I am sulking.

I do not why I am sulking, but I am. I have friends who can sulks for days, and probably longer, feeling angry at the world, yet unable to define the world, feeling angry at the state of things, yet unable to change it.

Useless anger, useless passion, useless heart, useless mind, useless fists; all slamming themselves against everything and nothing.

 
Something happened on my way back from my friend's place. I was trying to reduce an half hour walk to twenty minutes at 2+ am, rushing home to unload my exploding bladder. As I turned from the Serangoon stadium towards my place, I heard rustling sounds coming from a block of flats about 50m away. There was an old man at the void deck and upon getting my attention, he waved. I was left looking around for the person he was waving at and there was no one else in the vicinity. At least, none visible to me then.

If not for Nature's Screams, I would have walked over and talked to him.

It is always interesting what an encounter between two strangers can produce..... and I mean, interesting exchanges, not offsprings.

 
Taking my seat beside my colleague at the end of the bus, I expected the bus ride to be just like the others: a trip down the comatose lane, into dream plains. That was until a familiar face popped into sight when I looked up from my newspaper at the very next stop.

It was a face I have not seen for 6 years. It was a face which have not changed much. She was my junior in junior college and one of the few female members in our AVA Club. Although our relationship was purely professional and we were never close, she was outgoing, cheerful and kind, and her presence was absolutely delightful. Memories of her were always heartwarming.

She took her place a seat away. And I was hesitant about actually initiating dialogue. It was that awkward feeling when you see someone you have not met in years. You simply do not know what to do or what to say.

A stranger took the seat between the two of us. Doing what the usual working class do when they are sitting on the homebound bus, she nodded off into sleep. And once in a while, I cannot help throwing a sideway glance her way.

Neither the six years nor her training in Business Studies in NTU did much to her; she is still more dressed more for ultility and comfort rather than presentation. She wore neither much make up nor expensive accessories, which is rare for a university graduate in Shenton. It was a place where presentation matters as much as ability, a place where brands scream for attention, where Mont Blanc pens are more common that Pilot pens. In a place where women are seen as mere decorations for their Prada bags and designer shirts and ties are seen spotting men, she was a rare sight. I looked at her hands: no rings. I surprised myself thinking that most girls my age are getting married.

I wanted so much to talk to her, to find out what she has been up to, to just talk to her again, but I could not bring myself to open my mouth. There was just something holding me back...

And just what was holding me back? I did not know and I do not know.

Am I afraid that she is no longer the girl I knew her to be, sweet, kind and frank? Or am I afraid that I have changed so much that she can no longer recognize me? Or to show that I was never the person she thought that I am? Am I afraid of the seemingly eternal silence that occurs when we can no longer proceed beyond the formalities? Am I unable to face the prospects of having an embarrassing distance of years of separation? Or maybe it is because there are already too many people in my life? And that I do not want to have someone else in it, especially when I cannot afford them my time and attention?

Maybe it is just that I do not want to destroy her impression of me, as a guy who is always cheerful, helpful and yet a little enigmatic. Over the years, my dark, brooding nature has taken over me, my training in philosophy is nothing short of a headlong plunge into skepticism, nihilism and solipsism. Knowledge in science has only reinforced my idea that nothing is planned and we are but the result of an accident that we called Big Bang. I carry too many of my own demons and my presence in most people's lives have created nothing short of upheavals. Maybe it is best that I leave her alone.

Maybe it is best that I do not talk to her.

Maybe it is best that I do not talk to anyone.

She might be a stranger now, strange to me, and stranger than she ever was.

She was just a seat away, just a seat that seemed to span light years. The span of six years seemed like an eternity. Such distance is almost too painful to bear.

Yet, the fond memories binds me to her image across time and space, and the more precious they are, the less I want to risk them. I want to embrace them, yet fear that they might crumble before my very eyes at my very touch.

