:00.000-07:00

I breathe, and I feel my lungs fill up with water. I'm choking; I'm coughing as hard as I can, but all I feel is the tight pump of water in and out, in and out. My lungs are begging for air; they pull harder and harder, and I swear I feel my ribs breaking.

My eyes are wide open; I don't need to blink, ever. There are large bodies of blue over grey over black over white; I don't need to blink, ever.

I stop trying to breathe. I stop breathing. I stop. I am at peace with my body. My lungs aren't aching anymore, and my throat is wide open. I no longer need to breathe.

My body is limp; every muscle floating, floating. Nothing is pulling against me, not even gravity. I am floating, floating. I am at peace with my body.

I look up, and I see the diamonds. Diamonds of brilliant white, sparkling in the sky. They are dancing; they are waving. The currents pull and push, and the stars are waving goodbye.

I feel myself sinking; I feel myself falling. Falling from the surface. Falling from grace. I am falling, and I am at peace with my body.

I look at the stars, and they dance in excitement, back and forth, back and forth. I look at the stars. I feel the currents pull and push, and I see the stars waving, waving. They sparkle with the brilliance of cut diamonds; they are waving goodbye; goodbye.

The stars shine on, and they wave goodbye; goodbye. I am falling; I am falling. I am at peace with my body; I am at peace.

Forever Young.

2010-05-13T02:42:00.000-07:00

"Youth is easily deceived because it is quick to hope." - Aristole

You tell me that I'm stupid for dreaming dreams bigger than what I can achieve in this lifetime; I tell you that this world's too small.

You tell me that I'm lost because I'm without faith; I tell you that I have only lost faith for the institutions that speak for God.

You tell me that I'm naive because I lack foresight; I tell you that tomorrow might betray you.

You tell me that I'm an idiot for throwing away my future; I tell you that I'm merely carving another one.

You tell me that I'll regret every choice I've made when I'm old; I tell you that I'll smile as I die without a single what if or a single if only.

Tragedy.

2010-04-27T08:18:00.000-07:00

It's tragic how the one thing that brings me inner peace is the one thing that causes the most chaos inside.

It's tragic how the one thing that brings me happiness is the one thing that causes me the most pain.

It's tragic how the one thing that completes me is the one thing that completely tears me apart.

It's tragic how the one thing that rights every wrong in my life is the one thing that I'll never, ever get.

It's tragic how the one person who keeps the fight in me going is the one person who completely destroys me inside.

Something I Can Never Have.

2010-04-19T09:46:00.000-07:00

I don't ask for much - I just want to be normal. I just want to be like everyone else and lead a normal, simple life. I want to be happy with a normal, simple life. Is that too much to ask? Is it too much to ask for an ability to be happy at the little things in life, to be satisfied with the many things that we've got coming our way? Why can't I be fucking normal like everyone else and just learn to be happy with what I have and not torture myself to death for being less than absolutely perfect?

Why the fuck do I set myself up for disappointment by wanting the very things I can never have? Why the fuck do I lose sleep dreaming of things that are way out of my reach? Why the fuck do I see hope in things I know will never, ever, come to pass? Why the fuck do I beat myself up for not being able to achieve the impossible? Why the fuck am I running away from everything that's ever meant something to me, only to chase the very things that plague my mind and crush my soul? Why the fuck am I doing this to myself?

I don't ask for much - I just want to be fucking normal.

Panadol Extra.

2010-04-11T22:39:00.000-07:00

So I went to Guardian last week in search of a cure for my cold; I saw on the shelves, pills promising instant relief and maximum strength, making claims of being fast and effective, claims of being extra strong and intense. I had just spent close to 80 bucks that weekend cabbing all over the place, and it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks - we're all slaves to faster, stronger, more intense.

When we travel today, we want to get to our destination as quickly as possible. When we wait for something, we want it to get to us in the shortest possible time. Man used to cover distance on foot, walking for days and days and days to get from one place to another. Today, we've got airplanes that bring us halfway around the globe in less than a day. Man used to wait for weeks, even months, for a letter to arrive from a faraway place, it being sent on horseback, handed over from city to city. Today, we recieve emails instantly, no matter how far apart we physically are. Even when it comes to medication, we want results fast. We want the highest possible dosage the human body can absorb; we want the most intense drugs in our body, cus who has time to wait? Who has the time to sit around nursing a cold? We are busy people, and time wasted is time we are never getting back.

We've long forgotten what it feels like to wait. Patience is no longer a virtue; it's a vice. Good things no longer happen to those who wait. Nobody cares about who you can be tomorrow; all they care about is who you can be now. No one invests in potential, no one invests in possibilities. We only want results, and we want them now, now, now.

Emotionally, too, we're bought over. I've only known you for two months, but it's okay, that's enough for me to tell you that I love you. I've only dated you for two years, but it's okay, that's enough for me to ask you for your hand in marriage, cus I totally want to spend the rest of my life with you.

It's a pity; a pity cus I like waiting. I love long train rides and slow walks. I enjoy good conversations and platonic relationships. I love investing my time and effort in endeavours that have a painfully long process to closure.

I love the thrill of anticipation. I love the thrill of wanting something so bad your pulse races at the very thought of it. I love the thrill of being so close to achieving something that your heart is exploding out of your chest and you're breathing as though your lungs are about to collapse and implode.

After all that's said and done, here I am, typing this on my computer to be uploaded instantly on the internet. In the world of facebook and gmail, the temptation of convenience is irresistable. Sigh.

P.S. Just to show how much of a slave I am, I ended up buying Panadol extra for my cold, cus it promised instant, long-lasting results. What a loser.

Hold On.

2010-03-31T03:44:00.000-07:00

The greatest lesson we can ever learn from life is that it will go on. Sounds like a stupid cliched answer that gets thrown around all the time, but sometimes I think that it's one of the hardest concepts to understand.

I've been struggling with my life lately; I won't deny it. I've been trying (and failing) to understand why I go through the things I do, and why I feel the way I do about certain things. I'm struggling to understand why, if they say that God has a destiny for all of us, I'm being put in situations that torment me so. Why, if they say that God loves us unconditionally and limitlessly, He puts us through the fire and the flames even though it hurts us so. Is this love? Is this how you treat someone who means the world to you?

I don't understand; I really don't.

I've been humbled lately, though. I've been humbled by time and it's power. I've been humbled by how time can teach us the greatest lesson we'll ever learn - that it will pass no matter what. No matter how long the nights might be, no matter how painful and heart-breaking they might seem to us, the dawn will never fail to arrive. The sun will always, always rise, no matter how cold and dark the night is. As long as we hold on, as long as we bite the bullet through the night, we'll make it eventually and live to see the sun rise.

I'm at the coldest and darkest point of my life now, but I promise I'll hold on - I'll hold on, and wait for the sun to rise.

Happy People.

2010-03-24T05:17:00.000-07:00

You know what pisses me off immensely? Happy, giggly, omg-the-world-is-rainbows-and-butterflies people. How they smile at every idiotic cunt they meet, how they laugh at every retarded joke someone makes, how they patronise every fucking stupid conversation they get into. Very fucking annoying. I mean, open your eyes, crazy person. This world is a fucking explosion of hypocrisy and back-stabbing and false pretenses. Don't you know that when they talk to you, they really just want to make use of you? Don't you know that when they smile at you, they really just want to fuck you? Can't your puny little brain make sense of all that?

Stop smiling in my face, cus I fucking hate it. Stop laughing, cus it sounds fucking disgusting. I don't want to hear your happy life story. I don't want to hear how you found the love of your life and you lived happily ever after. I don't want to hear your fucking tales of adventure and romance. Go fuck yourself. Seriously. Take your happy little unicorn staff and shove it up your ass. I don't want to hear any of your bullshit.

You're fucking stupid to think that this world is worth saving. You're fucking stupid for believing that people deserve a second chance. You're fucking stupid for believing that people will actually act selflessly and righteously when they have a chance not to. If you think that unconditional love and care and concern exists in this world, then I'm sorry. I'll have to break your joy bubble and tell you that this world is fucked up beyond redemption. If you still insist that we can change this world, then go fuck yourself. Seriously.

/end major rant.

I actually only hate happy people cus I'm jealous. The one I really hate the most is myself. Sometimes I feel like the amazing comedian who makes the whole world laugh, but at the end of the day, looks into the mirror and sees the saddest person on the face of the planet.

Good night.

Perfect.

2010-03-20T08:58:00.000-07:00

Sat in with Deborah's cell group session today. Was quite interesting, to say the least. We sat down in a small circle and we shared our stories with each other, our flaws and our faults, our inadquecies and our imperfections. We debated on how we needed to change certain things in our lives, how we needed to re-think the way we see others, and the way we see ourselves. Perfectionism was the re-curring theme, how we'll never be happy as perfectionists, cus we're never really satisfied even though we've done our absolute best. We beat ourselves up when our best just isn't good enough, and we shut ourselves out from the world to better ourselves just so that we can keep up with the next guy.

I like striving for perfection even though I know it's not possible. I like wanting what I can't have, and I like trying to do things I can't do. Strange and masochistic, but very true. Set insanely high expectations for yourself, fail to meet them, beat yourself over it, wallow in self pity, slap yourself awake, get back up, try again. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

Oh, what joy.

* * *

And if you wait for me,
I'll be the light in the dark if you lose your way.
And if you wait for me,
I'll your voice when you don't know what to say.

I'll be your shelter,
I'll be your fate;
I'll be forever,
Wait for me.

I'll be the last train;
I'll be the last train home.

The Road to Happiness.

2010-03-17T21:24:00.000-07:00

If you think about what gives you pain, then think about what makes you happy, you'll realise that they are differentiated only by a fine line. Everyone who's honestly happy will tell you that it's a road that's laced with glass powder and coarse salt. The bottom line is, we can only truly be happy if we're in / have been through pain.

If playing the guitar makes you happy, then you'll understand the pain of a daily disciplined routine of practicing scales that will destroy your social life. You'll understand the pain of failure when you can't overcome a certain bad habit that stalls your technical progress. You'll understand the pain of frustration when you're just not good enough despite doing everything you think you can.

If being fit and slim makes you happy, then you'll understand the pain of waking up at before dawn every morning, running your lungs out while the rest of the world is asleep. You'll understand the pain of denying yourself food that you love just cause you know it won't help you attain your goals. You'll understand the pain of hitting a fitness plateau, where you just can't shave those few seconds off your timing no matter how hard you try.

The same goes for everything, really. Everything that makes us happy gives us pain. (Unfortunately, the reverse isn't true.) You can sigh and shake your head at the silliness of it all, how we can never achieve happiness without some form of pain, but the sooner we stop trying to avoid the latter, the sooner we'll achieve the former.

I'm writing all this cus I'm in a lot of pain now. I'm frustrated. I'm angry. I'm disappointed. I'm lost. I'm in pain, and it's barring on unbearable. But it's okay, cus I know that the more pain I feel now, the happier I'll become at the end of the day.

Give me pain, cus I want to be happy.

Good night.

Heavy Eyelids.

2010-03-08T04:10:00.000-08:00

I'm tired. Really, really tired. 20 hour days and long, long weeks aren't very healthy for the body and (especially) the mind. Whenever the weekends come (however short they are), I feel like sleeping the whole day away, just to break even for the week. But I don't, cus there's so much to do, and so little time. The short weekends I have make it especially vital that I spend as much of it awake as possible. That, on top of my already very unhealthy 4 hour a night regime in camp, is killing me.

To be honest, I'm in a very bitter mood. Bitter that there are people out there who have stay-out vocations and still draw the same pay as me. I'm bitter that there are people who get to book out every day to do what they want/need to do, and sometimes even earn more than me. It's not fair. It really, really isn't. But what can I say. There are always two sides to every coin, and I'm willing to bet that for every person who's underworked and overpaid, there's someone else who's overworked and underpaid.

Maybe I'm just over-thinking things. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, life isn't bad, in the sense that it could be worse. Maybe I just need to get out of my head the idea that I deserve better. Maybe I'm only competent enough to get what I have. Maybe I'm only competent enough to deserve whatever I've got.

Still, the bitterness exists. As much as I can tell myself that there are people out there who are doing so much more than their jobscope than myself, I'd still feel the pinch whenever I see someone who has it better than me. I'm jealous; I won't deny it. I'm very jealous that I cannot do what I want/need to, and others can. I'm jealous that I cannot pursue the many things I want to do because of restrictions in time and space.

Perhaps this is God's way of making me a stronger person. Perhaps this is God's way of making me a more, how should I put it, unbitter person. Perhaps God just wants me to stop judging others against myself and just bite the bullet. Perhaps this is God's way of making me stop ranting about things in my life that I cannot control.

I've learnt from my christian friends that God always has a greater plan for us. If he does, it better be something so awesome that all this is worth it, cus right now, I'm pissed off that He's making my life so difficult.

So God, if you're up there, I hope all this is really really for my own good, cus I'm about destroy some recruits to vent my anger.

/end rant.

Weakling.

2010-02-25T19:20:00.000-08:00

Humans are pathetic. Really, we are. We think that we're the kings of the animal kingdom, the top of the food chain, the highest rungs of the ladder, but we really aren't. The very things that separate us from our beastial friends - our conscience and emotions - are the very things that make us weak.

Humans have an inherent need to belong. We form this little consumer identity through our fashion sense, our choice in friends, the very way we lead our lives. We need big cars and huge houses to convince ourselves that we lead blessed lives. We need multitudes of friends to convince ourselves that we're not alone, and we need ground-breaking achievements to convince ourselves that we're worth something.

We spend our whole lives carving out our perfect identity, what we want to be remembered as, what we want to leave behind for generations upon generations. We write books romanticizing our experiences with love, we sing songs declaring our passion and everlasting faith. We do everything within our abilities to try and leave a legacy behind, something that won't fade away when we eventually do.

We're weak.

We're so vulnerable to our emotions, so exposed by our conscience. We find meaning in eveything around us, and that makes us weak. We attach ourselves to one another, and that makes us pathetic.

How I wish we could just let go. Let go of everything we own that doesn't matter, every friend we've made that doesn't mean a thing, every thought we have that makes us believe that we're worth something, when we're not.

I want to be indifferent. I want to be apathetic. I want to not give a shit, cus it makes me weak. I want to not feel love, hurt, pain, joy, cus it makes me pathetic. It makes me vulnerable, and I don't like that. I want to be in control. I want to be in complete and utter control of my emotions, my thoughts, my conscience.

I will not be weak.

Conversations.

2010-02-23T06:31:00.001-08:00

The cbox is very annoying. Wanted to try it out again cus I was bored in camp and playing around with my blog. It always screws up my template. Stupid tagboard.

Anyway, I've been online a whole lot more lately cus of my new in-camp laptop (wo0t). Frequency of blog updates will increase exponentially! Yay me.

Just to share a laugh or two, here's a conversation I just had with my bunk-mate:

*Speakers playing some low quality track really loudly.

Me: Eh what's that song, it sounds very out of tune.

Bunkie: Oh, actually it's a recording of me and Ridzuwan when we were bored the other time.

*Awkward silence.

Me: Ohhhhh. It's not bad.

Bunkie: Fuck you.

Funniest conversation I've had in a while hahahahah.

Questions.

2010-02-22T06:31:00.000-08:00

If you had to spend every single day hoping for something that might never ever come to pass because your heart tells you so, will you?

If you had to say no to every possibility that comes your way because your heart tells you so, will you?

If you had to spend every waking moment fighting the demons inside because you know that change is the only chance you'll have, will you?

If you had to ignore every rational voice in your head that tells you that it's not worth it because your heart tells you so, will you?

If you had to open your mind to everything you've fought your whole life against because it's the only chance you'll have, will you?

If you had to spend your whole life waiting for that one shot at love, will you?

Human.

2010-02-20T18:04:00.000-08:00

There's been a huge explosion of depression lately in my circle of friends. Everyone seems depressed. Everyone seems to have their lives thrown around and their hearts broken. Everyone's in emotional trauma, in psychological distress.

Studies show that 1 in 4 people suffer from depression at some point in their lives, although the actual number might be exponentially larger than that, cus of the very sensitive definition of clinical depression. At the same time, medicinal companies have been churning out Prozac and Valium-like pills at insane speeds and quantities in a bid to wage it's huge commercial war against sadness.

It's funny how depression is said by many to be a disease. We develop pills and come up with counselling groups to combat sadness. We try to cheer our teary friends up, and we try to console our heart-broken buddies.

We'll spend our whole lives trying to fight against depression until we finally understand that we're really fighting against our psyches, the part of us we cannot control. Only when we understand that will we win the war against sadness, not that there's a war in the first place.

1 in 4 people in the world are clinically depressed. That's too huge a number to ignore. In our race to find the ultimate happy pill to fix our sad, sad lives, perhaps we overlooked the fact that depression and sadness make us human. Like happiness and joy, sadness is an emotion too, one that has been given to us by God. We're made fully capable of feeling joy as we are sadness, and we are made fully vulnerable to the feelings of love as well as heart-break.

Perhaps, just perhaps, we need sadness to know that we're capable of feeling happiness. We need disappointment to know that we're still capable of hope. We need heartbreak to know that we're still capable of love.

To my friends who are in depression mode now, I envy you. I envy you having felt that much love for someone that your heart is completely and utterly broken when you lose them. I envy you having so much hope in something that you're shattered when it disappoints you. Trust me. From the bottom of my heart, I envy you.

Feeling sad and depressed beats not feeling anything at all. At least you'll know you're still human.

P.S. Tagboard's back!

Bodhisattvas.

2010-02-14T19:06:00.000-08:00

I turn on the TV, and I see people dying. I see people starving. I see kids losing their legs to land mines. I see kids losing their family to a war that never ends.

Search and rescue missions. Humanitarian aid. Peace-keeping. People helping people helping people helping people.

Killjoy.

I turn on the TV, and I am thrilled. I love it when I see people in pain. Somehow, you feel as if their pain and suffering just makes your life fucking rainbows and butterflies. It makes me smile when I see a kid with half a leg blown off. It makes me grin like a fucking clown when I see a heatwave in Guatemala Bay melting townsfolk. I am vicarious, and I fucking love it.

I want to see tragedy of the largest scale, cus it fucking thrills me. It gets me off more than a good porno. It wakes me up more than a huge pot of jack. It excites me more than the best blowjob in the world.

I want to see people die. I want to see them in pain, screaming until their lungs collapse and burst. I want to see them claw their fucking eyes out. I want to see them hug and cry and hug and cry while the whole world burns around them.

It makes me smile to know that there is someone out there who is getting his brain chewed up by parasites. It makes me smile to know that there are kids out there born without hands and legs, without eyes or ears. It makes me fucking smile to see tragedy.

I don't give a shit about the endangered birds of prey. I don't give a shit about our rapidly depleting resources. I don't give a shit about our melting icecaps, our dying forests, our drying rivers.

I say let it all die. Let it all go down. Let it all fucking burn. Let go, and watch it all collapse. Let the people die. Let the forests burn. Let the oceans choke up with shit and let the skies saturate with grim and dirt.

If we can't save it by fighting for it, then maybe we can do more by fighting against it.

* * *

Not the brightest of posts to mark this festive season, but I was just representing a conversation I had with a friend of mine recently. He claimed that he sat through Saw I-VI in a single sitting, even laughing at the gore and horror. I couldn't even sit through Saw III without getting nauseous every other scene. He claimed that he had seen worse stuff online. He went on to tell me about how he was watching videos of American soldiers getting their heads sawed off.

And you managed to sit through the whole video?

Yea, it's quite funny. The head took fucking long to fall off.

Such desensitization makes me fear for the future of man.

The Thing Is.

2010-02-05T04:29:00.000-08:00

The thing is, words have this strange, alluring power; it can convince one to say a thing, but really mean another.

The thing is, we were all born with love and lust and greed; the truth is, it's always the demons we choose to feed.

The thing is, I'd seek forgiveness for all my life's offenses; the truth is, I've already used up all my second chances.

The thing is, I say I'd turn back time and start all over if I could; the truth is, I don't think I really, really would.

Breaking Point.

2010-02-03T08:46:00.001-08:00

You know why I fucking hate myself sometimes?

Cus I always, always end up disappointing the ones who mean the most to me.

I thought I could deal with it, but I can't. I'm sorry. I really am. This is going to sound like a huge over-dramatic whiny bitch-post, but it's the real deal. Everything's a huge mess right now, and I haven't the faintest clue why.

