In Continuum.

Gloomy Birthdays

Happy birthday to me,
You are not here with me.
Happy birthday to me,
All the cakes are for me.

That was the little tune that i had in my head at 3am,sitting in the middle of a coffeshop somewhere in Tampines,in my NS uniforum drinking on a giant cup of Ice Milo Dinosaur.Yes,it WAS my birthday on the 29th of June,but at that moment in time i actually forgot all about it.

Rewind,back to the reason why i was in that coffeeshop in the first place.SAF organised this little exhibition of various armoured vehicles at Temasek Polytechnic just today,and on Wednesday night we had to head on down there to carry some plywood boards for the exhibition.They didnt want to scratch the expensively tiled floor,afraid that they might pay more than necessary for the show.In the end the tanks didnt cause a scratch even without the boards,so all we had to do was to cover the drains and stuff.

We worked through the night that day,and all the way till Thursday morning,my birthday.It's true that work makes you forget things,and sure enough i was so busy with carrying those damn boards i forgot about my birthday,like any other birthdays that ive had actually.Because we worked with brains other than brute strength,we finished the work way before the projected time for the job to be finished and ended up sitting on the grass,talking about NS life so far and other issues,laughing away as our laughter echoed through the halls of TP,which was then empty and windy at the same time.

It was too early to go back,so we suggested that perhaps we should hang around the neighbourhood for some supper before we head back to camp.The sergeant in charge agreed,and we left the tonner at the West Gate while we walked around the HDB flats on foot,with Adrian in lead who lives in the area.

We got to this coffeeshop initially,which smelt like dead rats and old soap.It was horrible smelling,and despite the "24 hours!" boldly written beside the name of the coffeshop,none of the shops were actually opened.You'd be surprised how many people actually stays up into the wee hours of the night,just talking to each other over cups of tea and coffee.Guess the "24 hours!" really meant "We are open 24 hours for you to talk non-stop!"

The experience was quite a memorable one,so i shall elaborate a lot on that escapde we had then.They were just a whole bunch of nothing-to-dos,and you could tell by the way they talked or dressed.A man with long greasy hair sat in the corner with a bald man,both with their legs up on the chair and brown slippers.Before them were cups of black tea,with the handle of the spoon sticking out from the brink like incents.Others were sitting in groups,chattering softly until our arrival.There were about ten of us,and the sight of us startled them quite i bit i imagined.You dont see a bunch of guys un army uniforms walking along the streets at 3am unless there's a gang fight going on somewhere,right?

We were pointed to another coffeeshop across the street,with more food and a real 24 hour service.As we cut through the back of the coffeeshop and disgustingly looking toilets,i saw a bearded man with dirty striped top,squatted next to the drain rinsing the grill of a fan,minding his own business.I asked Little Eddie how it would be like,if you live your whole bloody life like that,how he was able to live with himself like that.Little Eddie retorted by saying,"Well,he could be some scholar or some really successful entrepreneur".I dismissed that comment as being absolutely stupid,and he doubted my sense of humor."Where is your SENSE?",i yelled back.

We arrived at this coffeshop down the street,and it was owned by a couple of Indians,crazy enough to work at that hour of the morning.There was a gang of Malays sitting in the corner,another group of chinese guys in strange wardrobe in another,and an old man inside the shop itself.They gave us the look as well,but i think after looking at the way they dressed at that hour,compared to the way we dressed at THAT hour,we were peanuts.

Anyway,we settled down and took our order.The Indians mustnt have had such a big order at that hour of the morning,and was scrambling everywhere serving us.I ordered Roti Prada,and the way they were served on familiar plates made it taste bitterly sweet.The Ice Milo Dinosaur was not worth the money,with so much ice in it i swear if you pour them all out,the Milo would only occupy half the cup.But anyway,it was supper and it was my birthday,i couldnt care less about it.

I didnt realise my birthday until then,when i looked up at the old clock hanging from the white tiles at the corner of the shop.It was 2.40am,and i smiled as i celebrated it quietly with myself,singing that tune in my head,making up the lyrics as i went on.I didnt have cakes,i didnt have candles.Just leftover Roti Pratas and a cup of Milo.Guess those were enough,and with the weird company that i had then it was some sort of party,i guess.

The coke can hung losely from the end of the antenna,as the radio at the top of the shelf played an Indian tune.It was a woman singing,and she sounded like any other Indian woman to me.I didnt understand what she was singing of course,but she sounded sad for some reason,almost doubtful.It added on to that strange melancholic emotion i was feeling,as the Milo tasted more and more bitter with every gulp.The old man,drinking his tea alone,sat with his old worn out leather shoes beside my table.His pants were too short for him,and he drank quietly as he tea softly steamed.He finished,and left with the money on the table.Exact change,i thought.

Next to me were my platoon mates,and they were having a great supper,talking to each other about how techinically speaking,we were AWOL-ing.That is,away from camp without permission,which also means it was a chargable offence,enough to get you into DB.But still,we were having fun,and it wasnt any different from the time when we snuck off to Jurong Entertainment Centre for some fun during the NDP rehearsals.I guess it was okay,and i needed somebody to celebrate my birthday with me,right.

