I hate moving. I think it could be due to my attachments to the past. It is evident in the way I hoard things. I have old newspaper cuttings, I have old souvenirs, I have old writings, old drawings, old computer games, old comics, stuff so old and useless that they serve no purpose other than to remind you of how old you are.

I find it amazing how a spatial location of object can hold your intangible memories. An object, no matter how small, can open a floodgate of emotions, without so much of a warning; the volume of the memories held defies the physical dimensions of the object. Each item holds a fragment of a past, so distinct, so distant. Yet with so many items and so much memories, I could never piece them together, never to arrive a complete whole.

There is a profound sense of lost, there is a pair of clenched fists which could not hold on to the passing of time, and there is a memory so full yet so empty, which failed to contain every waking moment...

 
The war has started. The uncertainty is finally over. People is going to die, blood will be spilled and in Singapore, people are heaving a sigh of relief. I am not sure what exactly is amiss, but something just does not feel right.

People die everyday. Blood is shed everyday. But something is still not right. In a poll conducted by The Straits Times, only slightly over 20% of the south east asians interviewed were concerned about the people who will die in Iraq as compared to over 40% of those who are concerned about the economic fallout that might follow the war.

On the 20th March, 2003, the day which the war started, there was a marked increase in the number of couples getting married. Reason being that the date in roman numerals, 20 03 2003 makes for easy recall for those who are insincere about remembering wedding anniversary dates before they are even married.

One of the newly-weds actually told the world that there might be a war in the Middle East, but "life goes on".

"Shit happens" and "Life goes on" are my favourite phrases. But the irresponsible manner which he uttered those words totally disgusts me. An expression for resignation for some becomes a convenient excuse for his justification of his own pursuit of self interests and happiness.

Let me clarify a point.

You resign yourself to fate, to the facts, after the killing, not before. You do not pronounce someone dead if there is something you can do about it. We no longer live in isolation; we are connected to the world in many more ways than one.

Make a mockery of your own existence if you must, but deny not the humanity of others.

 
My dear, I wish I have your faith, to believe in what is yet to be.

My friend, I wish I have your eyes, to see what might be.

My love, I wish I have your heart, to feel the excitement of each coming day.

But my faith is in what I hold.

My eyes see what actually is.

And my heart simply pounds in my chest.

I wish you joy in the coming days, for now, I am doing fine.

 
Jean Paul Sartre defined the essence of Being as freedom, in that we are always in the mode of becoming. Our potential lies in our ability to make choices and transcend our limitations. Yet he hinted that our essence might itself be a tragedy. Our freedom isolates us; our freedom denies us anything to hold on to. We are born into the world at the crossroads without a map; one shot at life and a million choices.

 
Something.

 
Space

Hiding from my sight,
The drops fell incessant,
Silently besides my ears.

Watery veil softens the sight,
Sheltering our eyes from,
the suns created by the night.

Across the vacuum,
Light traces its path,
Caught by falling rain.

The formless given form,
Made solid by temporality,
Enmeshing us in a golden web.

That which veils us,
Writes our horizons,
And shows us the Moment.


-----------------------------------------------------

I am in love... with the rains, the winds and the streetlights. I can spend my time watching the rain dances for the lamps. And watch as the rain catches the lights and scatters them in a thousand directions. Light was never to be caught, its path never to be seen. But in the rain, for that split second, you can almost see it travelling past. The rain which often simply obstructs our sight, suddenly shows us so much more.

Who is to say that what blinds cannot show us what things truly are?

I derived my inspiration from the rain a night ago and from my dialogue with ^dante on the idea of Kantian space as he drove me home. Kant believed that space is neither a relationship between objects nor a quality with an independent existence, but an intuition inserted into our perception by our mind.

But it seemed like while I watched the rain, I could almost touch it....



P.S: If I made any error in my usage of Kantian terminology, please tell me. I am really out of touch with philosophy, having given wings but not allowed to fly....

 
I have always knew that I am my own worst enemy, but that was just a distant thought, without immediate relevance till my right hand started hitting my left.

That minor physical inconvenience aside, I knew that I am in trouble when I found myself in love with the bittersweet feeling of love lost; having desire for the saccharine intoxication of new love faded away. After all, we can never have our future, but at least we have had our past. Yet I am too young to be trapped in reminiscences, too tired to be constantly looking out for novelties, too restless to be just cruising through life. Life, at a constant pace without acceleration, is without growth.

But somtimes, status quo can be so comfortable.

 
Studying Human Resources Management has made me wonder if theories are just a bunch of important sounding words, especially when it is supposed to teach you how to manage human relations. When dealing with human relations, most theories advise moderation; asking you to understand, to compromise, and to accept.

When you finally found the middle point between a thousand polarities, and the only compromise between a thousand differences, you may be asking yourself just what the point actually is.

 
I have a feeling that for people who are connected to the internet during work, the number of journal entries they publish varies inversely proportional to the satisfaction they derive from work.

 
Bated Breath

Have you ever,
on a rainy night,
caught a glimpse
of the mist-like drops
carrying light
held aloof
by your stifled breath,

almost as if

the stars

would travel years


through forever


should




you










sigh...

 
I think I just lost my organizer. A month ago, I left my organizer in the office and I felt totally lost throughout the weekend. But now, the lost is just a mild feeling of discomfort. I roughly know what is in my organizer and really wish that the person who finds my organizer returns it, but the lost somehow feels like a distant reality.

I think I lost it as I hurried home from SIM last night. I went back to SIM the first thing in the morning today and it is not where I thought I left it. Although I have not recorded much in my organizer recently and I rely more on my memory nowadays, this fails to accomodate for the dulled sense of lost or lack of urgency.

Maybe everything is a distant memory when you are tired....

 
My friend told me that she was really proud of the report she did that got her company the People Developer award. It was a project that should be completed by only the heads of her department. And that was the only thing that she was proud of in the past four years.

In fact, it was the only thing that she can remember, job related or otherwise that she was proud of. I told her that there might be three possibilities. One, she must have suffered from a major bout of amnesia; or two, she has been taking a lot of things around her for granted; or three, she has got the way she is living life all wrong.

I think miracles are there when you bother to look.

I think life can be exciting when you bother to act.

I think you can be proud when you bother to love.