Sometimes I wonder if it's just me, or if everything around me really is one huge pool of fucking shit. I wonder if I had happened to step into this mess, or if I'm the one stirring shit up in the first place. I don't know if everything that's happening is a result of my doing, or lack thereof. I don't know what the fuck is going on. All I know is that it's hurting real fucking bad.

You know why I need you now? You know why I'm fucking killing myself over all this bullshit? Cus you're the only one who can set things straight. You're the only one who's ever made me feel that I needed to right the wrongs in my life. You're the only one who's ever convinced me that there's something we can do about every fucking piece of shit that hits the fan.

I need you. I need you to save my fucking soul. I need you to step into my big screw-up of a life and put some hope in it. I need you here by my side to tell me that there is a light at the end of the fucking tunnel. I need you here by my side to convince me that the sun will eventually rise at the end of the night that seems to go on forever.

I know what you're thinking. This dude's one seriously whiny drama-queen. Well, think what you will, but it's the real fucking deal right now. This is hurting real fucking bad. You have no idea how badly I need you right now. No fucking clue.

The Paradox of Faith.

2010-01-29T23:05:00.000-08:00

The paradox of faith to the logical man is that you first have to believe in order to see/hear/feel.

I used to feel that faith was completely illogical, for one had to put a baseless trust in the words of another, a blind confidence that somehow, whatever the person was saying was the truth, and that that truth was to be followed wholeheartedly.

I used to have the impression that faith was for the weak, that surrendering all your problems and worries to a man in the sky was an act of cowardice, for by doing so we have placed our personal burdens on someone else's shoulders.

It was a concept that had perplexed me for the longest time, how we can allow ourselves to completely surrender our lives to an uncontrolled force, to allow that one power to make our decisions for us, to solve our problems for us, to lead our lives for us.

In my own way, I had the impression that faith and free will were mutually exclusive.

I've lately had an epiphany of sorts regarding this issue. I'm beginning to realise that everything that happens in our lives can be split into two groups, the controllables and the uncontrollables.

Many things that happen in our lives can be controlled; what we eat, what we wear, what we decide to do with our free time. At the same time, there are a great number of things we cannot control; the weather, how another person interprets what we say, how a given situation will unfold with our given action.

I'm beginning to understand that when people talk about faith, what they are really talking about is control over the uncontrollables. In a way, we are surrendering the uncontrollables in our lives to a greater power, one that we believe can change things. I've come to understand that it is not cowardice to surrender our burdens to a higher being, contrary to what I've been believing. It is not an act of weakness to pose our lives problems to a greater power who, perhaps, has a thing or two to say.

It is not about the removal of free will or the enforcing of authoritarianism, for we cannot change that which we cannot control anyway. No matter how much free will we have, we can't force a cloudy sky to clear up, or a person we have just disappointed to forgive us immediately.

There's only so much we can control.

I've been enlightened with the understanding that people who have faith have a belief in the fact that the uncontrollables in their lives can be controlled, not by them, but by a greater power, one that is in complete and utter control over the uncontrollables. (Where that great power comes from and what gives him that kind of power is another story for another day.)

The paradox of faith has been busted.

The Great Gig in the Sky.

2010-01-24T22:25:00.000-08:00

First off, a great big thank you to everyone who made Supermassive 2.0 possible, from the organisers, to the crew members, to the bands, and of course to the wonderful audience. This would not have been possible without your help.

Supermassive 2.0 was, in a nutshell, an explosion of epic proportions. My best gig experience to date. Everthing went as planned, the equipment, the set, the delivery, everything.

I'm also really proud of my band, Parts To A Circle. We've really raised the bar and set a new benchmark for ourselves this time (at least in my eyes/ears). The future looks bright, and I'm hoping we'll continue the momentum and get better every year.

Only we can stop ourselves!

Comatose Me: Six.

2010-01-20T03:43:00.000-08:00

The boss steps into the office, and I want to break his fucking face.

My input shelf is re-stocked, my output shelf emptied.

His stupid white top disgusts me. His little skinny black tie nauseates me. His black pants make me wanna slit my fucking wrists.

The boss walks away, my week's worth of hard work folded in his hands, and he says, back towards me, I need those by Wednesday.

A voice in my head screams, break him. Are you going to let him walk away like that? Break him. Do something. Do anything. Jab him in the face. Knee him in the gut. Tear his hair off. Pluck his eyes out. Just break him.

You don't deserve this shit. Sure, you've got a mountain of debts to clear and this job pays you just about enough, but still, you don't need to sell your fucking soul to this bastard. You think he gives a shit about you? All he does all day is yell in your face and throw all your reports back at you. All he ever does is tell you that what you've done isn't good enough, that what you've contributed isn't helping enough.

I flip on my headphones and turn the music up as far as it can go. I can't hear a fucking thing except for the voices in my head screaming, break him break him break him. My ears hurt from all the noise. They fucking throb and ache. My head is splitting right down the middle, and all I can hear are the fucking voices. Break him break him break him.

I push my hands into my face, and I will the voices in my head to stop.

They don't.

If I didn't have this fucking debt, I wouldn't be eating this shit.

The voices are screaming. They are fucking screaming.

I get back to my work.

I can't.

The voices in my head.

God, the voices in my head.

Break him.

Shut up.

Break him.

Shut up.

Break him.

Shut the fuck up.

Oh God.

I get up, and I walk towards the bathroom. The corridor walls are closing in on me, then expanding. Closing, expanding, closing, expanding. The tiles on the floor are spinning like a fucking top. What's left of my vision is a blur of white on black on grey. My head fucking hurts.

I make it to the toilet, and I sit down. Where, I don't know, but it doesn't matter. I just know that I need to sit down. My head is burning like a fucking furnace, and I'm sweating fucking bullets.

I take out a cigarette and I inhale. And another. And another. And another. It helps, slightly. My head still hurts, but if I know that if I keep going, it will go away. Eventually.

I keep inhaling, and the voices keep shouting.

I inhale some more, and they calm down.

I inhale again. Again. Again.

I run out of cigarettes from both packs, and I lie down. The pain has diminished into a light pulse; faint, subtle.

I'll be okay.

The voices are whispering now, and I know I'll be okay.

I don't know for how long, but for now, everything's okay. I know that the voices will come back. I know that the pain will come back. I know that everything that has eaten me will come back for more. I am afraid of the pain. I am terrified of the voices. I am fucking shitting myself. I want them to go away, far far away, as far as they can be.

I dare not think of the pain. I dare not think of the voices. They scare me.

I close my eyes.

I fade.

Rewind.

I'm kneeling in a filthy alley corner, fingers pressed up hard against my nostrils. The dirty yellow line on my finger smells glorious.

There is no one around me, and all that allows me to see in the dark is a little lamp off the street. No cars go by. Not a single soul walks past.

I am in my Garden of Eden.

I press my fingers into my face, and I inhale as hard as I can. My body is lifted off the ground, and for a split second, I am god. Fucking god. My brain is jumping with a million volts of electricty, and every cell in my body is fucking exploding with the power of a thousand nuclear cells. I am overwhelmed by the power of a trillion orgasms concentrated into a single moment, the chill of a zillion tonnes of snow and the burn of a zillion lighted torches all at once.

I feel a thick liquid going down my throat. I look at my fingers, and they are stained with blood pouring out my nose. I reach out for more of the dirty yellow powder that has fallen onto to the ground. I press it against my nose, and I inhale. My lungs fill with a warm liquid, but it doesn't matter. I don't stop. I inhale. I inhale. I inhale.

I open my eyes.

I am back in the toilet.

The blood on my hands are gone. The alley is gone. The puddles of mud and rain are gone. The street lights are gone. All the powder is gone.

The voices are gone. The pain is gone. Everything is gone.

I stand up, and I look myself in the mirror. I see a thin, sunken man, hair combed back, pressed hard into the scalp. I see a broken man, a pained soul that has been crushed and destroyed.

I exit the toilet, and I make my way back to my office. I can hear my pulse in my head, and my shirt is drenched with sweat, but I'll be okay.

As long as the pain and the voices are gone, I'll be okay.

I return to my desk, and I pop a cocktail of Aspirins and Valium.

I am okay.

The pain has resided, and I am okay.

I try to get back to work.

I see the boss walking towards me.

The boss is standing in front of me. He's talking.

I can't hear him.

My mind slows, and my eyes only pick up outlines of what's in front of me.

The boss is still talking, but I can't hear him. All I hear is a deep calm that has culminated into a warm drone.

The boss takes a step towards me. He is right in from of my desk. He is talking.

My eyelids feel heavy, and my muscles go limp. I can feel my blood sludging through my veins, and I can feel my heart slowing down.

His talking makes way for yelling, and he's throwing sheets of paper in my face. My sheets of paper.

My heart is beating slowly, faintly, subtly.

The boss is yelling, swinging punches in the air. I can't hear him, and I can't feel a thing.

I can't feel a thing, and I love it.

The boss gives up. He's walking away, and he's talking to himself.

I don't care.

He's running his fingers through his hair, and he's loosening his tie.

I don't care.

Everyone in the office is staring.

I don't care.

Everyone in the office is talking amongst themselves, fingers all pointed towards me like fucking rifles.

I don't care.

My table's in a mess with sheets of paper all over the floor.

I don't care.

For now, the voices in my head are gone, and I don't feel any pain, so I don't care. Nothing can touch me. Nothing can make me sad. Nothing can make me angry. Nothing can do anything to me.

I don't care.

I like not caring. I like not feeling.

My eyelids force themselves down, hard. My body feels like it's being crushed by an immense weight. The lights are spinning and blurring and spinning and blurring. My head slams into the desk, face-first.

I am asleep.

Comatose Me: Five.

2010-01-08T06:36:00.001-08:00

What we seem to forget about human nature, in spite of the number of times it's shoved in our faces, is that we are all fallible. Wait. I take that back. We are not fallible; we are all fucked-up beyond repair. Striving hard against all odds, working our way towards our goals, slogging our guts out for our dreams; they are all just shit we do to pass time until we eventually collapse and eat the dirt anyway.

The truth is, nothing is going to save us. Ever.

You can disagree with me and lie to yourself that within us, deep inside, lies a man whose heart is made of gold, whose heart is bigger than all the most compassionate hearts in the world put together, whose heart is as pure as the purest of diamonds we have ever laid our eyes on, but you will be wrong. So, so wrong.

The truth is, it is not that we are imperfect; it is that we cannot be perfect, and that we would choose not to be even if it were remotely possible.

Trust me, and I will make use of you. Teach me, and I will use it against you. Befriend me, and I will turn my back against you.

You could give me a testimony of human sacrifice and unlimited compassion, and I'll still tell you that we're all fucked up. You could give me a crazy tale of how a man risks his life for a stranger, of how a mother puts herself in front of a car for her baby, and I'll still tell you the same old shit, over and over and over.

We're all fucked up beyond repair.

Take away the cameras, the stupid reporters, the annoying journalists, and what you have is a pathetic attempt to lay claim to nobility and self-esteem.

Perhaps it's just our way of getting back at God. Perhaps, it's our little way of saying, hey God, you stupid man in the sky, can't you do something about everything fucked up you've created? Look at what you've done. Look at it. Fucking look at it. For every kind thought, there are a million fucking demons screaming back. For every kind word, there are paragraphs upon paragraphs of poison. For every kind person, there are - wait. There aren't.

Believe me, and I will lie to you. Follow me, and I will lead you astray. Love me, and I will fucking break you.

Whatever we think we're doing right, we really aren't. In comparison to every demon in our head, our angels are about as minute as drops of clear water in a ocean full of salt and dirt. Whatever good we may think we're doing, we're really just looking for an excuse to become someone we're not. Even if that isn't so, it's still a grain of sand in a mountain of fucking shit.

Go on. Trust me. Follow me. Love me.

I dare you.

Straight-jacket.

2010-01-02T02:43:00.000-08:00

I realised as I'm typing this that 2009's new year resolutions haven't been completely fulfilled; nevertheless, I'm gonna make another attempt this year, and hope for the absolute best.

In some ways, 2009 was one hell of a long year, and in other ways, almost gone in a blink of an eye. Even so, one thing's for certain: good riddance, 2009. Hello, 2010. May you be nothing like your little friend.

2009 was full of, if I may put it this way, adventures, albeit some not-so-amazing ones. Well, for one, there's army, which completely took my life as I knew it and threw it inside a washing machine. Just 8 months ago I had a full head of hair that I was extremely proud of. Just 8 months ago, I was living the life, doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I was playing my guitar like there was no tomorrow, and I was writing like my fingers would fall off if they stopped.

Today, I'm bald, I stay in a slave camp 5 and a half days a week, and I devote a tenth of what I used to commit to my guitar, and even less on writing. My brain's rotting away in my skull, and my moments of inspiration are scarcer than hookers in a church.

Crappy year? If you look at it this way, definitely, without a hint of doubt.

Nevertheless, even with all the shit that's piled up, there's still a little glimmer of sunshine in this trainwreck of a year.

I've learnt a whole lot since my enlistment, and when I mean a whole lot, I mean a whole life-changing lot. I would like to believe I've grown exponentially in the past year. I see myself as an adult now (yea all that boys to men nonsense), and I'm starting to understand what it means to have responsibilities thrown at you. I've also learnt many lessons regarding self-discipline, and what it means to be tenacious. It gives me great pleasure to conclude this paragraph in saying that I'm finally beginning to have a clear grasp on what's important in life.

Anyhow.

Adventures start and end, stories begin and conclude, friendships live and die.

Above all, 2009 has taught me that there is no greater pain in the world than the pain of regret, and life's too short to stay on the safe side just cus you're afraid of what's behind the fence.

My new year's resolution is to take chances in life. Fuck statistics. Fuck calculated risks. This year, I'm jumping straight in, blindfolded with my arms strapped behind my back.

Time for Miracles.

2009-12-25T04:14:00.001-08:00

It's that time of the year again, and we in sunny Singapore are graced by floods of rain most days, instead of fluffy snowflakes falling slowing off the sky. Nevertheless, the air still smells like Christmas, and for the first time in a long time, I am calm and at ease. Perhaps it's because December is symbolic to the end of the year, or perhaps it's because, for one day every year, people actually give a shit about each other and smile all day long, even if it's in pretense.

It's been a particularly long year, in more ways than one. I've learnt great deal in the last twelve months, and I've have grown immensely. Mistakes have been made and fingers have been burnt, but lessons have also been learnt, and new ground has been discovered. In short, there's nothing I'd want to turn back time to fix.

I bought myself a Christmas gift with this month's paycheck, and it's awesomite, I'm telling you. To those who are familiar with the sexual slang, get your mind out of the gutter, for I bought myself a Big Muff. It's a nice little (this is a ridiculously inaccurate adjective, for it's HUGE) fuzz pedal by Ehx, and it sounds glorious.

I just returned home from a family gathering, and it was nice seeing all those familiar faces after such a long time. Lame remarks like "ah boy, you're so tall now" and stupid questions like "ah boy, still no girlfriend ah?" aside, it was an enjoyable few hours. Left early though, cus the crowd was getting to my head, and I was feeling tired anyways.

So, here's wishing anyone who happens to be reading this a very Merry Christmas.

P.S. To be brutally honest, this update is just to waste some time while waiting for the 9pm Channel 8 drama to start. If you aren't already following it, it's time to release the uncle/auntie in you and get sucked into this sappy, predictable, but oh-so-enjoyable series.

Comatose Me: Four.

2009-12-19T03:55:00.000-08:00

I wake up, and everything's okay. The world around me isn't collapsing into a pile of dust and rubble; my skin isn't tearing up and burning off; my eyes aren't falling out and melting down.

I touch my arms and my legs, my face, my lips. Everything's okay. Everything's still there. I'm not a pool of blood and skin and bone, and there are no castles around me.

For now, everything's okay, if okay can be the right word to use at this point at all.

The bedsheets feel warm and comfortable under me. My pillow is soft and fluffy. Sunlight streams through a small gap in my window blinds. The filtered air is cool and it smells wonderful.

By the bedside table, Tiger is swimming in his little bowl, round and round and round. I look him in the eye, and him, right back at me, never blinking, never stopping. Swimming round and round and round in his little bowl.

There is a certain heaviness inside that I cannot find the words to describe. I am neither sad nor happy; neither anxious nor at ease. I am neither afraid nor zealous; neither lonely nor in company. It may be because of the dream, or it may be something else.

An alarm clock rings to tell me that it's 6 in the morning, and I'm about to get ready for work.

I drop a little food tablet into Tiger's bowl, and I wonder if he's really the one trapped behind the glass, going round and round and round his whole life.

I take a shower. I comb my hair. I put on my socks, my shoes, my tie. I shuffle whatever papers I've got on my workdesk into my briefcase, and I click it shut.

I glance at Tiger. He's slowly chewing his little food tablet, that tiny vomit-coloured cocktail of clam, shrimp and bloodworm, fortified with a thousand and a half types of vitamins and minerals he probably doesn't need.

I look at Tiger straight into his beady, little eyes, and I wonder if he's happy facing the same four walls in the same stupid old room day in and day out. I wonder if he ever gets bored eating the same vomit-coloured tablet at the same intervals all day, thinking the same thoughts over and over and over.

I look at myself in the mirror by the toilet door, and I tuck a few loose strands of my hair behind my ears.

I wonder if Tiger ever dreams of getting out of his bowl one day and into the great unknown that is our world. I wonder if he dreams of vast, limitless oceans and unbounded seas saturated with all the prey in the world, whatever they are.

I wonder if Tiger ever dreams of liberty, or even understands the concept of it. I wonder if, deep down inside, Tiger's dying to break free from his little bowl, free from that small glass prison he's been swimming round and round and round around most of his life. I wonder if Tiger falls asleep every night waiting for the day to come when he can finally swim wherever he wants, eat whatever comes to his mind, and at whatever time he deems fit.

I press my nose up against his bowl.

It is cold and unfeeling.

Don't worry, Tiger. There are worse things than a life-time of captivity.

I leave the house, and I walk down the streets.

Life has barely started at this time of the day. The sun's barely peaking out of the clouds, and the streets are barely lit enough to walk through. The sounds of the city have barely begun, and I'm barely even alive.

Closed shutters and unlit signs greet me as I walk past row upon row of shop-houses.

I reach the coffee-house.

I order the same thing I've ordered every morning since I've been here; black coffee, warm bread and a couple of fried eggs.

If change is the only constant in life, I don't know what the hell this is.

I sit at the same table I've sat at every morning since I've been here; window table by the counter, leather seat.

They say that a man who makes a routine out of his life is a man who is doomed to, I forgot what.

I eat my breakfast the same way it's been eaten every morning since I've been here; the eggs first, then the bread chased down with the coffee.

I wipe my mouth with a napkin.

I make my way out of the coffee shop, and I continue walking.

I walk and I walk and I walk and I find myself behind my office table, fingers pumping furiously on the keyboard, eyes alternating between the poorly angled computer screen and the hand-written report on my input document shelf.

I try to recall the last time I changed Tiger's water.

I go back to the coffee-shop for lunch, and I order a turkey breast on whole wheat with a side order of salted chips. Same old, same old.

I wonder if Tiger needs a few more multi-vitamins.

My day goes by, in and out, high and low, fast and slow.

I wonder if my rental for this month is due.

I turn off the lights and fans, wish an empty office a warm goodbye, and I walk and I walk and I walk.

I wonder if they're gonna cut my running water and cabled electricity.

I am at home.

I wonder if anything at all will change.

I am asleep.

Comatose Me: Three.

2009-12-18T05:42:00.000-08:00

I am neither awake nor asleep.

I open my eyes, and before me, I see rivers of of clear alcohol flowing between towering castles that have yet to be complete. I see moss and grime collecting on raw cement walls. I see dusty gates rusted to their core, dirt paths carved out of stones and broken glass. I see the carcasses of life that have become even more than that.

It looks utterly beautiful.

All I breathe is the thickest, filthiest smoke of a thousand cigarettes and the bluest, most poisonous fumes of a million industrial chimneys. All I hear is the pumping of machines all around me, the buzzing of endless chainsaws and the drill of jackhammers that never stop.

This is my Garden of Eden and here, I am complete.

A sphere blisters in the grey skies, casting a halo on the land before me. The halo narrows and narrows and narrows until it falls upon a single figure, standing tall against the glorious castles that have been built by blood and pain and suffering.

I approach the figure, and my eyes met her's.

She is achingly beautiful.

Her eyes glistened of the new dawn after the blackest, darkest night, of the single star in the great night sky that shines on down forever and ever and ever.