I am very equipped to deal with changes and I am already resigned to impermanence, but I hate them all the same. I have learnt to walk away from a lot of things, learnt to accept that a lot of things are beyond our abilities to change, learnt that a lot of things are not worth breaking our hearts for, learnt that some things are just "like that", learnt to live my life one day at a time, learnt that memories can be too painful to bear, learnt that love can be a burden too heavy to shoulder, learnt that ten years of oblivion is preferable to one minute of consciousness, learnt that hope refuses to die, even if it does not know what it is hoping for....

I had learnt too much too soon: I took twenty five years to learn when I was given seventy five. Now I have so much more to watch them all coming true, over and over again....

If there is one thing I wish for more than anything else in the world, it is to have someone prove me wrong, that I am so fucking wrong.

And if there is no one in the world, hell, I guess I have to do it myself.

So let my mind be my blade, and my madness run myself through.

I suppose as with my usual practice towards chanced meeting; if lightning does strike the same place twice, if I am to meet her again, I will go up to her and say "Hi".

The above is dedicated to all my friends even those who may never read these pages.

To a friendship that we try so hard to maintain, try so hard to keep at being nothing but friends, try so hard not to let this beautiful touch fade away. We live in beauty but also in fear of losing it.

A toast to the efforts.

 
There is something in some of Wu Bai's older songs that always get me thinking. I cannot really describe his songs, but they are written like a soliloquy, from a third person's perspective. The effect is that of a guy trying to rationalize his emotions, and he seemed almost often in denial and in futility. The thoughts are intimate, but their owner is miles away, entire songs narrated in a cold, resigned tone.

I am not sure if I what I am writing about makes sense. I know little about songs. Maybe I should stop analyzing them.

Afterall, all I am sure of is that I love rough husky voices from Wu Bai, Billie Myers, Zhao Chuan, Byran Adams to Tracy Chapman. Rough voices can bring out angst so much better.

 
This Is Where I Belong
(Bryan Adams, R.J. Lange, Hans Zimmer)


I hear the wind across the plain
A sound so strong - that calls my name
It's wild like the river - it's warm like the sun
Ya it's here - this is where I belong

Under the starry skies - where eagles have flown
This place is paradise - it's the place I call home
The moon on the mountains
The whisper through the trees
The waves on the water
Let nothing come between this and me

Cuz everything I want - is everything that's here
And when we're all together - there's nothing to fear

And whenever I wander - the one thing I've learned
It's to here - I will always...always return


It is ironic that even in knowing that this is the perfect place for me, I cannot help but wander, only to return later.

 
As I laid on my bed, suddenly awake at 3+am this morning, a thousand thoughts crossed my mind. When sleep eluded me, hundreds of haunting images took turns on the stage of my consciousness.

Suddenly, the silence seemed non-existent, the table lamp too bright, the fan too strong, the air too cold; nothing seemed right. Looking at my now puny windows, both covered by rough, tinted glass, I realized how long it has been since I last saw the world outside from my room. And curtains were missing too; they were unnecessary for the glass separated the visual world as an iron wall would.

I remember a time, a long time ago, back when I have not moved. It was a time of huge glass windows, of light, of clouds, sky, streets, people, stray cats, and of course of curtains. It was a time where separation between the streets, the passer-bys and the happenings below was but a breath away. It was a time, where lying on my bed beneath the window, I can see the clouds above in the day and the moon and the stars in the night. It was a time where many idyllic, breezy afternoons are spent in solitude and non-thought, silent songs playing on in my mind, hands beneath my head and one of my legs raised, trying to catch the flapping curtains with my toes as it throws light and shadows across me.

It was beautiful.

My friend, I really wish to show you how it feels, I really do....

 
If having a conversation is like having sex, then contracting chicken pox is like getting AIDS.

Once you find out that you are down with chicken pox, you will have to call up your recent partners to inform them about their exposure to the virus, feel guilty for exposing them to unnecessary risks and avoid exercises and activities that you normally engage in.

Two weeks of MC, however is extremely enjoyable despite the isolation and the diet restriction.

 
I am back.

I am sorry for the long period of absence. There were things I needed to think about, and things that I needed to do. I have thought about things, but I have not solved much.

But anyway, I am back.