Oh God, she is achingly beautiful.

I call out to her, and I am humbled by the realisation that where I am, there is no need for words. I look at her, and she, at me.

She smiles, and the castles around me collapse. The banks of the rivers crumble, and the lights in the sky dim into a blur of grey and black.

The melodies of the machines have ceased, and in their place now drones a kaleidoscope of metal tearing against metal, of great walls breaking and collapsing in the most beautiful symphony I have ever heard.

I fade.

I open my eyes once more, and everything is gone. The rivers, the castles, the sphere in the sky. In their place is a vast blank, white as the purest white, silent as the deepest night.

In her place stood Jesus of Nazareth, draped in the same white that surrounds me, eyes calm as the stillest winter morning. He hands me a goblet of wine, and says, drink this, for it shall cleanse every serpent in your veins, every darkness in your body, every demon in your heart. He hands me a piece of bread and says, eat this, for it shall renew your every dying cell, refresh your poisoned mind, recreate your every lost moment in time.

O Jesus of Nazareth, you tempt me so!

I fade.

I open my eyes, and I am alone. I am back in my Garden of Eden, and the rivers and castles and paths are all still here. The sphere still blisters in the sky, and the machines still pump on forever and ever and ever.

She is no longer there.

I speak.

Oh Jesus of Nazareth, why have you forsaken me so?

White electric flows through every cell of my body, and a great white light tears itself open from the core of my bones.

The castles are absorbed into the ground, and the pumping of machines multiply a thousandfold.

Oh Jesus of Nazareth, why have you left me naked against the demons of the world?

My head throbs of a thousand ebbs from the strongest, most lethal earthquakes, and my body burns of the the brightest, most saturated fires of Sulphur from the deepest lakes of Hell.

The machines drone on louder and louder and louder till all I hear is a shrill hum that slices my ears open.

Oh Jesus of Nazareth, why have you left me alone in your Garden of Eden, the Lazarus you've built out of sand and mud?

My skin peels and breaks open, and my bones shatter and burst into a brilliant explosion of grey dust and sharp splinters.

My eyes are torn from my face, and my lips are slit into a million gashes of open sores.

Oh Jesus of Nazareth, why have you forsaken me so?

What is left of my body is smashed into the ground, pooling in a mess of blood and skin and bone.

I am reborn.

* * *

John Frusciante just left the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Wow. Just when I thought I could enjoy at least a couple more albums from them before they burn out, comes this. Oh well, his solo stuff has been rather awesome anyways, hope the break-up is a good thing.

* * *

Christmas is round the corner, and to be honest, this year isn't ending very well. Nevertheless, dawn still comes after the darkest night, and I'm hoping that my dawn is approaching.

Comatose Me: Two.

2009-11-26T08:25:00.000-08:00

In the beginning, there was a boy. There was a mother. There was no father.

Home was an apartment in a high-rise building with a couple of rooms and a toilet too small for a tub. Home cost 400 bucks a month and had piped water and clean electricity that ran well all year round, and that was enough.

The boy spent his days reading books stolen from the local library by the mother. How the mother did that was, she removed barcode labels off library books and flushed them down the toilet. She then walks out with the books in a backpack, pokerface unfeeling and unmoving. No one ever noticed. The mother knew that cus she used to work in a school library stacking books all day long, and she knew that the transfer of books from library to library meant that tracing any book was difficult and troublesome, let alone library labels flushed down the toilet forever.

It wasn’t the most honest method in the world, but it educated the boy, and gave him a clear head with a strong voice.

The mother used to tell the boy that he was a beautiful baby, and that he was everything a young mother could hope for. He was the bright and ambitious boy that every mother dreamt of having. The thoughtful, caring little boy that every other parent was envious of. The young, sensible, grounded boy who had his head screwed on tight between his shoulders. He was the object of his mother's existence, the calm little center of the storm that was her life.

On the first day, God created the heavens and the earth.

The mother earned a living selling used clothing. How she did that was, she visited laundry services around the country, stealing clothes that were left unattended by chatty housewives or businessmen distracted by their cell-phones, before selling them at the used clothes store. Round necks paid a buck each, while polos and shirts earned her upwards of 10 bucks. Denim jeans meant at least 20, and white cargo meant a minimum of 30, depending on it’s condition.

It wasn’t the most honest living in the world, but it paid for the apartment, and it put food on the table for the mother and the boy.

It’s not the crime, but it’s intention.

The Lord commanded the man, saying, of every tree of the garden thou may freely eat.

The mother used to tell the boy that she was the luckiest woman in the world to have had him, a beautiful and wonderful boy, a gift from God and an angel sent from the heavens above. Every night, the mother was on her knees, hands clasped in prayers of thanks and praise to God for blessing her with such a wonderful baby. Every night, the mother kissed the boy on the forehead, telling him that she loved him so, and that nothing will ever change that, ever.

Let there be light.

As the years went by, the mother kept to her ways, and the boy grew up. The boy was a handsome young boy, sensible and thoughtful, the beautiful angel that every mother dreamt of having.

The boy never went to school, but he eventually got a job at the local diner just down the road. He earned enough to get the mother to stop her law-bending ways. The boy was an honest, filial boy. He gave his first pay slip to the mother, and she wept and wept and wept. The mother went on her knees, and kissed the floor, saying, thank you Jesus. Thank you for this wonderful baby. This wonderful and perfect baby.

The boy was beautiful, and he was everything a mother could dream of.

Thus, the heavens and the earth were finished.

As the boy grew up, he earned enough money to go to school. He worked hard, and went to college. He slaved harder, and graduated with a degree in international relations. He became a journalist for the local papers. The mother wept as she saw him leave the house for his first day at work, dressed to the nines in a smart suit armed with a leather briefcase. She knelt and gave thanks to God, for she was the luckiest woman in the world.

The boy became editor, then senior editor. The boy was only 21. Every night, the mother knelt and gave thanks to God, for He had granted the boy great wisdom and limitless talent. The mother kissed the boy to sleep every night, and whispered in his ear, I love you. I love you so, so much.

The boy went along his ways, and in less than a decade, earned enough money to travel the world along with the mother. Together, the mother and the boy visited Paris, Egypt, New York. Japan, London, the USA.

And the Lord said, of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt no eat of it; for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.

The boy saw the world and everything in it, and was blown away. He saw the natural beauty of the mountains and the rivers, and was in awe. He saw the beauty of it’s men and women of all cultures and nationalities, and was dumbfounded. He saw the power of science and technology, and was amazed. The boy opened his eyes, and he saw things that he never knew existed; things that he never knew could possibly exist. The little boy smelt the fragrance of the world, and became addicted. He felt the touch of the skies, of the cool, free air, and became consumed. Consumed by the world and everything in it.

Somewhere along the way, the little boy grew up, and was led by the nose into the world. The boy spent his nights out in the city, consumed by the lights that never sleep. The boy left the mother every night, for he was addicted to the world. He was addicted to it’s lure of lust and sexual carnage, of psychedelic lights and heart-thumping, adrenalin-pumping sounds.

The mother tried, she really did, but there was little she could do to prevent the little boy from taking a step out of his home, and into the bold, free world. The mother knelt every night in prayer, and wept. She prayed for God to bring the boy back to her, back into her arms, back into her embrace. She prayed every night for God to open his eyes and bring him back to his senses, back to where he belonged, in her arms. The mother wept and wept and wept.

The Lord said, who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat?

Fast-forward a couple of decades, and there the boy was, infected. Infected by the air of the bold, free world. The boy became host to a Pandora's box of demons, a little jack-can of reptiles that crept and clawed at his every thought, that bit and chewed on his every waking second. The boy was victim to a plague of ghouls and spirits, a flood of carnal waters that soaked him through and through. The boy was addicted to the lure of lust and sex and violence, addicted to the compulsion to consume and devour and inhale and use and need.

There the boy was, standing alone against the world, standing alone against his demons, standing alone against every voice in his head screaming at the top of it’s lungs, consume me, devour me, use me, inhale me, need me.

There the boy was, standing naked against the world, naked against it's lights and sounds, naked against it's fragrances and reverberations, naked against it's screams and whispers. The boy stood still as the world spun around him, round and round and round, spinning into a kaleidoscope of a thousand colours and sounds, all blending into a perfectly harmonious orgy of the senses.

The mother no longer wept, for she didn’t have the tears to any more.

Consume me devour me use me inhale me need me.

The mother no longer prayed, for she didn’t have the faith to any more.

Consume me devour me use me inhale me need me.

The mother no longer kissed the boy to sleep, for she didn't have the love to any more.

Consume me devour me use me inhale me need me.

The mother no longer ate or slept, for she didn’t have the will to any more.

Consume me devour me use me inhale me need me.

On the sixth day, God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good.

* * *

I'm passing out next Friday. You can now call me Sergeant Marcus. A-A-Awesome.

Comatose Me: One.

2009-11-21T01:24:00.000-08:00

First and foremost, what you are about to read is not a hopeful memoir of a survivor, nor is it an autobiographical piece with a remotely happy ending.

This will not enrich you, nor make anything in your life any better. It will not cheer you up, and it will most certainly not bring a smile to your face. If you are snooping around in here hoping to find a tale of courage, of fighting spirit, of the human will to survive, you will be disappointed.

What you are about to read has no happy ending, because the truth is nobody wants a happy ending. The same way we would rather hear a newsfeed about a serial killer than about the current social-political situation in Indonesia, the same way we would rather read an interview of a victim of child abuse and incestual rape than read the testimony of a pious Buddhist attaining nirvana, we are all vicarious.

It’s funny how all our favourite bedtime stories from our childhood end with the happily-ever-after cliché, when they are almost always far from so. Tell me that Hansel and Gretel is not a dark tale about cannibalism and violent revenge. Tell me that Rumpelstiltskin is not a cold metaphor about the devil’s wager and sadomasochism. Tell me that Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs is not a satirical stab in the back of religion. Tell me that Rapunzel is not a bleak representation of, once again, the devil’s wager and revengeful bloodlust.

The truth is we are all vicarious. Mere animals craving blood and violence. We don’t want to hear about how you scored a pair of tickets to a soccer game. We don’t want to hear about how well your daughter is doing at school. We don’t want to hear about how your investment in Marvel paid off triple.

We want to hear your sobs about your cousin who’s dying of leukemia with six weeks left to live. We want to hear about your paralysed uncle who’s got nothing left in this world but you, and about how you’re too far under in your pile of bills and debts to do anything about it. We want to hear about gang rape and mass murders. We want to hear about mountain-splitting earthquakes and land-clearing mudslides, about super-massive floods and city-devastating typhoons. We want more violence, more pain, more suffering.

The truth is we don’t want to hear about happy endings. We want to hear about pain and violence and blood and gore.

Someone once told me that in our times of hardship, of pain, of suffering, of hopelessness and of sheer, complete, utter despair, we can look to God for strength. We can pray, and he will empower us with the will to push on. We can meditate on the bible, and it will give us the knowledge to make the right choices so that everything will fall in it’s place. We can surrender ourselves to the spirit of God, and we will be guided onto the right path, the path that he has chosen for us.

Well, whoever told me that was a liar.

All I’ve learnt in my life thus far, however long (or short) it has been, was that if you put your future into the hands of God, you would be disappointed. Very, very disappointed.

What I’ve learnt in my life thus far is that God left our country a long time ago. He left, bags and all, when he saw the sad state we had allowed ourselves to backslide into. He left, without a trace, when he saw that his beloved creations had turned out to become like us. Filthy, corrupt, indifferent animals. Obnoxious, self-centric, power-hungry animals.

We were all made in the image of God.

What you are reading is not a Live Strong-wannabe self-help chunk of encouraging words. This is not a compilation of notes on how to better your life, nor is it a list of healthy coping mechanisms for your disease. What you are reading is not written by a survivor of a potentially life-threatening virus, nor is it written by a recovering addict who has yet to relapse from his compulsive behaviour. This is not written by the gentle voice in your head telling you to stay in the fight, to hold on to the end of your rope, to not give up no matter how hard you fall flat on your face. I am not your mentor, I am not your counselor, and I sure has hell am not the guardian angel in your life reminding you that there is that much more to live for in this world, because the truth is, there isn’t.

In God we trust.

I hate to break it to you, this way especially, but I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. What you’ve got here is a blatant, unadulterated statement of fact, an acknowledgement of the truth, the truth that we are all knee-deep in this shit-hole together, and that we are all going to stay here for a long, long time. What you’ve got here is a little reminder that we are all swimming in the same pool of filth and gore, running around in the same maze of mice and cheese, circling the same bare tree, frozen solid by winter chill and dry, acrid air. We have to be reminded, it seems, that we are all maggots crawling around in the same infected sores, all vultures killing one another over the same slab of dead flesh, all leeches biting off the same god-damned leg. This is who we are, and I am not here to hide it.

Love thy neighbour as thyself.

You could call this a confession, a testimony, or even a desperate plea for attention, and it wouldn't matter. You could try and sugar-coat this and call it a bold, courageous, heart-bearing, soul-stripping reflection of myself, and it wouldn’t matter. The truth is nothing in here will ever matter. Nothing you do will ever, ever matter. In juxtaposition to the entirety of the universe, our lives are but merely flashes of time, coming and going in a split second. What we do in our lifetimes will not matter. The truth is, God in his entirety and omnipotence does not give a shit about us.

I’m sorry.

Pardon me for digressing so, but I'd like to also mention that this is not a chronological compilation of personal events, nor is a neat, orderly diary that contains my most personal secrets and innermost thoughts. This is the result of me penning whatever comes to mind as I go about my days. This is me writing whatever the fuck I want, in whatever order I want. This is me being me, and if this offends you, then I’d recommend that you stop right now. You don’t need to read this. You really don’t.

This is going to offend you.

I repeat. This is going to offend you.

What you are about to read is going to remind you that the world you live in is not rainbows and butterflies. It is going to darken your every Sunday morning. It is going to make you live your every waking moment knowing that we are all goners. It is going to be me telling you in your face that we are all fucked. We are all host to parasites. We are all condoms stuffed and stretched to their breaking points with demons, infected with the most poisonous, most vicious reptiles we ever laid our eyes on.

Our bodies are the temples of God.

This is not my diary. This is not my confession. This sure as hell is not my plea for pity. I would rather you call this my eulogy. My little compilation of funeral talk. This is who I want to be remembered as, who I want to go down in history as, and if this bothers you, you should stop right now, while you still can.

No, really. Go do something that makes a difference. Go do something that you can be proud of. Or even better, go so something that will make your parents look back and know that they had made the right choice by having you.

I repeat. You do not need to hear this.

Consider this your final warning.

* * *

Just a little experimentation on a multiple-part story that will take a while to complete, considering the fact that my slavery to one of the most authoritarian organizations in the world won't allow for regular updates nor remotely inspired moments.

The Longest Stride.

2009-11-18T10:25:00.001-08:00

And just when I thought that it was impossible, I just discovered teh interweb in Taiwan. Awesomite. Am at the hotel lobby now, trying my best to evesdrop on a couple of Taiwanese folks babbling on in the most complex form of hokkien I've ever heard in my life.

Anyhow, I digress.

It's been what, 3 weeks since I last saw home? Not a cool feeling. Closest I've ever been was during the last trip to Cambridge back in 2007, and that was exponentially more bearable, since I actually spent the time with my friends having fun and learning stuff that actually means something in my life, as opposed to the past 3 weeks of pure mental torture in the god-damned mountains in the countryside of Melliniloobi (obviously changed to protect the integrity of this open secret that is supposed to be my training ground).

If I have had any say at all, I would not have chosen to go in the first place, but now that it's all said and done, I've actually had a rather memorable experience, albeit one that I'd not necessarily like to revisit. It was tough, no doubt, but I'd say that it has made me a stronger person, in every sense of the word.

Sure, scaling the mountains during training killed my knees and pumped fire into my lungs; sure, the cold winter season combined with the high altitude left me shivering all night, every night, praying that somehow something will provide a fraction of warmth; sure, the long stretches outfield without a change of clothes and a word from a loved one left me with the heaviest feeling I have ever felt in my heart; I have learnt from it all, if that's even remotely imaginable.

I've learnt that what doesn't kill you does indeed make you stronger, and that sometimes, all it takes is a thought of a loved one to push you over that slope, to help you make it through the night.

I've also learnt to look on the bright side of things (yes, for real).

If I could take home one story to tell the world, it would be this one magical moment I had the privelledge to experience. Our platoon were on a defense mission, and that meant climbing one of the highest hills in the region (one that makes Bukit Timah Hill look like a speed bump) in our full combat loads to harbour for the night.

I recall very distinctly bitching to myself every step of the way, asking myself with every difficult step up the slopes, how I don't deserve this shit, and how I feel like reporting sick and calling it quits.

We took about an hour to reach the top, and when we did, I was humbled by an extraordinary view of what looked like mountains upon mountains that streched way beyond what I could see, flanked by distant city lights and tall pylons that glowed in the brightest white I have ever laid my eyes on.

In that one single moment, every burning muscle and sprained joint in my body was comforted by a view that will stay in my head for a long, long time, if not indefinitely. For that one single moment, I stood in awe of what lay before me. There was a slight mist, and I could feel the cold air burn my cheeks; I was on top of the fucking world.

(Alright, that sounded extremely cheesy, and I'll admit that I spiced up the whole experience exponentially, but I'm in the mood now, so forgive me if I'm blabbering.)

The bottom line is, I'm glad to say that that experience has evoked in me an inclination (perhaps passion would be a better word) to experience such rewarding (I don't know what else to use here) experiences again, and I made a pact with a buddy of mine to scale Mount Kinabalu together, around 4, 000m in height, roughly ten times of what I had scaled (which comepletely and unrelentlessly killed me as it is). I just hope I'll have the balls to honour that pact.

I just scrolled up and noticed that this is a pretty long and boring entry; I shall attempt to salvage the situation by ending this here. I might continue when I eventually get back to sunny Singapore, but I prolly won't be in the mood.

So yea, I'll be c-c-coming home in a couple of days. Yay me.

Half-time.

2009-10-26T06:00:00.001-07:00

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.

Addicted to that Rush.

2009-10-18T09:53:00.000-07:00

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 live at Fort Canning Park.

Shadows in the Fall.

2009-10-10T08:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Right Where It Belongs.

2009-10-03T21:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Electric.

2009-09-30T03:47:00.000-07:00

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.

Palimpsest.

2009-09-19T01:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Staying in the Firefight.

2009-09-04T05:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Eggs and Bacon.

2009-08-21T01:20:00.000-07:00

In three days, I'll begin what will be the next chapter of my life as a conscript soldier. Back into the jungles of Mandai and Tekong, back into regimented lifestyle of a rifleman. In three days, I'll embark on what I hope will be yet another fulfilling road of self-discovery and personal achievement.

My week thus far has been great, well spent catching up with my friends and family. I'll miss waking up when I decide to, and eating whatever I want, whenever I want, in whatever amount or manner I want. I'll miss hot showers and clean clothes, new socks and warm food. I'll miss the company of my family, the companionship of my friends, the freedom of time and space to play my guitar.

But I know that it'll be worth it. I'll learn a lot in the days (weeks, rather) to come, in what is potentially the last leg of my training phase, unless of course I manage to crossover to Guards, but that will be a different story for another day. I'll mature mentally and psychologically, and I'll become a greater person, both inside and out. This sounds like pure bullshit to most people, but yea, the NS experience can be fulfilling, if you look at things the right way.

My knees are starting to hurt recently, and I'm just hoping it's a minor strain that's gonna heal soon, or it's gonna be one hell of a pain marathon for the next 14 weeks.

My sausages are toasting in the oven, and they smell glorious. I'm gonna get my Pepsi Max ready, and go catch a couple of episodes of Seinfeld.

Life is good. For now, at least.

When the Shit Hits the Fan.

2009-08-14T09:24:00.000-07:00

I've officially passed out from my Basic Section Leader Course, and am on my way to becoming an infantry commander. Maybe it's just me, but I'm actually proud of being a rifleman, contrary to all the shit that our vocation gets.

Que yada yada about it being the most irrelevently garang vocation, yada yada about it being one of the more tiring and physically demanding courses after BSLC. Que yada yada about it being all about 32km road marches and fire trench digging. Que yada yada about it being a mental and psychological pressure cooker, yada yada about it's regimentation being designed to squeeze even the most rebellious minds into submission.

Maybe it's just me, but I'm really sick of all this complaining. Seriously, get a grip. You're already here, and nothing you say/do will change anything. Complaining does nothing but pull everyone down the same sinking boat that you've put yourself in. The boat was fine and mighty until you buggers came stomping around and knocking holes into it. Now you're all sinking, and you're whining about it and yelling, what did I do to deserve this?!

The infantry regiment is like a huge cup of coffee. You give it one hell of a good stir, and the cream rises to the top, while the unfiltered sediments sink to the bottom. Same goes for any other military regiment or civilian organization, really. Go on, hate me for going against your grain of boycotting ASLC, hate me for giving a shit when you guys don't. Hate me for trying my best when you guys won't, and hate me for telling the truth when you guys don't.

When the shit hits the fan, it's every fucking man for himself. Kudos to all who can stand still.

Good night.

Lights In The Sky.

2009-08-10T10:12:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I saw one of my greatest musical influences perform 20 metres from where I was standing. Words will fail miserably to describe the sheer intensity and aggression that Nine Inch Nails displayed on stage, so I shan't try at all, but good god, did Trent Reznor put up a show.

She spreads herself wide open to let the insects in;
She leaves a trail of honey to show me where she's been.
She has the blood of reptiles just underneath her skin;
Seeds from a thousand others drip down from within.

Devils speak of the way in which she'll manifest;
Angels bleed from the tainted touch of my caress.
Need to contaminate, to alleviate this loneliness;
I now know that the depths I reach are limitless.

O, my beautiful liar;
O, my precious whore.
My disease, my infection;
I am so impure.

- Reptile, Nine Inch Nails.

I believe I've found my religion.

Breadcrumbs to the Gingerbread House.

2009-08-01T02:55:00.000-07:00

One more sleepless night, and you'd have been awake for a week. You can't remember the last time you'd brushed your teeth, and you don't remember the taste of anything other than coffee. You're in a place you've been to countless times, but you don't know which way out is. You don't even know if there's an out.

One more passing day, and you'd have fought us for a year. You can't remember where it all began, and you can't imagine it ending any time soon. You're in a place surrounded by people, by familiar faces, by movement and life, but you've never been more alone. You see conversations taking place without words, smiling heads thrown back without laughter. People move in and out around you, and they don't stop to say hello. They don't even know you're there.

You were wrong, right from the very start. No one's here with you. No one gives a shit. No one cares enough to even slow down. There's not a soul out there willing to lend a hand, or even say a word. Where you are, you're alone in a sea of people. A little lonely soul in a huge world prosperous with life and laughter and love. Your very own out-of-body experience. Your very own planet Zero. Your very own Hansel and Gretel, lost in the woods.

God forbid you ever win. God forbid you ever shut us out. God forbid you ever stop hearing our voices in your fucking head.

Love Letters and Un-named Parcels.

2009-07-25T18:43:00.000-07:00

To the fucking voices in my head,

There must be more than this. Exponentially more. I'm still waiting, waiting for all you've got. I'm waiting naked with my arms wide open. Come get me.

Come like the storm and the rain and the fucking plague. Come like the rush of wind, like the clap of thunder. Come like you said you would, waves upon waves upon waves. Give me all you've got. I'm right here, waiting for you.

I want to see what you've got.

Consume me. Eat me whole. Chew me up and spit me out. Tear me apart and watch me bleed. Set your parasites free and watch me claw my skin out. Light me ablaze and savour the smell of my flesh burning. Unleash your darkest demons, feed me to your fucking dogs. Rape me till my knees buckle and my insides fall out.

Drown me in a pool of blood and piss. Open the gates of hell. Break the banks of the Styx and smother me with your fingers dug into my eyes. Slice me up. Pull my nails. Tear my skin. Impale me with every fucking tool you've got.

Come get me, fucking voices. Come get me.

* * *

Sorry for the sudden outburst. (I'm not normally like that.) Just venting some frustration I would otherwise deal with very badly.

The Longest Yard (or Two).

2009-07-18T19:07:00.000-07:00

So there goes what felt like the longest four days of my life. To say I'm tired would undermine the sheer fatigue that I felt out in the field, both physically and mentally. I'm still itching from the sand fly bites, and the heat rash doesn't feel like it's relenting any time soon. Anyhow, I've learnt a thing or two about myself, and that's always welcome.

A soldier out in the field taught me about sacrifice, right when we were in the middle of our oh-so-glorious acclimatization march, on the last day of our camp. He taught me that, when it comes down to the crunch, with every muscle in your body screaming in pain, every fibre in your legs burning, your lungs compressed so hard they ache with every breath, it's the thought of your sacrifice that keeps you going, step by step by step.

He taught me that, sometimes, we have to make sacrifices for the ones we love. Sometimes, we have to give up what's comfortable to us, what's familiar, what's enjoyable. To protect the ones we love, we sometimes have to forsake our passions, our commitments, our very lives. The very essence of love is sacrifice, he taught me.

He says, woe to him who fails to understand what it means to give up something for a greater cause. It's when you're at your most uncomfortable, most painful, most mind-numbing that you'll understand what it means to make a sacrifice, he says. When you feel like giving up, think that, back home, there is someone you love who loves you back immensely, and all you're doing is your part to keep them safe.

God, I miss my family/friends.

1958 - 2009.

2009-07-05T00:42:00.000-07:00

* * *

Booking in tonight at 2300hrs. I'm soooo looking forward to it, cus, hey, army life is awesome, aye?

P.S. Removed the tagboard in favour of the comment system.

On Commandoodles and Canned Tuna.

2009-06-27T18:21:00.000-07:00

Because they say that the internet has eyes, everything that I'm about to write is purely fictitious. Any similarity to any organization/person living or dead is purely coincidental. Names have been changed to protect the identity of the named organization/person.

* * *

So I'm in SUSPECT now (School of the Unarmed Specialists Eating Canned Tuna). I don't like it there, but I don't hate it either. There's nothing explicitly bad about it; we get ample slack time, and training is usually very manageable. The people there are nice, too.

There's just this something, though, that makes SUSPECT a very bitter place. There is this very certain air of un-motivation in the school, which I suspect (no pun intended) seeps from the fact that the SUSPECTs are often regarded as, to put it as tactfully as possible, support leadership under the Offenders-in-Charge over at OMS (Offenders-in-Charge Making Sandwiches). This bitterness is also very inherent in our commanders, whom, I must say, strike me as being the one of the most indifferent leaders I've met in a very long time. Of course, there are always outliers in every circumstance, and I've met leaders (a leader, rather) in SUSPECT who really inspire me, but let's just observe the big trends here, to keep things simple.

I remember my first day in BIT (Basic Ice-Cream Training), when I went in without an end in mind, as to where I wanted to be posted to after the 9 weeks. I was indifferent then, of course, me just stepping into a world I was very un-accustomed to.

Around the fourth week, though, things started to change. For the better, I am proud to say. I started seeing things differently, and I realised how I could make the best out of my 2 years in NSA (Nation-wide Suspension in Air) by trying my best to work my way to the top. Making it to OMS was part of the plan, for it would open countless doors and give me ample opportunities to make my mark. Plus, it was just plain cool that they had an Offenders-in-Charge ball at the end of the course.

Anyhow, I was posted SUSPECT, like I've already mentioned before. When you're in SUSPECT, you don't dream, for there's no point in that. No one really goes anywhere, and everyone just wades around in the same pool of filth and shit and try not to breathe in too much junk. You just do whatever you're told, and will time to pass that much more quickly so you'll be able to hit the sack at night earlier and, in that way, be one day closer to the day you pass out. I've become accustomed to that lifestyle, one without motivation or ambition, and that scares me.

I miss the earlier weeks of my NSA life, where I found much more motivation and drive. Life these days is a real pain in the ass, and I hope that I'll somehow pull myself out of this shit-hole and start making something out of my NSA experience. This is not how I want to see it go down, in any way.

The gathering with the (greatest) team (in the world, ever) last night reminded me that one will go nowhere without ambition, irregardless of whatever field you're in. I kinda regret skipping that Commandoodle interview in 2008, for I didn't know then what I know now, and I didn't see then what I see now. But nevertheless, I made it a point long ago to never live in regret, and I'm going to honour that promise.

I'm gonna try to keep my eyes open and walk on, for, like they say, you'll never know what tomorrow might bring.

Parabola.

2009-06-19T04:26:00.000-07:00

The pushcart comes by, and it asks, coffee or tea?

Black coffee, please.

From the corner of my eye, I see a young lady break sugar into her glass. A child snores lightly beside. The toilet lights up ahead go on, off, on. I hear, right behind me, almost inaudibly, Bach's symphonies going on, on, on.

The pushcart rattles by, and I think to myself, maybe I should have gotten a decaf instead. The aroma of coffee lingers, recycling in and out through the ventilation. The blanket is soft on my lap, and I wonder if it's been washed recently.

The lights are dimmed to create an illusion of nightfall, and I try to sleep.

Please fasten your seat-belts, we are experiencing slight turbulent weather.

I drink my coffee, and I ask the seat beside me, they just won't let us sleep, would they?

The seat smiles and says, you'll get used to it.

I flick the overhead lights on, and I feel my eyes ache as I squint in the florescent glare.

The letter's yellowed with age, and I unfold it's creased sides as carefully as I can. It's been a good while since I've read the letter, but I still remember every word on it, anyhow. It's funny how a bunch of words strung together can leave such an impact, but it does, anyhow.

This isn't where I want to be, not in any circumstance. God forbid I shed a tear, especially right here, right now.

I'm not supposed to. Of course.

The pushcart comes by. I say, thank you, and it takes my cup away. I see it disappear down the isle.

The thing is, it had to be done. The world is nothing without sacrifice. Even the monkeys shot into space had no return route. The world is built off sacrifice. Everyone dies for someone else, and everyone eats off someone else's plate. Every man breaks the bones of another, and everyone works off another's land.

When God spoke of love and happiness, he identified, along with it, pain, agony, hatred, everything that we could think of not wanting. Nothing mutually exclusive, nothing really singular and stand-alone. Without compromise, we will be nothing.

In two hours, the plane will land nowhere close to where I want to go. In two hours, I'll step foot on ground that's nothing like what I've been used to, ever. In two hours, I'll be somewhere I've never wanted to go.

God forbid I shed a tear. Of course.

The seat-belt lights go off with a little beep.

I've read the letter, though, and that's enough.

United We Stand, Divided We Fall.

2009-05-30T09:27:00.000-07:00

Listen to the voices of the heroes around you, and tell me what you hear. Listen to their tales of courage, of boldness, of self-sacrifice and undying patriotism. Listen to their tales of enemies over-run, of sharp mountains conquered and broad rivers crossed.

Romanticize. Idolize. Worship.

What will you do when the lights go down?

Pass on to generation after generation, how we stood up in the presence of our enemies. Pass on, how we fought and died for our lands, how we toiled and ached for the dirt beneath our feet. We've struggled for this land, and you owe it all to us, us, us.

Disbelief. Awe. Profound respect.

Where will you stand when the lights go down?

Listen to them say, someday, we shall all be heroes. We will be there for this world, and we will save this earth from the mess that it's in. Someday, we will stand tall against everything that's going against us, stare in the face of our demons, and conquer the Goliaths' in our lives. Someday, we will make a difference.

Who will you be when the lights go down?

We can all be heroes, if we close our eyes.

Disassociate.

2009-05-22T12:29:00.000-07:00

I've walked through the door several times before he stops me and says, the room you're about to enter is hostile. The next step you're about to take will bring you into unfamiliar territory, into places you've never been before. What you don't see, what you don't hear, what you don't feel, is what's on the other side.

I stare at him, dazed and confused, and I ask, what?

You've been there before, but already, you're misled. You've gone through that door, over and over again, but this time, it's different. It's just like you imagined, how, someday, this would happen.

Dude, you're crazy.

Re-wind. Let's start from the beginning.

In the beginning, there was me, and there was him. I'm here because he's here, and vice versa.

I've grown obsessed with the idea that our lives are so similar, so interconnected, so singular because we are same person, in and out. Of course, that's impossible, with me and him being two distinctly different people, but that's the story, anyhow.

Anyway, he goes on to say, dude, seriously, you don't want to go there. I ask him why, and he replies, dude, just no.

Now, this friend of mine, this companion, this buddy of mine, he believes that life, the one with the big fat capital L in front, should at least be as much fun as collecting stamps, or playing pool.

Go dig a hole. Plant a tree. Watch the clouds go by. Whatever.

The room I'm in is empty, not because it's dysfunctional, but because we've been here before.

He thinks that it should stay that way, nice and clean, and empty. Bare as a jail cell. Shiny as new ice. Don't think of it as inadequacy, he says. Think of it as, potential.

God once told us that he'll never forsake us.

God was wrong, he says. Look into that room, and tell me what you see.

Nothing, I say. Of course.

Life should at least be as fun as running a marathon. Reading a book. Swimming.

Go shoot some hops. Learn a language. Pick up an instrument. Whatever.

I'm thinking, god, this is crazy. I'm dazed, and confused. Someone tell me what's going on, before I shoot myself in the face.

The whole point, he says, is not to know. You've been in the room more times than you can count, and yet, you know nothing. Zip. Nada. Go on, prove me wrong, he says. Prove me wrong.

The whole point is to take a step and not know. And another, and another. And another.

Until?

Until something happens, I guess.

Go make some coffee. Buy some shoes. Join a cult. Whatever.

Fight On, Soldier.

2009-05-08T08:06:00.000-07:00

I've only served NS for a little less than a month, but already, I've matured immensely. If you know me well enough, you would know that the army life is not exactly what I'd like to call remotely ideal; in fact, I pretty much dread that regimental routine of a lifestyle. I'm pretty sure that view hasn't changed at all, but I dare say that I now appreciate what NS does for me, both mentally and spiritually.

Today marked the end of my field camp, and I'm publishing this post with that experience fresh in my mind. I've discovered more about myself in the past week than I have all my life, and I've learnt more just observing the people around me than I have under any lecturer or teacher.

The field camp, in a nutshell, was a great social experiment. Place a man under physical, mental and psychological stress, and see where he stands, if at all. Isolate a man from his loved ones, drain his strength and stretch his mental limits, and see where he stands, if at all. Place a man within a group of anonymous young adults very much like himself, and see where he stands, amongst them.

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in comfort, but under stress. Right before me, out in the field, I saw, with my own eyes, the strongest men break down mentally, long before their physical abilities wore out. Right before me, I saw the the most natural leaders lose their tongue under the chaotic conditions of our battlefield formations. Right before me, I saw the hardest men shed tears reading a single letter from home.

Without going into all the boring details (cus people usually complain about guys talking about army in army-lingo and how annoying that is), I saw the ugliest side of human nature in the past week, and fortunately, also the most heart-warming side, with the latter being the much rarer occasion.

It rained every single night out in the field, which made for the worst possible conditions under which we could train. Imagine digging a single-man trench all day, only to fall asleep in it at night with the rain falling right in your face, pooling your body into a puddle of filth and mud. Imagine that, over days without proper sanitation, without a warm meal, without a single word from a loved one. Imagine that, on top of regimentation of the strictest form, and often unreasonable demands for group discipline and haste.

Out in the field, under the worst possible conditions, you learn to seek comfort and relief in the smallest possible things. We have this one nightly routine, where we were required to prone for an hour before nightfall, every night, to simulate a stake-out, with our rifles in our hands and our mind and body on high alert for unfriendly engagement. This one paticular night, I was out proning, willing time to pass just that much more quickly, when I noticed a little spark dancing off right in from of me, in the vegetation. What was a single spark soon grew into a whole light show of sparks, swaying in and out with the trees. It was the light from the fire-flies in the forest, and it was magical. It may sound stupid if you try and picture it, but trust me, I would give anything to experience that again, for it never happened again any night thereafter.

There's so much more I want to say, so much more I want to share, but I think any more will wear even the most willing reader down, with me going deeper and deeper into territory I swore to myself I wouldn't talk about, which includes the continued usage of army-lingo and sharing of experiences from army hardly anyone gives a shit about. I'll just close right here, hopefully with an update soon.

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy." -- Martin Luther King Junior

Religion Without God.

2009-04-29T08:47:00.000-07:00

Your watch reads 08:30, and you take a step into the most godless place in the world. The sun barely hangs over the buildings, and you hear chanting all around you. Monotonous, droning waves upon waves of voices, multiplied across bodies of a hundred strong each.

Only speak when you’re spoken to.

Never look into their eyes; only onto the ground.

You can barely make the words out, but you swear you can hear them shout, with my life, I will. I promise. With my life, I will.

Never sit until they have taken their seat. Never stand until they have stood up.

Where you are, submission is a moral standard. Conditioning, the means in which it is applied. With enough repetition and persuasion, with the conviction of thousands, with the reassurance of authority and testimony, a man will believe whatever you tell him.

The world is flat. Pigs can fly. The moon is a giant ball of cheese. I can break your arm with a twitch of my eye.

With enough repetition, you will believe anything.

Never start eating until they have began, and never finish until they have done so.

Where you are, principles and hypotheses are unimportant. What you need are rules. It doesn't matter what they are. It doesn't matter how many there are. All you need, are rules. Standards. Guidlines with which you lead your life around.

Never walk on the pavements, only march, or run. Don't even think about standing still.

Without rules, we will be nothing.

Your watch reads 08:30, and you take a step into the most godless place in the world.

The same way you can't a have a story without a beginning, you can't do without rules. Without a starting point. Without a grid, a reference point with which you measure every subsequent standard with.

Only go to sleep after they have done so, and wake up before they do.

With enough rules, you'll never make another decision in your life.

You think to yourself, funny how it seems to work, this whole fit-your-life-into-an-action-item-list thing.

Where you are, you can be anyone. Where you are, you are one amongst a body of hundreds, another ID number amongst thousands as unique as yourself. Another piece of the puzzle, another brick in the wall.

What people don't know about you, you can make up to be anything.

Girlfriend? Sure.

Done drugs before? Tried it a couple of times.

Smoke? Used to.

Got a tattoo? Planning to.

Where you are, no one knows your past, your lies, your truths. No one knows that you don't have a hippie for a dad, and a cock-sucking girlfriend who left you for a rich fag. No one knows that you've never tried weed, nor tasted tobacco. No one knows that you're a geek who's never seen a girl naked, nor tasted beer.

What people don't know about you, you can make up to be anything.

Your watch reads 08:30 in the most godless place in the world, and you're about to create a superstar.

New Chapters and Old Pages.

2009-04-02T21:53:00.000-07:00

Next week marks my last week as a free man, with my NS-term beginning on the 13th of April (auspicious indeed). I wouldn't say I'm looking forward to it immensely, but I'm pretty excited to find out what it's like.

Cue sulking and lamenting about my loss of hair and reduction of social life.

It's gonna be a new chapter in my life, with new friends being made and old friendships being tested. From what I'm hearing, army life is one boring day after another, where you, I quote numerous people, "rush to wait, and wait to rush." How ideal.

Cue sulking and lamenting about my lack of fitness and a remotely decent tan.

Already bought my army specs. Just holding it smacks reality in my face. I'M GOING TO SERVE THE NATION IN THE ARMY. Not the most optimistic news to hit me in the longest time, but yea, it's cool, I guess.

If I turn out MIA (already using army terms, it seems) in the next few weeks, forgive me, cus, well, I'm in some god-forsaken piece of land infested with evil spirits and killer mosquitoes.

Please miss me dearly. Till next time!

Shine On, Benevolent Sun.

2009-03-20T03:14:00.000-07:00

The same way a tree that falls unseen in a forest makes no sound, I can spend the rest of my life in consumer service, in menial labour, in corporate management, and I'll die without anyone giving a shit. I'll climb up the social ladder of the white-collar world, I'll work my way up from ground zero into a managerial and finally a share-holding position, and I'll still die without anyone giving a shit.

I can spend the rest of my life trying to become like God, fulfilling my tithes, contributing to my church building fund, saying my daily prayers, and I'll die without anyone giving a shit. I'll stay true to the morals and principles taught at bible-school, and I'll make a mental note of all ten commandments and ask myself, "what would Jesus do?" before I make an important decision, and I'll still die without anyone giving a shit.

The same way a tree that falls unseen in a forest makes no sound, I need someone to tell me that I mean something, for me to believe that I do. I don't exist at all, and I sure as heck don't leave an impression on anyone, unless someone tells me that I do. For serious, I can slave on for the rest of my life, I can kiss-ass and sabotage my way to the top, I can earn a million bucks on top of a condo and a private jet, and I'll die without anyone giving a shit, unless someone tells me that they do.

This friend of mine, he collects bottle caps. Plain plastic bottle caps, from generic Coke bottles, to exotic Japanese fizzy drinks. He has hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of bottle caps. In his room in a large cardboard box, in his living room by the couches, in his fridge, under his bed, beside his kitchen sink. This friend of mine, he cleans every bottle cap before it goes into it's box. He wipes it with a mixture of one part dettol to two parts water, and he dries it out by the window a day before it goes into it's box. There's hardly any walking space left in his apartment because of the caps he's collecting.

I'm visiting one day and I ask, why, dude? Seriously, why?

He says, I don't know. I just do. I just need something to assert my control over, I guess. Something I can obssess over. Something that eats up all my free time and destroys everything else I have in my life. Something that leaves me coming back after a long day at work and smiling cus, at least, this one aspect of my life has amounted to something. Something tangible, something that won't ever die one day, nor let me down, nor ever be able to leave me. Something that I have complete and absolute control over, something that I'll dominate and be able to make indebted to me without complaint.

The same way a tree that falls unseen makes no sound, I say, dude, you're nuts, and he smiles, and says, thanks.

NIN Live in Singapore

2009-03-13T11:35:00.001-07:00

Nine Inch Nails live in Singapore

My heart just skipped a beat. I am hyper-ventilating and going a little nuts now. I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight. I am squealing like a little girl. Not even figure of speech.

OH GOD. THEY ARE FINALLY COMING TO SINGAPORE.

It was Only Fantasy.

2009-03-03T07:52:00.000-08:00

If you're reading this, you've probably got 5 minutes to spare. It might be late at night where you are, or in between work assignments. It doesn't matter, really, not nearly as much as anything worth caring about. All I need is 5 minutes, anyway.

I was talking to this friend of mine the other day, and he said, for the next 5 minutes, I need you to listen to me. He said, for the next 5 minutes, I need you to close your eyes, close your heart, your mind, your soul. I need you to close everything else except your ears listening to my voice. Of course, since we're highly flexible beings, it would make more sense in this case to close your ears and everything else, leaving your eyes open to reading this body of text.

He said, for the next 5 minutes, I want you to picture a blank canvas. White upon white upon white. Well, if you're anything like me, it can be black upon black upon black, or orange, or whatever. It doesn't matter, really, not nearly as much as anything worth caring about. I just need a blank canvas, he said.

This can happen anywhere, he said. In your bed, staring at the ceiling late into a sleepless night, or on the train, blankly staring at the blur of lights racing across the cabin window. It can even be at a busy road junction, waiting for the red directional lights that take forever to change, or in a crowded lift, eyes staring and willing the floor level lights to move just that much faster. It doesn't matter, really, not nearly as much as anything worth caring about. All I need is a blank canvas, he said.

Now, my friend, he said, Picture yourself standing, alone, in the landscape of your heart's desire. Picture yourself standing in a beautiful place that you created yourself. It can be a wonderfully colourful garden, or a misty mountain top. Me, I pictured a city of brilliant lights and psychedelic sounds, full of people of all ages hustling and bustling around, with me standing right in the middle, invisible and voiceless.

Go on, I said. Go on.

He said, listen to the soundtrack of your life, the music of your soul, the voice of your mind and of your psyche. Listen to what calms you down and makes your day perfect. It can be soothing gospel numbers or mind-numbing, heart-stopping grind-core. Me, I'm listening to U2 leads dancing over driving bass-lines and Daney Carey tom-work.

Okay, I said, my ears are wide open.

He said, for the next 5 mins, I want you embrace the calm of your perfect world, in the midst of your perfect soundtrack. I want you to forget all your anxieties. I want you to forget all your worries and all your problems. I want you to forget everything that has ever caused you a sleepless night, or gave you a panic attack. I want you to let go. I want to to let go of everything you've ever cared about, and I want you to listen to your soundtrack, in your landscape.

I want you to experience a calm you've never experienced, and I want you to embrace this fantasy of a perfect world with a perfect you, where, for the next 5 minutes, everything is perfect and forever beautiful.

After the 5 minutes, he said, it's pretty amazing, isn't it? It's pretty amazing how, for 5 minutes, we can escape everything, and experience a beauty that can never be met in real life, cus nothing will ever be as perfect and seamlessly beautiful as the landscape you create in your head, or the soundtrack you play over and over again in your mind.

It was beautiful, and I really believed that.

He said, this is to real life what masturbation is to sex. It feels good while you're doing it, but when the 5 minutes are up, you realise that all you've done is screw yourself.

Of course, he used a much more emotionally driven word, but I figured it would be best to keep this entry work-safe.

That's all, he said.

Laughter is the Best Medicine.

2009-02-26T00:49:00.000-08:00

Was browsing through some Garfield comics during work today, and I noticed a stark resemblence between Garfield's relationship with Jon (his owner), and Natalie and I during work. The following few really stuck out as close examples of how we speak / behave around each other (please forgive the rather small pictures):

No prizes for guessing who resembles who. Hahaha. :D

To top things off, I decided to "re-invent" some Garfield classics, so that it will fit nice and snug, demonstrating our unique and often entertaining exchanges.

A typical morning at work:

By lunchtime:

After a torturous and slow afternoon:

I think I'll miss work. Slightly. Very, very slightly.

Not Much At All.

2009-02-22T05:42:00.000-08:00

I realise that I take way too much for granted, especially where money is concerned. Just had a humbling gathering with a couple of cousins over supper.

This cousin of mine, she's a poly-grad, currently working at a private clinic as a nurse. Hearing the shit she has to go through everyday to earn her mediocre amount makes me regret complaining about my job. She has to take 10x as much verbal abuse as I do, and she has to do 10x the amount of work I do, for not much more than what I earn.

The thing is, she can't quit, unlike me, cus money means alot more to her than it does for me. She's saving to study in a university, and thus needs to bite the bullet and stick through this job for a while, cus it pays better than any other diploma-holding job out there.

Here I am, compiling a list of gear I want to spend my next paycheck on, and there she is, putting herself through ridiculous amounts of stress and unneccesary burden to earn money to see herself through school.

Makes me ashamed of my to-buy list, and unwillingness to work cus the job "sucks". Compared to hers, mine's a walk in the park, despite all the verbal thrash I get thrown at me. I'll need to re-think my priorities in life, after tonight.

On a separate note, yesterday was spent really well, having had dinner with the team of friends I've grown to treat like family. Stopping my commitment in softball has been, and still is, one of the biggest regrets in my life. I've learnt so much, and matured so well since throwing my first ball in 2002, playing with the most amazing team in the world, under the man I respect the most in my life.

Those 2 hours or so brought back lots of nostalgia and beautiful memories (apart from the boring army talk which drove me and the "civilians" nuts). The love and passion of the game, the unchanging and relentless respect to team-mates and opponents alike, the uncompromising trust and undying bonds within the team, all came back to me yesternight, reminding me that joining Team CH (now Team Lynx) was the best thing that ever happened to me.

It's really heart-warming how, despite us all moving on in our own directions, and despite us all having lives of our own, some unrelated to softball in any way, we are still able to sit down together, and talk as if we never left the team.

Now that, is one amazing feeling.

Of Strange Friends.

2009-02-17T19:22:00.000-08:00

I was asked a hypothetical question the other day: if you woke up tomorrow and it was 1969, what would you do?

The first thing that came to my mind was, do whatever it takes to save Jimi Hendrix from overdriving on psychedelics.

The next thing was, buy a gun and protect John Lennon from that Chapman dude.

Then, I'll steal Van Halen's tapping technique and "invent" it in 1969.

Hahahahaha stuff I think about at work. Apparently, it seems that I have too much free time.

On a separate note, I'm stopping work next Friday, and am seriously looking forward to the first day I'm taking a break since after the A level's, since I jumped right into it after Supermassive.

Yay me.

Once Again,

2009-02-15T02:06:00.000-08:00

I don't need to hear it from you explicitly, or have you explain it to me, to know where all this is going. It's right in my face, really, albeit somewhat hidden by my delusions. I know that I shouldn't still like you the way I do, cus it probably won't work out, anyway. I mean, it's hard enough with us being on two completely different planets, but it totally doesn't help in the least bit that we don't have any real means of communication, at all.

I'm tired, to be quite honest. Tired, not because of what I've been doing or because of what I've been trying to do, but because my efforts just don't reap their just rewards. Of course, I don't expect a slew of hugs and kisses or what-not, nor a book-ful of thank-you's or what-ever, but at least a response or follow-up of some kind wouldn't hurt, would it? At the very least, you can let me know that you're still alive, can't you?

I don't know, maybe I'm over-thinking this, and, maybe, I'll wake up tomorrow, and things will be back to normal, the way they used to be. Maybe, when I wake up tomorrow, I'll forget this whole episode ever happened, and the both of us can go back to living our little lives on our little planets. Maybe, when I wake up tomorrow, I'll realise how stupid I've been for chasing the little twinkly star I knew I would never catch. Maybe, when I wake up tomorrow, I'll really wake the hell up and move on.

Tell you what.

When we meet, I'll let you know that I've moved on. I'll let you know that I'm not looking for anything anymore, cus this is going nowhere. I'll let you know, that, maybe, we can all get on with our little lives at last, and forget all this bullshit that ever happened between us. We're both mature little bulbs living on our own little lonely planets, and I'm sure that we'll take it well, and not let it get in the way of whatever that is going to come in the future, if at all.

Of course, I'd be lying when I say that , and I'll still be liking you the way I have been since forever, but it prolly doesn't matter anymore. I'll move on. I'm good at that, and you know it. I'll just pretend that our little planets never crossed the same path, at all, and I'll pretend that the past year and a half never existed.

I'll pretend that I never liked you, ever, cus I believe I deserve a little better than this, at the very least.

Designer Valentine.

2009-02-12T00:06:00.000-08:00

This, is a story about a girl.

No, not a girl.

The girl.

Let's call her Abby.

Now, Abby, she's the girl sitting next to you on a slow, boring day in the lecture hall, behind you during long bus rides home, opposite you along-side busy roads, beside you in front of dry, spacey movies.

Abby, the girl in queue with you during a busy day at the bank, the girl tapping her feet in the doctor's waiting room, she reminds you of winter. She reminds you of chill, of sterile brightness, of alluring calm. You've never met her, but she leaves an impression, anyway.

You haven't spoken to her, ever, but already, you know her name. You've never seen her face, nor heard her voice, but you know everything, already. She's always there, right beside you. You're always there, too, but you're afraid to look, to turn, to listen.

Abby, she's not just another girl with long dark hair and her skirt way too short. She's not just another hopeful, naive girl, plain and ambitious. She's not another blow-up doll with a face and a name. Of course, you've never seen her, but you know, anyway.

You know she's there, beside you. On the train, now. She's there, thigh-to-thigh, shoulder-to-shoulder. You can smell her shampoo. You can hear her breathe, and you swear you can hear her heart beat. You hope she gets off at your stop. Actually, you don't. You know she'll get off at your stop. Of course, you've never met her, ever, but you know, anyway.

Like in a dream, you know she'll get off, now. Like in a dream, you know, for sure, her favourite colour is Ocean Blue, her favourite band, Radiohead. Like in a dream, you know she doesn't drive, nor own her own apartment. Like in a dream, you know everything.

Even without meeting her, even without ever having a conversation with her, you know she's in love with animals. You know she's one of those PETA-type girls, all drugged-up and a little over the edge about animal abuse and non-vegan food. You know she makes a mean Ceasar, and you know she doesn't take ketchup, nor onion powder.

Like in a dream, you know you'll talk to her, now. You know, for sure, she'll smile, she'll say hello, she'll laugh at your jokes. Like in a dream, you tap her shoulder. You know, for sure, she'll smile. You know, for sure, she'll return the hello, for sure, she'll talk to you.

You see her for the first time.

For sure, she'll say hello.

Like in a dream, you talk to her.

For sure, she'll smile.

Hello, Abby.

For sure, she'll laugh at your jokes.

Pardon me, I'm Chloe, you are?

Sorry, you say, putting your hands in your pocket, I mistook you for someone else.

Because We Live in a Beautiful World.

2009-02-06T08:55:00.000-08:00

Someone told me recently that, according to the Mayan Calendar, the world is gonna end in 2012.

Me, I'm just thinking, look around, the world already has.

Progression and Regression.

2009-02-02T21:59:00.000-08:00

Was having dinner with Ruben (Pang) last night, and I can't remember what we were talking about, but the conversation went from geeky guitar gear talk to something less mechanical, something about progress, and what it means to move forward. He enlightened me with a simple concept. We all strive, in life, to move forward (as a normal person would, under normal circumstances), but should we move forward at the same rate as everyone around us, wouldn't that make us stagnant?

It was a simple concept that made a whole lot of sense, but also one that I've never really thought about. All my life I've been striving to improve myself, moving forward, progressing, trying my best to step up yet another rung in this huge ladder called life. Yet, I would have made no progress at all, should I move alongside others with the same goals in life (which, really, is pretty much everyone in the world). I know, throw in rates of progress and stuff like that and it's a totally different ballgame, but it's really counterproductive in that sense, since your reward will never be proportionate to your effort, because it's based off other people's rate of progress in comparison to yours.

I was thinking, on the way home, what if we moved, instead of forward, sideways, or something along the lines of that? It might not be progress in the socially accepted sense of the word, but it's definitely not regression, since it's along a different path altogether. And, we would reap the exact amount we put in, cus it's not relative to any other effort along the same direction of progress.

Still, it would take a huge amount of guts for us to take a step sideways, cus you never know where you'll end up. More often than not, it's the big unknown that scares us, that little tiny trail off the side of the big, wide path that leads into the dark and mysterious.

Frankly, as much as I'd like to stand still, look around, and perhaps, take a step sideways when everyone else is going forward, I probably won't. I don't have the capacity, nor the guts, to take risks like that. As much as I tend to go on and on about huge dreams and stuff, a little voice inside tells me, don't be an idiot. Walk the big path, and, although you'll never really distinguish yourself amongst the huge sea of bodies walking the same direction, you'll never get eaten by the dark and mysterious sides that the thin trails lead into.

But maybe, just maybe, I might take a little step off the path sometime, and, perhaps, peer into the darkness, hopefully, seeing something I'll recognise.

This Is The World We Live In.

2009-01-29T00:04:00.000-08:00

Just watched this documentary called Jesus Camp (yea, it's been a slow day at work). Embedded above is a portion of the documentary. The highlight reel, if you'd call it that. The main gist of the whole documentary.

Before anyone judges me, watch that clip.

About 2 minutes in, the lady talks about Harry Potter and how it's definitively evil, I quote, "warlocks are the enemies of God, and I don't care what kind of heroes they are. Had it been in the Old Testament, Harry Potter would have been put to death."

The documentary then goes on to talk about how we need to train an army of God, and break the cup of corruption in all the righteousness that Jesus exudes. It doesn't sound bad in any sense at all, but wait till you see the means in which these principles and morals are indoctrinated. And the second video, that clip with the little girl in Jesus Camp, just takes the cake.

Seriously, can you pass me a bucket, or at least a couple of Kleenex for me to stifle my vomit? I've never heard more thrash coming out of a person's mouth in a very, very long time. That eight year old kid in the second video, I'm sure she's been through sooooo much in life, so much so that she has experienced and understood all the mysteries of the universe. Who the hell is she to preach like that to man, and somehow baselessly accuse churches that are not as radical as hers as being, I quote, "dead churches"?

I don't know if I should get angry, or feel sorry for that girl for being part of a radical church that shoves shit down adolescent throats.

All I was thinking of when I was watching that was, you gotta be kidding me. She goes on and on and on, about how we should behave in church. We should sing like this, not like that. We should behave like this, not like that. Seriously, do you think you're the Messiah or something? Since when was God so anal about all this? And from the last time I checked, God didn't expect all these radical affirmations about how I'll proclaim my love for you forever and ever, and about how I'll die for you and swear to remove all that is evil in this world with any means within what I'm physically capable of achieving.

"There are two kinds of people in this world, people who love God, and people who don't."

Haha, ok. Well, fuck you. (Whoa. I haven't said that in a looooooooong time, but I guess I've had a long day, and am not in the best mood ever. I sorta needed to get that off my chest, since this has been something irking me for the longest time.)

You know what the worst part is? This whole Jesus Camp documentary thing is not just about a small community of people. It's about a phenomenon that's sweeping America, and God knows (no pun intended) where else in the world that's not being documented.

Call me whatever you want, but you can't deny the truth in what I'm saying. This makes me fear for the future of man. I mean, I don't call myself a full-time Christian, but I sincerely and whole-heartedly believe in God, and stuff like this just makes me embarassed that I feel so much for the same God as them. It's scary, really. This, looks like the beginning of the modern Jihad, triggered by waves upon waves of 8-year olds brainwashed by radical churches that have no sense of what they're preaching.

This is our world, going down the drain, and into the shitter.

P.S. I'm not normally this angsty, but I guess that was the final straw in pushing beyond my acceptance a whole multitude (pun totally intended) of issues I've had with overly-radical religious people.

P.P.S. No offense to anyone out there, cus there was none intended. Just me blabbering on and on about my point of view which is, admitedly, sometimes a little overbearing.

P.P.P.S. I'll probably regret posting this cus I'll inevitably offend people, but whatever. I've had a long day, and have been moody lately.

P.P.P.P.S. Notice the irony in how Jesus Camp is situated near Devil's Lake. Haha. Thought that was crazy funny.

Tomorrow We Shall Make History.

2009-01-27T19:27:00.000-08:00

Standing here in my underwear, I haven’t eaten in 34 hours. Not a morsel, not even a sip of water. You want to look as dry as you possibly can, says the director.

Around me, I hear the scramble of a dozen-strong crew. Flustered heels click hard on the mock wooden platform, and agitated voices yell across the tiny studio. Someone call the director again, and tell him that we’re ready. We need to get this done within the next hour and a half. Lights. Someone filter the lights, dammit. You know how he’s like with lights.

Before the shoot, sodium load for a week and drink four litres of water a day on top of the mandatory lap around the district, was what the director told me. Pumping excess sodium into your body forces a disequilibria in the muscular cells, which are constantly excreting sodium and absorbing potassium. This high mineral conversion rate is to be maintained for about a week before the shoot until the last three days, where sodium is cut out completely. Sodium depletion, in combination with an already high potassium-sodium conversion rate, pulls excess water from under the skin, leaving it paper-thin and bone-dry. This also goes with fluid intake, which is kept high until a day before the shoot, for the same effect.

Eat 200 grams of protein a day, 150 grams of complex carbohydrates and trace fat, was what the director said. No dairy, no fruit, no refined carbs. You don’t want to blow up with water.

That was six months ago, when I got my first shoot for Calvin Klein underwear.

The director arrives with a trail of assistants, and no one says a word. Even from up here, I can smell the unfiltered Camels clinging onto his Hilfiger polo, thick and choking. Even more stifling, is the air of authority that saturates the studio, three hours after the projected lunch-hour shoot.
He yells, let’s get this thing moving, and the studio breathes. Pens scribble on clip-boards, and camera lenses roll in and out of focus.

Clockwork.

The director, the leader of the pack, the head of the group, the puppet master of the freak-show, he folds his arms, and cocks the corner of his mouth into a snarl. Stifled mumbles fill the air, and a red light comes on overhead, signalling, shoot in progress.

I haven’t eaten anything other than skinless, boneless chicken breasts and broccoli-sweet potato combos in six weeks. The initial stage is the hardest, where you crave just about anything and everything you set your eyes on. You look at young adults in Starbucks sipping Mocha Fraps, creamy Cappuccinos, Vanilla Tea Lattes, and all you’re thinking of is, you have no idea how much I could use that right now. You look at kids licking Cornetto’s, nibbling Lay’s, crunching Oreo’s, and all that’s going through your head is, I need that, now.

Every craft has it’s sacrifice.

After about a week and a half, meals just become items to check off your to-do list, 5 times a day, in between kettle-ball training sessions and interval sprints. Hunger becomes a reminder of the hard work you’re putting in. Cravings, a test of your dedication, your commitment, your innate desire to succeed.

A badge of honour that defines you and your profession.

24 hours before the shoot, no food, no water, nothing. You want to look as dry as you possibly can, says the director.

Standing here in my underwear, I can hardly see. Spotlights burn into my eyes, my waxed arms, my artificially tanned thighs. Camera flashes blink every other second, and I’m seeing life in still scenes. Flash, the director raises his arm, signalling silence. Flash, the director stands up, two fingers pointing into his eyes, signalling, look at the camera. Flash. Click. Flash.

I feel like a god.

With your stomach burning hard with hunger and your head floating light from dehydration, you think only in still scenes. Flash, you start your six-kilometre run, hair still ruffled from deep sleep. Flash, you’re in high school, laughing, shoving your buddies into walls along the corridor, slapping each other high-fives to the canteen. Flash, you’re exhausted from the ninth set of kettle ball hurls, fork trembling in hand as you scoff down eight ounces of chicken breast and a cup of broccoli and sweet potato. Flash. Click. Flash.

Worship me.

Sound, video, the director says, fingers rolling over each other, signalling changeover. He takes his Aviators off, and leans far back into his chair.

Three more guys my age step up onto the platform, wearing nothing but DKNY boxer briefs and a big dream in their heads. Two Chinese, one Eurasian. Nervous eyes glance back and forth. Hands stick tight to the side of bare thighs trembling from the cold, or from anxiety. Throats tighten with hard swallowing. Teeth clench and grind. Job, Eddie, Harold.

In my head, I’m thinking, you have no idea what you’ve got yourself into.

Speakers overhead blare with the latest single of The Pixies’ album, and cameras click on with a tiny red light in the semi-darkness.

Standing here in my underwear, I’m smiling my very best smile. The smile I’ve practiced for hours alone in the toilet, Men’s Health in front for reference. The smile I’ve forced frozen till my facial muscles burned and my jaws ached. The smile that defines the face of Zara, of Topman, of GAP.

With enough press coverage, you’ll live your whole life smiling one big-ass smile.

The spotlights reflect off the porcelain veneers of my teeth, and the director yells, cut. Cindy, give him a slighter tint on his cheeks.

Cindy isn’t her real name.

In this industry, people come and go so quickly that any shoot for a collection that spans over a week can easily see four to five different make-up artistes, depending on who’s available, and who’s on whose assignment.

Where is Cindy? Someone get her here right now, the director yells.

He calls all his make-up artistes Cindy.

The director, the smirking, arrogant ashtray, the all-righteous, all-knowing narcissist, the presumptuous, domineering egocentric, he calls all his make-up artistes Cindy, and all his assistants, Bob. Females, Rach. Me, he doesn’t even give me a name.

A Cindy I’ve never seen before stumbles onto the platform, and patches the foundation on my cheeks, one shade darker below my cheekbones to create an illusion of depth. Another Cindy pulls down my underwear, and replaces the rolled-up piece of white-bread that forms the bulge in the front. To create an illusion of depth on flat print, the director used to say. Not that it wasn’t adequate, he added, smirking his pretentious smirk. The last thing you want to look like is the next guy.

Put together high cheekbones, thick brows and a square, defined jaw-line, and what you have is a cookie-cutter Abercrombie model. For the faces of Chanel, of Gucci, of D&G, you want deep-set eyes, a sharp nose and thin lips. For men, no less that 1.8 metres, and between 65-75 kilograms. For women, 1.7 metres minimum, and no more than 55 kilograms.

A check-list of our worth.

The red light clicks on in the semi-darkness, and I’m feeling alive again.

With your skin cold as ice from the air-conditioning and your eyes dilated and burning hard from the glare of the spotlights, you feel immortal. You feel omni-potent. All-powerful. All-commanding and all-knowing. Forever and ever and ever. With your face blown up 15 times across 49 cities every 13 kilometres on billboards and store-posters, you feel like you’ll live forever. With your face on every fashion magazine cover in round-the-clock convenience stores, and your name on every fashion column, you feel as if you’ll never die. Whatever happens, no matter where you’re going, no matter how far you’re going, at least you’ll live on print, on film, in memory, forever.

Bullshit.

The red light clicks off, and the spotlights fade to black.

This is me in my little world.

Closed, and alone.

The studio floods with harsh white florescent, painting my skin pale ivory.

It’s a wrap, the director says, lighting a Camel.

Tomorrow we shall make history.

That’s what he says after every shoot.

The models throw their bread slices into the bin, and clothe up. Giordano jeans. Converse sneakers. Cheap fake band-tees. Little Casios.

And I thought I could live forever.

Monkeys Behind The Glass.

2009-01-18T00:37:00.000-08:00

I press my face up close to the glass, and I squint, hard. My breath fogs up the panel, and the surface feels cold as ice on my skin. Barely, just barely, I see a group of monkeys. They look like specks of dust from the distance that's between us. They move, slowly across the edge of the land, little dots barely making distance.

The grass feels soft under my feet. The air is saturated with the scent of gentle herbs, calm and pure. The holy garden, as we're supposed to call it.

I press my face up harder, and I try to count. Four, maybe five. Running, perhaps.

The lands are bare. Bone dry. Blistering and cracking under the mid-day sun. Torn apart and divided, from yesterday's struggle. The air is thick from the unsettled dust, and the tiny dots in the distance grow larger, larger, larger. Definitely four.

I hear footsteps behind me, and I bend, lower. Voices. Whispers. From distance, I hope. I dig my nails into the dirt, still moist from the morning dew. I hold my breath, and wait.

Movement behind the glass catches my eye. The monkeys are close, now. They grasp little bags in their hands. Eyes darting, back, forth, back, forth. They move their lips in speech, but all I hear are the footsteps behind me, now slowly getting softer, softer, softer. My fingers relax, and I stand up, ever so slowly.

The monkeys, they're holding bags of gold, glistering bold in the brilliant light of the sun. Knifes. Guns. Fire. They hold, with the thumbs that Father gave them, bullets, blades, torches.

From behind the glass, I'm confused. Father gave them logic, reason, rationality. And this, is what they choose?

Foolish, foolish monkeys.

The monkeys are close enough to make out, clearly. They shuffle in the sand, lips dry from the harsh air. I look into their eyes, and all I see, is pride, wrath, greed. Lust, sloth, gluttony. Envy.

Father gave you free will, and this, this is what you choose?

From behind the glass, I'm puzzled, and confused.

No exchange of sorts goes on between the monkeys and I, but already, I know everything. Monkeys putting fists to other monkeys throats. Monkeys dividing the land, waters, sky. Monkeys screaming, crawling, crying. Monkeys willing away their fleeting time. Monkeys killing monkeys killing monkeys killing monkeys.

Father gave you consciousness, power without limit, knowledge beyond imagination, and this is what you do?

Foolish, foolish monkeys.

The monkeys, they go on in their silly ways. They go on, in their foolish, foolish ways. Father gave them words, speech, language. Creativity, vibrancy, passion. They sing songs of joy, of happiness, of eternal gratitude. They exchange words of kindness, of appreciation, of affection. They lie, they scorn, they whisper. They stab, they mock, they despise. They distort, they discriminate, they fight.

From behind the glass, I'm thinking, Father gave you everything, and this, this, is what you choose?

I'm puzzled, and confused.

Invisible Monsters.

2009-01-05T07:59:00.000-08:00

Where I'm at, it's dead as a grave, and my insomnia is kicking in again. Family's asleep, and I've got to wake up in a while to get my ass to work. Not a cool feeling, but yea, somehow I'd like to think that I can function on no sleep at all a couple of nights a week.

Anyway, I was re-reading Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk (whom I think everyone should check out; just drop me a message to borrow any of his books), and this quote just jumped out at me, for a reason I've yet to realise: "no matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when a pool of their blood inches too close."

Yes, yes, I can hear all the happily married / in love people going, that's not true, I love whatever his / her name is and he / she loves me back, and I'll definitely do whatever for him / her, no matter what the circumstance. Well, that's not the point. Cus, it's supposed to be in context of the plot. But, anyhow.

It's funny, how it's said that love is an emotion that's unconditional and inexhaustible, that transcends time and space, that's somehow able to be felt across countries over the telephone, or little text messages throughout a busy day.

Well, I don't know. Somehow I believe, or am led to believe, from the trends I'm seeing, that circumstances do make a relationship, or break it, somehow, no matter how much we'll like to reject that fact.

Yea, go on about love sustaining itself despite parental objection, go on about love sustaining itself over long periods of time across great distances, go on about love sustaining itself despite mutually exclusive religious beliefs or personal morals, go on.

This is real life, not a fairy tale.

In real life, I'm somehow being led to believe that circumstances do dictate your ability / willingness to love someone, from the trends that I'm seeing in my circle of friends, for what it's worth, if anything at all.

Where I live, long-distance relationships never work, angry parents definitely don't go down too well, and mutually exclusive religious beliefs (like Christianity and Buddhism) never, ever go very far. I repeat, take it in for what it's worth, cus it's all according to stupid trends I'm seeing in my life.

You know what I think? I think we, as people in general, watch too much TV. Yep, that's right. We watch / read too much fiction. We watch romantic films about two polar opposites ending up in love and together despite a whole flood of persecution and bullpop. We watch little shows that go, we happen to be in the same record store, our hands reach for the same CD, our eyes meet, and time stops. We watch too much bullpop dramas where everything in our world crumbles, and he / she's there to save the world and love you for ever and ever and ever.

I think we should all stop fooling ourselves with fiction yada-yada, especially where love is concerned. Yes, double standards are apparent here, with me going on and on about this whole fiction thing in the midst of a novel myself, but hey, at least I know the distinction.

What happens here is, we create little worlds in our heads, where boy A meets girl A, boy A falls in love with girl A, boy A asks girl A out, and tumble-bumble-rumble, they live happily ever after. I don't know, I used to be totally into that whole romantic story bullpop, until I opened my eyes and experienced real life, where love's one hell of a pain in the neck, and nothing ever happens the way you imagine it to in your head. Ever. Ever. Ever.

Okay, I'm probably blabbering too much about stuff that doesn't mean a thing to anyone, and I'll probably regret publishing this in the morning, but it's just the insomniac in me talking, so ignore me if this is annoying / offensive / whatever. I'll just go back to reading my book, and hopefully I'll fall asleep before the part when she blows her jaw off.

P.S. Before I click the "publish" button, I'd just like to say that I didn't mean a thing I just spent about an hour and a half typing. Yea, yea, yea. Contradiction over contradiction over contradiction. Oh well, can't blame me for not being coherent at this time of the night. I'm tired as hell, and my eyes are freaking shot (in the worst way possible, as in, in the uber wide-open bullpop, pain in the neck with work tomorrow morning way). Not a cool feeling. Definitely not conducive for coherent and sound blog publications.

Anyway, despite all the rubbish my insomniac self has written, and despite all the trends around me encouraging otherwise, I still love her with all our differences and mutually exclusive beliefs.

So much for real life.

This is what you get, when you mess with love.

Night, people.

Resolutionize.

2008-12-30T23:15:00.000-08:00

I'm about eight hours away from 2009, and I'm still stuck at work, willing the second hand to pass just a little faster (figure of speech, of course, in this digital age). Natalie is out doing some random attachment thing, and people around me are busy clicking phone lines, pushing clients to sign IDA grants and arranging meet-ups with potential customers.

I've been thinking about what I want to achieve in 2009, since it's a new year and, like they say, a fresh start and clean sheet to do whatever. Not a whole lot to look forward to in 2009, it being the start of my 20-month course in NS (which I dread immensely, for various reasons). Anyhow, there is still potential for lots to be achieved. Since I'm a big fan of lists, here's a nice one to mark the end of 2008, and the start of 2009.

3. Spend more time at home. Not counting the 12am-7am I'm in my room asleep, I've been spending roughly an hour or two a week actually at home. That's not healthy, is it?

2. Lead a more self-disciplined life. I need to learn to suck it up and stop making stupid excuses for myself. Need. To. Practise. MORE. MORE. MORE. MOOOOORE.

1. Patience. Cause some things in life are worth waiting for.

P.S. I know I'm supposed to be working now, but poor distribution of workload is one of the many dis-economies of scale that comes with a corporate firm, also one that is particularly hard to fix. Hahaha. :D

Work, And Everything Else.

2008-12-25T23:11:00.001-08:00

So I've been feeling rather uninspired, lately. Might be my job, which doesn't require much creative input (none, in fact). Might be my disappointment/dissatisaction with myself over several areas in my life (which I do not want to elaborate) leading to a mental block of some sort. Or, it just might be another one of those days (weeks, more likely) where you just feel pretty dry, mentally.

Rewind to a couple of months ago, and there I was, in the midst of my A level's, suffocating under the weight of tutorial outlines on the factors that led to the collapse of Communist USSR, under annotated copies of The Handmaid's Tale, of Great Expectations, of Othello. Suffocating, and just holding on, willing myself to revise the J-curve effect and the Philips Curve one more time, telling myself, it will soon be over, and it will be worth it. Hang in there, Marcus. Just one more month, and you can play your guitar for as long as you want, and you can write into the night, without worrying about waking up at 7am the next day to begin another torturous day in school. Just hang in there, Marcus.

The funny thing is, that period of immense pressure and sheer mental stress also happened to be the most inspired period of my life, when I felt words flowing out of my hands onto my notebook, chords hopping out of my guitar and into the computer, lyrics spilling out of my pen and onto paper. All that, between long days of school, and short nights of rest.

Fast-forward to today, and I've got all the time in the world, in supposedly the most relaxed and carefree environment, without the worries of school grades, and the stress of a major examination. I was looking forward to today, me being stuck in the pre-A's period, just praying for today to come, so that I can write, record, filter, edit, produce. So that I could do everything I wanted to do, before the A's were over. I have the luxury of time to go look at bands playing in pubs for inspiration. I have the luxury of time to read book after book to try and ignite some creativity within me. I have the luxury of time to sit at home all day, guitar on lap, pen and paper on desk.

I guess I was wrong, then.

Maybe I do like school life and all the stress/depression/frustrated hair-pulling/struggling against the clock/overwhelming workload/shaky relationships/annoying people/hair checks/stale uniform/boring routine/18-hour days/lack of freedom.

Somehow, it seemed to work, in every sense of the word.

Where I'm At.

2008-12-22T18:37:00.001-08:00

Just get their signature on, that's all that matters, was what I overheard. What happens here is, we cold call, we arrange a meet-up, we convince, we seal the deal. Simple. What happens after is, we design, we filter, we produce. Websites, that is. Websites for air-conditioning companies, for interior design agencies, for amateur cafe owners, for law firms.

Where I am in that equation, I'm not sure, but it's somewhere between the sealing of the deal, and the designing of the actual website. All I know is, I've got to organize, to re-arrange, to paraphrase, to label. All that matters is, I'm getting paid seven bucks and hour, eight hours a day, five days a week. Everything else is secondary, was what I overheard.

What they don't tell you about the corporate world, or rather, what they don't like telling you about, is that money is everything.

All that talk about employee motivation and union pride, bullshit, was what I overheard. Where we work, business is our religion, and money, our god.

Simple.

Dear You,

2008-12-22T18:36:00.001-08:00

I wish there was a way for me to tell you how much I miss you.

He Died with Her Heart in His Hands.

2008-12-22T18:35:00.000-08:00

Not a sound. Blank, cold as Russian air. You pray for movement. Silence. Time as compressed life. You pray for motion. Dead, pale as ice. You pray for something.

Anything.

You're passing through time, and all you hear is your own heart, your blood, pumping in your ears. You're numb. From the cold air, or from the stillness inside, you don't know. It doesn't matter. Your mind wanders, and you smile to yourself. You try. I wish we were in a better place, you think to yourself. I wish there was something I could have done. For us.

Anything.

Where you are, you can't see a thing. Blank, dark as Russian life. You breathe. Your lungs pull hard, and all you're thinking of is, I don't want to die. Not now. Not here. Not when there's so much to be done. So much to say.

Where she is, you're not sure. All you have left is your memory. Your recollection of history. Your little inventory of the past. Your little list of everything that has ever happened. Every little, stupid, pathetic word you've ever said.

All you have left, is this.

It might be a hallucination, but you think you see something stir. Not in front of you, but right beside. You try to turn your head, and all you're thinking of is, I don't want to die. Not now. Not here. I'm afraid, you think to yourself. What you're afraid of, you don't know. It doesn't matter. Not like anything matters, now.

All you have left, is you.

It might be your imagination, but you think you hear someone speak. Whispers, murmurs. Sound as filled space. Dialogue. Whispers. Murmurs. You struggle to make out the words, and all you're thinking of is, I don't want to die. Not now. Not here. I need to get out, you say, in your head.

All you have left, is nothing.

You hear a metallic click, and you feel your eyes scream from the brilliance that floods the room. You hear a hundred, a thousand voices fill the air. A droning chant. Screams. Pounding. Crackling. Metal screeching hard against bone, skin, flesh. Sound as dissonant noise. Your skin burns like fire, and all you're thinking of is, I don't want to die. Not now. Not here. Not this way. Not when there's so much to be done. So much to say, so much to feel.

All you have left, is

Love Me, Love Me, Love Me.

2008-12-22T18:33:00.001-08:00

Cause of death?

The doctor looks up, and says, I can’t tell exactly from the decay, but I would say Cerebral Ischemia, as with most cases of hanging.

I stare blankly, and he goes on.

It happens when the Carotid Arteries close due to excess pressure, in this case, off the noose. When that happens, the brain doesn’t receive enough blood flow to maintain neurological function.

I ask, in short, he got suffocated?

Yes, I would assume.

I look at the month old corpse hanging off the chandelier, and I feel my brunch burrito crawling up the back of my throat. The smell is overwhelming, like a mixture of stale damp air and putrid flesh. I’ve been looking at corpses for a decade and a half, but I never really get past the nausea and tightening of my gut every time I see another.

This one is particularly jarring, being that far into stage five of decomposition, or Butyric fermentation. A corpse in Butyric fermentation, as I’ve learnt in my criminal investigation course, can be identified by the drying up of the body and shrinkage of tissue as the fluids drain off the body, leaving the corpse unidentifiable by appearance. The flesh off the face would, by then, have either fallen off or reached a deformed state. Maggots would start to chew through whatever moist flesh was left, and beetles would feed on the skin and ligaments, depositing their larvae in small, damp sockets of eaten out flesh.

The corpse lets out a long, rancid breath, right in my face as I lift it off the noose. Lifting it releases the pressure from the rope, which had acted, till this point, as a pressure cap to keep the air in it’s lungs. Without the pressure from the noose, all the air inside is released in one long, sour puff. The corpse’s last breath, as it’s called in the field.

I can taste the refried beans and minced beef in my mouth.

I walk around slowly, and I take snapshots of the apartment. It definitely has a couple of decades on it, but it is immaculately maintained nevertheless. The place is clean. Too clean, almost. It reminds me of a hotel room the first time you step into it. Neat, dust-free, but cold and most definitely uncomfortable. There is a sense of detachment that lingers in the stagnant air, like a mist that wouldn’t go away. Maybe, it’s the corpse. The way it hangs alone in the room, neglected and forgotten despite being a mere metre away from the paper-thin walls that separate this apartment from the next.

Where I live, hundreds of people occupy the same building, separated by mere walls of concrete about a quarter of a meter thin. Where I live, hundreds of people share the same elevator, the same water pipes, the same central heating system. Where I live, hundreds of people see the same hundreds of faces every day along the corridors and lift lobbies, but no one smiles. Hundreds of people move in and out of the building like clockwork, day in and day out, but no one speaks.

I ask, when did the body get discovered?

Just yesterday, the doctor says. A cleaner noticed the newspapers and magazine subscriptions piling up at the doorstep, and called the landlord to ask if the room was still rented. The deceased’s name was still registered, so the tenant decided to enter the room to check if it was occupied.

Didn’t the neighbours notice anything at all prior to that?

No, I’m afraid not, the doctor says.

The doctor says, the door is made of heavy fireproof material. Dry, compressed Mahogany coated with a mixture of a thermoplastic, a film former such as a polyvinyl acrylic acetate latex, and alumina trihydrate. Acts like an air-tight seal, pretty much.

He brushes a mixture of talcum powder and cornstarch on the door knob, looking for fingerprints that might not belong to the deceased. Just to keep a record, as he liked to put it. Kneeling, he prods the rubber base of the door with the end of his Parker. Stiff and dry. Working like a charm.

An air-tight door amongst hundreds and hundreds of other air-tight doors. Thin, hard carpeting lining lacquered wooden floor panels. Moth-eaten wallpaper of vomit yellow flowers on a pale blue backdrop. Dull florescent lamps bathing the air in a soft halo. Rows upon rows of vacuum cabins in air-conditioned hallways.

A mortuary for the living.

The apartment door doesn’t have the conventional gap at the bottom that most places did. It is hinged tightly to the floor, with a small strip of rubber right at the bottom. To keep potential fires in. To prevent the smoke from engulfing the entire building. To prevent a body from being discovered for almost a month.

A small black-and-white photograph of Albert King stands alone on the lime green wall, laminated and yellow with age. It is slightly creased and has the cellophane layer peeling off a top corner. There is a small handwritten date at the bottom, the 25th of August, 1972. A day in the life of Albert King, captured and sealed forever in that little photograph.

If you can freeze time in a photograph, can you, perhaps, freeze the happy moments, and forget the sad?

Albert King is wearing euphoria on his face. Leaning back with his eyes closed, he stands, one leg on a platform monitor, the other on the matt surface of the stage, pulling hard on the strings of his Gibson Flying V.

A moment in time, captured and sealed forever in that little photograph.

If only it really works that way.

I stare at the photograph. It seems to burn right through me, almost in silent protest of my intrusion into the apartment. A lone photograph on the wall. A lone corpse hanging off a chandelier. A single lead line from Albert King’s 12-bar Blues, echoing slowly in the small apartment room.

I ask, signs of struggle?

None.

Motive?

No idea. I’ve yet to I.D the guy.

I take a step towards the corpse, and crouch over as I reach into the pockets of it’s cargo pants, checking for a wallet or some potential form of identification.

It’s.

That’s what it is. It.

In death, we become it. In death, we lose our sex, our names, our history. We become it. The deceased. The late. In death, our lives are compressed into single documents fine printed in Times New Roman, stashed and hidden away in a metal file cabinet forever. In death, we become just that.

Nothing.

John Trevor, it reads.

The doctor says, poor fella. He probably had his whole life in front of him at 18. What a pity to end it.

John Trevor looked to be a promising young man, from his I.D. photograph. Skinny, with high cheekbones. A full head of long, jet black hair.

Final year of his political science course, I say, reading off his student I.D.

Pity. Real pity.

I ask, should we look into it?

Into what?

The motive.

The cause.

The trigger factor.

Anything.

No one ever commits suicide without a trigger. More often than not, it’s love that drives young victims to suicide, or the lack thereof. Sometimes, it’s the pressure of meritocracy. I’ve seen one too many cases of suicide over a single B in a neat row of A’s.

A single B.

Meritocracy at it’s finest.

We are a generation of over-achievers, literally dying for perfection.

The doctor says, I doubt you’ll be able to get anything out of it, really. Teenage suicides happen all the time. It could really be a reaction to some break-up or quarrel. Stupid, yes, immature, definitely, but entirely possible. You never know, especially when it comes to teenagers and relationships.

It’s funny how, no matter how much you think you love someone, you’ll still pay someone else to clear up the mess when you see their body smashed into a million pieces at the bottom of a skyscraper, or hanging off a chandelier in stage five of decomposition, in Butyric fermentation.

The doctor removes his glasses, and places them into his breast pocket, almost as a gesture of closing the case.

It’s late, he says. Let’s pack up.

Wait.

September 14th, 2007: I’m sorry.

A small notebook, tightly sealed with a leather binding.

September 17th, 2007: I really am.

Right at the back of the desk drawer, buried under old novels and History texts.

September 22nd, 2007: Please, say you’re still proud of me.

A diary.

September 30th, 2007: Please, tell me you’re still there.
`
October 2nd, 2007: God, what have I become?

October 3rd, 2007: Give me pain.

October 5th, 2007: Give me wrath.

October, 9th, 2007: Give me destruction.

October, 10th, 2007: Give me anything to make it go away.

October 12th, 2007: God, I’m sorry.

October 19th, 2007: I hate you.

October 20th, 2007: I FUCKING HATE YOU.

October 21st, 2007: GET OUT OF MY LIFE.

October 22nd, 2007: I hate you.

October 25th, 2007: God, thank you, for nothing.

October 26th, 2007: Love me, love me, love me, love me.

October 27th, 2007: Hate me.

October 28th, 2007: I pray for malice.

October 29th, 2007: The voices are killing me.

October 30th, 2007: Maybe love isn’t the answer.

November 1st, 2007: Shut up.

November 5th, 2007: Maybe God made a mistake.

November 7th, 2007: SHUT UP.

November 8th, 2007: That isn’t John Trevor.

November 9th, 2007: Someone make this go away.

November 10th, 2007: That’s my I.D., but that isn’t John Trevor.

November 11th, 2007: Give me fire.

November 12th, 2007: I killed him.

November 15th, 2007: Give me pain.

November 19th, 2007: Run a DNA test. That’s Lewis Bronson, aged 19.

November 20th, 2007: Give me suffering.

November 21st, 2007: I killed him.

November 22nd, 2007: Give me anything to make them go away.

November 23rd, 2007: I KILLED HIM.

November 24th, 2007: Monster.

November 25th, 2007: I KILLED HIM. I FUCKING KILLED HIM.

November 26th, 2007: I’m a monster.

November 27th, 2007: I’m sorry.

November 28th, 2007: I’m sorry, God.

November 29th, 2007: I really am.

November 30th, 2007: Please, say you’re still proud of me.

December, 2nd, 2007: Please.

Perhaps.

2008-12-22T18:32:00.002-08:00

Someone at a bar once told me that hard Vodka was proof of God's existence. That warm tingly feeling you get when you down a shot of Vodka, he used to say. That was an angel of God descending into your body. That hour-long high. That kaleidoscope view of the world. That ease of mind and body. That release from anything and everything. That, he used to say, was proof of God's existence within us.

Of course, he probably had a pint and a half of Vodka flowing through his veins and was probably too damned stoned to make any sense, but yea. It's funny how we all need something physical to remind us of our existence. Something more than a little book of miscellaneous stories and sappy love poems, bound together proclaiming the creation of man from mud and earth. Something more than prophetic speeches about a time we would not live to see. Something more than lonely nights by the bedside talking to ourselves, hoping and wishing for some form of control over our lives. Something more than sheer, blind faith.

We're a society desperate for assurance.

We need good grades and stiff hats to tell us that we're smart. We need high-flying careers and complete families to remind us that we're successful in life. We need large social networks and lively parties to remind us that we're not alone. We need God to remind us that life doesn't end with the big unkown. We need religion to assure us that we'll go somewhere after we die.

We're a society slowly dying of inter-dependence, of insatiable need for assurance.

Sometimes, I wonder, if God wasn't there to grant us eternal life in heaven, would we still worship him as we do now? If God didn't grant believers eternal life, if we all had the same destination after death irregardless of our religious ideologies, would there still be the large wave of evangelism that's sweeping our world today? Would people still offer their tithes and praises to God if I told them that we all go to hell after we die, whether we live as Christians or not?

Perhaps, what we need is reassurance. Reassurance that, perhaps, death isn't the end.

Sometimes, I wish I could take a little escapade around the local graveyard deep into the night, and see something. Anything. Anything to assure me that death isn't the end. I used to pray for zombies and little frankensteins to pop out of the ground, one by one, surrounding me and pumping their fists in the air in a chaotic frenzy. I used to pray for half-rotting hands to reach out from the ground, groping and clawing at the air, stretching out to grab my ankles and pull me deep under the dirt. I used to pray for vampires to descend upon me and dig their fangs as deep as they can go into the side of my neck, drawing till I turned white in the face. Even if I were torn to shreds by a multitude of hungry werewolves under the light of a full moon, at least I'll know that death isn't the end.

It's not death that frightens me. It's the cessation of existance that does. Closely related, but yet not so. A dying of our consciousness. A removal of whatever awareness we have over our lives and our world. A void where our minds once were.

Perhaps, just perhaps, we really do need reassurance.

On Hopes and Dreams.

2008-12-22T18:31:00.000-08:00

So I was at Baybeats the past three days. While the bands weren't as good as I had expected, save for a few of them, I definitely enjoyed the experience of the local music festival. Very inspiring indeed.

All around me, there were hundreds and hundreds of hopeful musicians, all with a little dream in their heads (at least I assume they do). Talk about how so-and-so's sound wasn't very clean, about how the singer went flat here, about how the drums killed the house. It was really an amazing feeling, being in the midst of people like myself, just drawing in the vibes and small waves of inspiration that floated around the Waterfront.

Then, came a small revelation. It's definitely a whole lot easier to let someone else live your Rockstar Dreams (yes, I'm capitalizing both words) then it is to live it yourself. When the bands were playing, I could feel the sense of hope, of yearning, of determined passion that just pulsated in the crowd. All we want, need, is to touch that little dream. To become a part of what we have always dreamt of becoming, at least.

At least.

It's a lot easier to let someone else live your Rockstar Dreams for you, then it is for you to struggle hard and work against the grain of society. It's so much easier to just hang around as part of the audience, wishing and dreaming of one day being on that stage, then it is to actually put aside 10 hours a day of practice and pure, disciplined hard work to actually be on that stage.

It's so much easier to let concert DVDs and music festivals live your Rockstar Dreams for you, then it is for you to live them yourself.

People ask me what I want to be when I grow up, and I'm always so tempted to tell them, I want to be a Rockstar. But, of course, I don't. In Singapore, no one believes in dreams. No one believes that every super athelete and guitar god starts out as a nobobdy. No one believes that, perhaps, you could be that nobody who becomes somebody. No one believes in dreams.

It's a sad fact, but it's one I have grown to accept. When people ask me what I want to be when I grow up, I tell them I want to be a journalist, a writer, a newspaper editor. I tell them I want to be down to earth, and play guitar as a hobby. I tell them that I want to settle down one day, set up my own family, and just let life go on. I tell them that, perhaps, one day when I'm older, I'll just look back and smile that the Rockstar Dream I once had when I was 18.

I lie. All the damned time.

What we see at Baybeats is the glorified half of that little dream we all have. That magical moment, akin to a sprinter setting a world record for the 100m dash. What we see is that world record, that perfectly executed song, that high note that sends chills down your spine. What we see is that successful erection of chain after chain of a local franchise. What we see is the media's portrayal of our dreams, where talent allows one to attain that kind of glory.

What we don't see, is the hours of interval runs and strict daily diet of an Olympic sprinter. What we don't see, is the hours of practicing boring scales and chord transitions all day, every day. What we don't see, is the painful process of resourcing and networking that comes with entrepreneurship.

I don't believe in talent.

Talent is just a sugar-coated way of describing hours upon hours a day of sweat and blood (not literally in this case) a day. Talent is a lazy man's way of justifying his inability to commit that level of dedication to a cause he as deemed just for himself.

Talent is nothing.

No Rockstar, or super athelete, or successful businessman out there ever, ever, achieves his/her goals with talent. Never. There isn't anything in your life you're proud of having accomplished without you putting in the hard work necessary.

That shall be my new life motto.

My mum always tells me to give up my dreams, cus, you know, they won't ever come to pass. This is Singapore, she tells me. No one makes it big in Singapore. I want to tell her, then watch me be the first, but I don't.

Perhaps, she's right. Perhaps, all this talk about making it big is just part and parcel of growing up. Perhaps, it's just what hopeful teenagers think about when they're young and immature. Perhaps, it's just something that I will grow out of.

You know how, when we are small, we dream the biggest dreams possible? Oh, I want to be an astronaunt and fly to the moon. Oh, I want to become a pilot and fly around the world. Oh, I want to become a professional actor and shake the hands of the biggest names of Hollywood.

When we were small, we dared to dream big, cus no one told us we couldn't. As we get older, we start to realise, or, are conditioned to realise that, hey, maybe we won't fly to the moon after all.
That maybe we should settle with watching documetaries on discovery channel about space travel and the different cultures of the world.

We don't dare to dream big anymore, cus people tell us we can't.

Maybe, I'll regret all this someday, when I eventually hit the end of the road and have to give up all that I've struggled for. Maybe, I'll lecture myself in 10 years for believing in this stupid dream, and lament at the fact that I've wasted all my youth chasing something that I know won't ever come to pass.

Maybe, I'll just move on with life and never look back at this big dream I once had.

Please be more pragmatic, people tell me. Stop being naive.

Maybe, I'm just being plain naive in believing that I can make it.

I guess life's like that. Especially life in Singapore. No one makes it. We are all doomed to become part of this rat race called life. We are all doomed to working our butts off for that nice condo and perfect life. We are all doomed to setting up a family, and striving hard to give them a comfortable life. We are all doomed to work until our retirement age, then work some more cus we realise that money buys us happiness. Money buys plane tickets and pleasure cruise packages. Money buys nice clothes and good food. Money makes us happy.

Life's like that, I guess.

I know this is a pretty long read, but yea, I guess I needed to make my thoughts known. Oh well. Back to prelims, cus hey, we all need a degree to become successful in life, don't we? Music can't feed me. Stable 9-5 jobs can. This is life. And at some point, it has to go on.

* * *

Here are some pictures of my favourite band that played at Baybeats, Transition.

Maybe, just maybe, I can be a part of that one day.

Birth, Death, and Everything in Between.

2008-12-22T18:30:00.001-08:00

Dad asks me to wake Mum up else she’ll be late for work, then Dad tells me Mum’s dead. Dad asks if I want my eggs scrambled or half-boiled, then Dad asks if I wanted to see Mum at the morgue. Dad gives me a kiss on the cheek before going to work, then Dad tells me that Mum’s dead from a fatal car accident on their way to work.

Isn’t death something that only happens on TV? I mean, people don’t really die, do they?

Dad’s crying. I’ve never seen him cry. He looks just like me, after I’ve gotten my butt thoroughly whipped by that monster of his leather belt.

Did he get his butt whipped by his Dad?

Dad tells me that their car collided with the side of a truck at a cross-junction when he tried to run the red light, in his rush to get to work on time. Mum left her seatbelt off, dad said, and her body got flung out of the Subaru through the windscreen.

Dad’s not crying anymore. He’s just looking straight at me, telling me that it’s going to be alright. He’s hugging me, and he’s telling me that Mum’s in a better place right now.

Where? Ben & Jerry’s? Don’t tell me she’s at Ben & Jerry’s without me, I say. She promised to bring me there this week. She promised.

I know, Jason, I know.

Mum’s favourite was Raspberry Swirl. Dad’s was straight Vanilla. Mine was Cookie Dough. We could never agree on what to buy home, but we always, always ended up buying Cookie Dough, even with Dad’s protests.

Dad’s crying again. I love you, Jason. I love you so, so much. Dad kisses me, and I’m wondering if Street Sharks is on already.

Dad, can I go watch TV now? I think my show’s on.

Dad wipes his tears off, and clears his throat.

Yes, Jason, you may.

When’s Mum coming home?

She’s not, Jason.

Dad buries his face into his large hands, and he runs his fingers hard through his silver hair.

You mean, she’s never coming home again?

Dad doesn’t speak, but the slow shaking of his head left to right tells me that I’ll never see Mum again.

Dad starts to cry.

I ask Dad, who’ll read me my stories before bed? Who’ll tuck me in and kiss me good night? Who’ll leave the door ajar as she walks out so that the monsters in my closet won’t come out to bite me?

She’s in a better place now, Jason. She’s in a happier place.

* * *

I wake up, and Dad’s not there. There’s a little post-it on the fridge door, and there’s a glass of milk with Oreos on the table.

Jason, I’m going to meet Uncle James this morning. He called me last night to check if everything was alright, and I’m going to arrange your mother’s funeral with him now. I know this is sudden to you, but I’ll try and be back as soon as I can to talk to you. I love you, Jason.

I’m eating my Oreos, and I’m watching TV. Biker Mice doesn’t start till 11, I say to myself.

I’m drinking my milk, and I see a small corner of a photograph on the coffee table, slipping out under a huge pile of yellow and pink slips. I pull it out, and I see a picture of a woman. She’s not wearing any clothes. She’s skinny, like Mum, and has long golden hair. She’s wearing this black thing on top of her head, with two bunny ears sticking out at the top. She must get a lot of mosquito bites without any clothes, I think to myself.

Private house parties, office functions, or just plain, old boredom. We have ladies for all occasions, everyday, all day. Call 9600-GIRLSFORHIRE.

Good morning, girls for hire, how may I address you, the phone asks.

I’m Jason, I say.

Hi sir, how many would you like?

How many what?

The phone stops talking for a while, and I hear little whispers that my small ears can’t interpret.

Ladies, sir.

Oh, just one.

What type of lady are you looking for?

I need a mum, I tell the phone.

A mum?

Yes, please.

How old are you, sir?

11 this August.

More silence, followed by more whispering.

Okay sir. May I confirm your address?

* * *

I’m watching Biker Mice, and the doorbell rings.

Hello, a tall lady at the door says.

Hi.

Wow, you’re really... Young.

I smile, and the lady gives me a funny look, like how Mum used to look at me when I spit out my spinach after chewing it for a good minute and a half.

You want to come in, I ask?

Yea, I guess so.

We sit down in front of the TV, and I’m watching Biker Mice.

So, what do you want me to do?

I don’t know, I say.

The tall lady asks, you want me to remove my clothes now?

Why would you want to do that?

Kid, do you have any idea what number you’ve called this morning?

Yea. It says, ladies for all occasions. I need a mum. Mum’s not home this morning.

Dear God, the lady says, hitting her forehead with her palm. I thought you were a freaking perv for one second, dammit. Gosh. They should really change that slogan and make it more obvious, in case more 12-year olds start calling us up when their mums are at work.

I ask, what’s a perv?

The lady smiles, and says, it’s okay dear. It’s okay. Where’s your mum, she asks, is she at work?

Oh, Dad says she’s dead. She died in a car accident last morning, and I really miss her. No one read me a story last night, and I couldn’t sleep till Dad came over and read it for me.

The lady’s not talking. She looks as though she is trying real hard to believe me.

Mum used to leave my door slightly open as I slept, I say, wide enough so that a little stream of light would come in. She said that the light would keep the monsters in my closet, and they wouldn’t come out and bite me. Dad closed the door right behind him last night, and I cried until he left it like Mum did.

The lady has black mascara tears flowing out her eyes, and she wipes them with her finger, smearing a large print of black across her cheeks.

I always woke up to Mum’s singing into my ear. No one sang to me this morning. No one reminded me to brush me teeth, so I didn’t.

Oh God, you poor child. She’s hugging me like Dad did yesterday. She’s holding me tight, like I would fly off with the winds if she didn’t. She’s burying her head into my hair, and I can feel it soaking her tears up like a sponge. Her shoulders go up long, then down, down, down in little sobs. She rubs her hand on my back, and she hugs tighter.

I like hugs.

My poor, poor, child, she says, in between sniffs and sobs.

I ask, Dad did a poor job of it last night, would you please read me Gulliver’s Travels?

Trains.

2008-07-12T23:42:00.000-07:00

I look out the window, and all I can see is a kaleidoscope blur of city lights dancing across a backdrop of sheer darkness.

It’s beautiful.

She’s beautiful.

The train rumbles on in a lulling drone, and I hear, faintly behind me, the crackle of an old radio struggling to hold on to a channel frequency. At this time of the year, the train car is almost empty, save for a few scruffy backpackers and white-collar businessmen.

Leaning on my shoulder, I can smell the soft scent of her hair. Mild, subtle, but always there. I want to reach over and touch her hands, to tell her how much I’ve missed her, but I don’t.

The train car hits an uneven stretch of tracks, jerking slightly to the left, and I’m holding my breath.

I look at her, and she’s still asleep. Her head bobs slowly to lull of the train, and I see her eyes stir, closed. I want to run my fingers in her hair, to kiss her and tell her how much she means to me, but I don’t.

I remember when we first met, right on this very train, a year and a half ago. Nothing much had changed. She is still the beautiful angel she is today, the ever-smiling and always cheerful spark I had grown to love. She is still the witty, care-free bohemian I had fallen in love with, the inspiring and ceaselessly creative mind I had grown to respect immensely.

She moves slightly, and I can’t feel my arm. I want to reach over and lift her tired body off mine, to ease the discomfort that her lying on me for hours on end had brought about, but I don’t.

I’m afraid.

I’m afraid of moving, even the slightest bit. I’m afraid of moving, and losing this moment we have together, forever.

The Star of David hangs bold across her neck, catching the white florescent of the train lights.

I remember the first time I brought her into my household. Just last year, during the year’s end. I remember, vividly as it were yesterday, the look of disgust on my parents, and theirs, upon looking at her. They asked, even without speaking to her, for they could not bring themselves to, you brought a Jewish woman into our home?

Deep inside, I knew that it would turn out this way, but I, being ever hopeful and, perhaps, a little naive, thought that, maybe, just maybe, it would be different this time.

Don’t be foolish, child, don’t be foolish, they said, as I left, her hand in mine.

I set out onto the Palestinian sands that engulfed the land, and I saw, hidden by her hands, tears that stained her face. Tears of disappointment, or of heartache, or even of the piercing winds, I did not know, and still do not, till this day, this moment in time.

I’m afraid of knowing.

I don’t want to know, for it means that I can spend that much more time in the past, when things were a lot less complicated. It’s funny how, something as simple as the name you call your God by, can, without end, pull two people apart, forever. It’s funny how, for the unconditional love that is said to be of greatest moral importance, for the un-judging, un-exhaustible care that is said to be poured upon us perpetually, we cannot love someone who call’s Him by a different name.

The train will be stopping in an hour’s time, and I’m afraid of losing this moment forever.

I want to pull her close, to feel her lips on mine, to tell her how much I love her, truly, more than anyone I’ve ever had, but I don’t.

I don’t, because I’m afraid of losing her.

The train rumbles on in a lulling drone, and I try to sleep. Perhaps, if I could fall asleep with her in my arms, I could wake up this way as well. Perhaps, if I could fall asleep right now, at this very point in time, I would be able to make this moment last that much longer, somehow.

Somehow.

I wake up to sound of metal tearing hard against metal, and I hear, for a split second, a deafening silence. The lull of the train had stopped completely, and the reverberations of the train car had ceased entirely.

She wakes up, and I rub my arm, feeling the warm blood pour back into my veins. The small star on her neck shines bright, this time, off the brilliance of the morning sun, and she smiles.

I want to smile back, but I’m afraid.

Without a word, she gathers her belongings.

I want to hold her arm, to hug her close, to tell her how much I want her to stay by my side forever, but I don’t.

I ask, will you be okay on your own?

I’ll be fine, she says.

I ask, will I see you again, soon?

I hope.

I want to tell her how much I love her, how much I need her, how I'll never again sleep as soundlessly as I’ve had with her by my side, but I don’t.

She walks away, ever so gracefully, and I feel, deep inside, something dying.

The train doors close, and I hear, once again, the lulling drone of the car starting up slowly upon the tracks.

I look out the windows, and I can’t see her any more, lost in the sea of people very much like herself, here in the heart of Israel.

In my hand, I’m holding a photograph, of her, and myself, standing tall against a backdrop of a clear blue sky and a sheer desert.

The train leaves the station, and it takes along with it, forever, perhaps, memories of the times we once had.

Smile.

2008-07-12T23:41:00.000-07:00

I touch your cold skin, and I feel alive. I feel like a part of you. I belong to you, and you, to me. I run a finger down the length of your body, and I start to sweat. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. I cannot let my perspiration dirty your smooth, cold skin.

I look at your pale body glowing under the white florescent, and I feel alive. There's just this something about the way you sleep, on that table, calm as an empty tree on a still winter night. It empowers me. I love the way you smile. I love the way your thin lips are frozen blue, and I love the way your eyes are welded shut. You look so surreal, so peaceful, sleeping under that little white light.

I breathe in the soft scents of your body, and I feel it diffusing into my blood. The dry smell of earth, the clean soap from your bath the night before. I smile to myself under the white light, and I make a mental note to buy that same type of soap again, for the future. It smells good.

The knife catches the light as I pick it up, still sharp from an hour's work the night before. I scratch it against the base of my palm, and I jump slightly from the chill of the blade. I hope you don't mind. I place the fresh blade against your skin, and I feel it connect. I feel it become one with your body. I feel it sinking slowly. I feel it touch your bones.

There is no blood. I know from enough experience that cold flesh doesn't bleed. I laugh to myself. The stuff I learnt in high school about blood thickening into a yoghurt when chilled and stagnant is finally making sense.

That applies only to the flesh, though. Getting to the torso is messy. Very, very messy. I've learnt my lesson. I'm wearing an apron. Brown canvas, so it won't look stained.

I lay your cold, beautiful body on the table. Or rather, bodies. I laugh to myself. Little word play that makes time pass just that much more quickly. Some organs are priced a little higher than others. The more commonly wanted ones, like the kidneys and the liver, are pricier than the heart, or the brain. It's funny how, in death, your heart and brain are worth close to nothing. I laugh to myself, again.

All that's left of you is your bare soul, now. Your little white frame, dry from the dehumidified air. I pick it up slowly, careful not to break anything. It's funny how souls are often depicted as white balls of healing light within us, floating out of us slowly when we die, as we transcend to the heavens. Well, your soul's white, but it's kinda heavy, and it's splinting. I've never, ever, seen a soul transcend to the heavens.

I place your bodies into little styrofoam crates. I feel sorry for you. A little. I'll remember you, I'll try. I take a dark pen from my back pocket, and I label the crates, in case I forget.

"Pork Shoulder, $4/kilogram."

"Pig liver/kidney, $6/kilogram."

And Beaver Was Her Name.

2008-07-12T23:39:00.000-07:00

It was the kind of thick, grey rain that makes you want to stop in your car no matter where you're going, just because you can't see a damned thing further than half a car length in front of you. I don't know why I stepped in there, really. I just did. I was on my way to a meeting halfway across the country, and wasn't looking forward to it anyway.

The first thing that hit me when I opened the door was the smell. Not exactly one that I would call unpleasant, though. It was like a mixture of cigarette smoke and dried flowers and sweat and cum. I would describe it as the smell of history. The smell of life's stories, both happy and sad.

Anyway, I stepped in there, and I was greeted by this woman. She looked about 25, 30. She wasn't the most good looking woman I had ever seen, but she wasn't ugly either. Her lipstick was tar-black, and her eyes were a shade of grey that reminded me of corpses. She was wearing a pair of tight leather pants held up by a yellowing belt that had holes punched way too shallow for her waist, and had a tattoo, or rather a bunch of tattoos, for a shirt. I felt bad for staring, but I couldn't help looking at the sketches of dinosaurs holding up laser swords and huge-ass guns over a landscape of fire and water swirling up to cover her breasts, complete with barbell studs on her nipples.

It would be polite to say hello first, she said, taking a long drag off her cigarette. I managed to choke out an apology, and properly introduced myself, extending a hand which she ignored. The rivers and white fires ran all the way up to the side of her face, forming little patterns around the multiple piercings on her lips and eye brows. Nice tattoos, I said, still looking a little more than surprised.

Come in, it's freezing out there.

The place was full of scruffy rednecks in denim jackets with cut sleeves and heavy boots that shone under the yellow light of the pub. Tall pitchers of beer and well-worn hands of cards on the table. Black and white photographs of Elvis and Frank Zappa hanging off rusty nails on the wall. A small stage with an old Gibson and a dusty mike. A woman with a bunch of tattoos for a shirt and like half a million piercings on her face.

She led me to a lonely table by the side of the counter, just in front of another occupied by a middle aged guy and this girl dressed in a playboy outfit screaming fake screams of pleasure as they had sex right there and then.

Let me get you a beer, she said.

The place reminded me of old love. It looked like it was going to collapse at any moment, held up by a few bare pillars painted black by cigarette smoke. Yet, it was a place well loved and appreciated. It was a crumbling relic of history, a slice of one's past, a time capsule where one's fondest memories are appreciated and never forgotten.

Memories aren't worth much where I live. No one gets rich and famous living in the past. Our memories can't feed us. They can't clothe us, they can't buy us iPods and Nokia phones. That's what matters, right? Who needs memories when you have DSLR cameras to do all the capturing for you? No one needs to appreciate a beautiful sunset by the river or red and yellow trees during fall when you have the magic that is Google Images. We pay others to depict our lives in books. We pay others to capture our moments in photo albums. We pay others to run our lives, too.

I took a deep gulp of beer. It sucked. Typical cheap house pour. Of course, I din't say that out loud, but the look on my face must have given me away.

Don't ask me why, she said as she refilled my glass. I don't know where they get that stuff from. I don't drink it myself.

I laughed and asked if she'd like to sit down a talk a little. I couldn't help staring at her bare boobs as she took a seat opposite to where I was.

You got a name?

She lit a cigarette and watched it glow a brilliant orange as she pulled hard.

Beaver.

Beaver?

Yea.

She took another pull, twice as long as her first one. I saw her stone grey eyes dilate as her lungs filled with smoke.

How... Unique.

That's what they tell me. And will you stop staring.

I felt my face flush as I looked away, pretending to turn around and check the place out.

God, I pray for a nice big hole, so that I can jump in and never show my face again.

Sorry. Those are pretty interesting tattoos you have.

Yea, she said. Dinosaurs and laser guns. The past and the future. And here we are, right smack in the middle.

And I suppose the flames and rivers represent the clash of the elements?

No, I just thought they looked pretty together, she said, laughing with an intensity that reminded me of a small child.

You own this place?

It's the only fucking thing I have left. By the way, you flirt really badly.

God, put me in a hole NOW, or give me a shovel.

I wasn't trying to. I'm just going to finish my beer and head out as soon as the weather clears.

Yea, that's what they all do.

This is who we are, she says. We are the pit-stops of society. Guys like you come in, tired from hours in front of a steering wheel, and that's when we come in. That's what we're here for. Re-fuel.

No I didn't mean it that way.

You don't have to do explain yourself to anyone, really. She laughs. This time, it's fake.

No, I'm not here for that reason. Believe me, I'm not.

Okay, suit yourself.

We talked for the next hour and a half. We talked about our hopes and dreams. We talked about our past. We talked about the future. We talked about everything we wanted to do, given all the money and resources in the world.

When God created the universe, he created one that was free. He created one that was big enough to accommodate all of us, also one that was big enough for our dreams. When God raised us from the dust of the earth, he also gave us the potential to reach beyond what we believed we were capable of achieving. When God created free will, he created minds strong enough to accomplish every dream that we have the capacity to imagine. He created visions that we are well within reach of. He created a destiny that we are able to reach.

Wow, that was some speech. It's almost as if you're God's messenger or something, I joked.

Please don't think that was lame, please.

Yea, I'm pretty sure God's messengers are named Beaver. I think about shit like that from time to time, she said. Sometimes, life fucks us in the ass, but it's up to us to call it rape or passionate love-making.

Just at our most brilliant moment together, my cellphone went off, just like in all cliched movie scenes. This time, it was no movie scene. It really was a message from my boss, reminding me of the work that was due, and the meeting that I was on my way to attend.

Hey, Beaver. Boss called. Gotta be on my way now. My stepping stone to the future, right?

She winked and stuck her tongue out, exposing the shiny stud.

I payed for the beer and started to head out. The rednecks were still screwing around with the playboy bunnies, and people were still chugging shitty house pours. Between my time before and after, nothing in here had changed. Something in my life had, though.

I turned back to say goodbye to Beaver, and I noticed the yellow light falling on her, reflecting off her deep black hair, almost like a gentle halo that sat right on her head. As she was walking back into the crowd, I couldn't help but stare at the pair of white wings tattooed across her back.

This Is No Invitation.

2008-07-12T23:38:00.000-07:00

*00:09*

Hello, can you hear me? Test, test. Can you hear me? Loud and clear?

Alright.

I don't know how many of you are going to hear this, but yea. I just swallowed some Valium. Not exactly some. More like an entire bottle. It should take about 3 and a half hours for the effects to kick in, and the last 30 minutes or so to kill me. If you can hear this, you would know that I'm already dead. I'm probably lying just beside you right now, on that bed, foaming in the mouth. But yea. This is no homicide. I did this to myself. I held this recorder, I recorded the last 4 hours of my life, and I placed it right there. No one else is involved. Just to set the record straight.

Okay. Now that that's over, let's begin. I've already wasted 5 minutes.

Someone once told me that the only difference between life and a porno was that life began with a orgasm. Mine must have began with a premature ejaculation. I don't know what the fuck went wrong along the way, but my mum told me I used to be a good kid. She said that I was the most beautiful baby that she had ever laid eyes on, and that my birth had made this world a better place for her, and everyone around me.

Liar.

I am this. I am nothing. I am your broken mirror. I am your stray pet. I am your disease. I am the tear in your condom. Truth is, it was never like this. Life used to treat me alot better. At least, I thought it did. Or, maybe, nothing has changed at all, only me. I don't care. Not like it matters. Not like anything matters. Especially when I've only got 4 hours left.

All 18 years of my life, I've been, I don't know, drifting. Waiting for time to pass. Hoping for someone to come and make a difference in my pathetic life. Dreaming of becoming everything that I'm not. I've never done anything to deserve all this, really. I've never skipped class. I've never been late. I've never got into a fight. I've never tasted beer. I've never stolen anything. I've never had casual sex. Yet, in the most fundamental Existentialist sense of things, I've never lived.

I've always asked myself this same question, if my life were to end right now, at this very moment, would I leave happy and satisfied, or die pissed off that there are so many things that I haven't yet done? Frankly, I don't know. That's why I'm doing this. I've got a tape recorder in my pocket, and I've got a wired mini-microphone hidden in my collar.

I'm on the bus right now, on my way to the grocery store. I'm going to steal something. What, I don't know. It doesn't matter. If I didn't have have 35 caps of Valium in me, I wouldn't have the guts to do this. In the book of Zen, there is a quote that goes something like, it's only after you've lost everything are you free to do anything. Right now, I'm free to do whatever the fuck I want.

*50:19*

Should I take the Sour-cream N' Onion, or should I take the Salt N' Vinegar? What the fuck am I talking about, I'll have both. Oh. Mountain Dew. Awesome. Maybe a couple of chewy mints to cleanse the palate.

Hey, where are you going, the lady is shouting right now. Shut the fuck up, bitch. I must be quite a sight, one hand juggling 2 bags of chips, the other holding a half gallon of soda, all the while talking to myself. She's chasing. What the fuck, she's chasing. Dammit.

Stay on the line while I hide from this fat bitch.

*129:24*

Okay. I'm at the back alley of Starbucks right now. Stupid fatass couldn't even run 2 streets, let alone catch me. I dropped the Sour-cream on the way, but at least I still have the other 2. Had I known earlier that it was that easy to get away with stealing, I would have done it. But then again, I probably wouldn't have. What if I was caught on camera? What if the fat lady remembers my face? What if she calls my school? What if, God forbid, she calls my mum?

Not like it matters now.

So this is where they keep all their shit, right at the back. Vanilla powder in large crates. Tinitario cocoa beans in old sacks. Pre-brewed tea in large coolers. Stacks upon stacks of pre-baked scones and English muffins in large tupperware containers. It's mid-morning now, and they're probably at their busiest. In other words, no one is gonna know what the fuck I do to any of those boxes. Plus, I need to piss anyway. Let's hope they really sugar-up the tea before serving it with an additional shot of my rich, dark piss.

My mum said that I used to be such a beautiful baby.

*152:04*

A funny thing, these little brown cubicles are. You go in, speak to a hole in the wall on your side, and it forgives you of your sins. Simple. It's awfully dark in here. The only light I have is coming in from the ventilation blinds on my right. According to the woman at the door, my confession would commence shortly. I would just have to wait right here.

*184:11*

I had a nice conversation with the hole in the wall. None of my questions were answered, and I don't feel saved. But it doesn't matter. All I needed was for someone who would actually shut the fuck up and listen, instead of giving me their own fucked up opinions on everything.

I told the hole in the wall that I had an inclination for men, and that I inserted random objects into my anus while watching gay porn. I sat through several minutes of awkward silence before the hole in the wall asked me how that made me feel. How did what make me feel, I said to the hole in the wall. The pencil in my anus, or my actions? More awkward silence.

I also told the hole in the wall that I often bought kittens and puppies off the pound, and filmed them drowning slowly as I tossed them into pails with little weights clamped to their feet. I also told the hole in the wall that I would shave the kittens and puppies after they've drowned, only to bake them for 40mins at 200'C in the oven I had back at my mum's. Then, I would eat them.

Of course, I lied.

The hole in the wall tried to say something, but nothing came out apart from a few mispronounced fragments of sentences that I couldn't interpret.

If Christ din't die on a cross, but rather at the back of a convenience store, spread eagled in a pool of blood and piss, would we still worship him so?

If no one was there to witness the death of Christ, would we still have our gospels?

If no one had bothered to pen the bible, would there still be Christianity?

People come in here, and when they get out, they feel saved. Are they really? Is anything different at all when they step out?

The hole in the wall wasn't talking anymore, but it's still alive. I can hear it's lungs heaving in and out slowly, albeit in a little more panicked breaths than a few moments ago.

You know what I want? I want to coat my entire body in topical anesthetic. That way, I won't feel pain. I won't feel hate. I won't feel sorrow. I won't feel joy. I won't feel love. I don't want to fucking feel anything anymore.

We are all dead, father. Yes, I know, in the scientific sense of the word, we are not dead. But we are.

You see, our lives are but patterns put together. Patterns already aligned. Patterns that have been repeating itself since the birth of the first man. Born, live, die. There are no unique cases. There are no special beings. You are me, and this is your life. Born, live, die. Everything we do in life has already been done by someone else. We are but zombies chasing patterns. There is no such thing as a coincidence. It's a pattern. There is no such thing as the unexpected. It's a pattern not yet understood. There is no such thing as life. There are only patterns.

Everybody wants to live a life worth living. Everybody wants to become a tycoon, a multi-millionaire, just so that they can have everything and anything they fucking want. People who say otherwise are lying. You cannot put anyone in that situation whereby they are given access to anything and everything in this world and genuinely tell me that they do not wish to be a part of it. They are lying. We are all liars.

If God had created us, he sure did a poor job. Why didn't God invent an off switch?

At this point, the hole in the wall responds with what sounds like the click of a small door, followed by the sound of an airiness that comes with a space that is opened up.

I am forsaken.

*201:43*

I am sitting on the side of my bed right now, and I'm disappointed. There are so many things I've yet to do. I've yet to drive a car. I've yet to have sex. I've yet to see the Mona Lisa. I've yet to fly to Egypt. I've yet to learn more about my past. I've yet to hit someone I hate.

Hello? Can you hear me? Test, test.

Someone once told me that the only difference between life and a porno was that life began with a orgasm. How nice it would be if life could end with one as well. My mum told me that I was a beautiful baby, and that I always will be.

Faker.

I'm so fucking sleepy. SO FUCKING SLEEPY. But I'm not going to waste what's left of my life asleep. I'm going to get up and do some jumping-jacks.

That's what I'm going to do.

I'm going to get up.

Yea. I'll get up.

I'll get up.

I'll...

Time and Tide.

2008-07-12T23:36:00.001-07:00

So here I stand, cigarette between my fingers, eyes fixed on the earth beneath my feet. I close my eyes, feeling the winds caress ever so gently, and I think to myself, what a beautiful world we live in. I start to walk. To where, I don't know. I look around, and I see trees of red, yellow, orange. I see butterflies of sky blue and lipstick red, I hear the crickets sing from all around me, dancing in their song. I take another long drag off my cigarette.

It's a funny thing, how Mother Nature creates, then destroys. These trees and butterflies won't last forever. In fact, they won't last till next month. There is a kind of sick resilience in the way the tress are swaying, and in the way the crickets are singing. It's as if they are fully aware that their end is near, and are in their own way rebelling against Mother Nature by exuding all that is beautiful. So this is what we are put on earth for. To be appreciated, then destroyed.

I stop at a bare patch of sand by the path. I drop the cigarette, and grind in into the ground. Here is where I shall begin. There is no one around at this time of the year. Everyone's busy preparing themselves for the long cold months ahead. No one sees these trees and butterflies. No one cares. All they care about is how much food they have, if the clothes they've got are warm enough. Like a clockwork of robots, they gather food and firewood, they wait out the harsh winds and freezing storms.

I look around for an object to begin my work with. I pick up a small branch, and begin to drag it across the dirt. I feel the rough bark gripping hard onto my fingers. I feel it soften. I feel it melting into my hands. I feel it become alive. A circle, a cross. The symbol of Venus. The symbol of beauty. I take one step back and light another cigarette. It's getting cold.

I pray for the rain to bleed right through,
I pray for the Styx to flood.
I pray for the ground to split right open,
For fire and filth and blood.

I see the symbol of Venus fading. The winds slowly eating away, consuming. This is what we're put on earth for. To be appreciated for that split second. Our lifetimes are but mere flashes in juxtaposition to the entirety of the universe. Mere flashes of beauty. Beauty that is created, only to be destroyed.

Cus I'm praying for mayhem,
And I'm praying for tidal waves.
I wanna see the ground give way.
I wanna watch it all go down.