I dont know why,but unlike everybody else i am rather morbid about my birthdays.It never was a very big deal for me every year.I mean,aside from the wonderful and lovely SMSes i get from friends i see it as just another day of the year.It might be because i havent got a religion,and like Christmas Day i dont get too hyped up about it.I dont know,when my friends asked how i am going to celebrate it,i was dumbfounded as i tried desperately looking for an answer.Nicolas threw a party and invited a bunch of his friends over to his chalet.My other friends were clubbing and got wasted.Others prefered to hang out with a bunch of friends over dinner and have a good time afterwards.I know i can always do that,but for some reason i never found the motivatin to do so.

I remember my last birthday,and it was spent out in the field.Yeah,out in the damn bloody fields.I think it was past midnight too,and we were asked to dig in the middle of nowhere.I cleared the grass,and with sweat pouring down my face and my buttons all opened,and dug through the night and remember tasting tears in my mouth.Perhaps it was sweat,but when i sat in the hole and looked up in the clear night sky,i sang a little birthday song to myself and smiled.How pathetic was that,celebrating it with myself,all dirty and sweaty,alone and lonely.But that's me,that's the way i celebrated it last year,out in the field with nobody knowing about it.It's not that i dont want people to remember it(though i dont force people to),it's just that i dont see it as anything particularly spectacular on that day.Unless i get ten grands every year on my birthday,then that might just up a notch on the importance of the day.

Im a morbid person,im so boring to live with.I find myself agreeably disagreeable.I think if somebody were to live with me long enough they'd find me extremely boring,pessimistic,and ultimately irritating.Which is also why,as i pondered over so many questions,ive came to a conclusions that i wont make a good partner in a relationship.Im constantly out of ideas,always too boring for others,only fascinating myself.Im a question mark even to my close friends,and to be honest im thankful i stay that way to most people.At least there is always something to look forward in this person,and not a partner who is going to dig to the bottom of this boring hole only to find nothing in the treasure chest.At least the suspense is going to keep my other friends digging,right.

Right?

Well-painted passion
You rightly suspect
Impersonation
The dumbing down of love
Jaded in anger
Love underwhelms you
No box of chocolates
Whichever way you fall

New Bed for Grandma

Before anything starts on this new entry for the weekend,i think i should inform everybody that i do not have an issue with old people.It just so happens that this entry,as well as the "Prunes" entry before,focuses on how much headache old people causes me.My mother kept telling me,"I wonder how it is going to be like when i grow old...",and i keep telling her that,"Mom,it's different with you".Because really,it's different with you.

Anyway,so while i was on my way back to camp a couple of days ago my mother was telling me how my relatives are going to visit Singapore,again.Sometimes i wonder what is so God damn fascinating about this place that i live in.Seriously,there are only so many places you can go here,and they change and renovate the places once every millenia.So seriously,i dont get why they keep flocking to Singapore for.

I wasnt too surprised to hear them coming though,but the news that my grandmother is coming struck a chord.It's okay that she is coming,but the fact that she will be staying with US will be an issue for sure.My mother kept telling me that it is going to be a few days only,and that she's already near a hundred years old,and she's not going to see us a lot from now onwards.Well,that's true but that doesnt mean she needs to recide in our house dont you think?

It's this childhood phobia im quite sure,of my grandmother.She didnt abuse me or anything that's for sure,like so many old evil grandmothers you have read in children's storybooks.Instead,she was the kind of grandmother very much like the grandmother right now.I dont know her,i really dont know her.She's like this person i know of overseas,but havent got the chance to meet very often.It's sad to hear that im sure,but that's the way it is.Ever since my family moved to Singapore so long ago,my relatives have been limited to my sister and parents.The rest of the relatives exist,but not prominent enough.They are like celebrities you see on the television,though less glamorous,and more hypocritical.I think i have mentioned how much i despise my relatives,so i shant elaborate.In a nutshell,they are no more than strangers to me,back when i was a kid and now.

I said some bad things about my grandmother i admit,as i was on the car to camp.But then again,those were what i thought about everything,and the fact that my mother couldnt accept it was just too bad.It's not like we had a big ass argument about it of course,but she was obviously displeased.

Anyway,back to my childhood trauma.I remember i used to sprawl myself on the floor,banging G.I. Joes together with evil Transformer toys,making a racket out of doing so.I loved those toys,and created imaginary storylines as i played along,always climbing slowly to a climax,and with the peak of the story coming out my volume grew with every subsequent 'explosions'.You know how little boys play with their toys,they always involve big and loud artificial explosions and bangings against the wall.So one fine day i was minding my own business in my bedroom when the visiting grandmother came to my doorway and said something in hokkien that i did not exactly understand very well.But i guess it as much,that i was too noisy and i should lower my volume.

Nobody ever told me to do so back then,and i obediently obeyed.I played on with my toys,but with a long face and whispering explosions.I was pissed off then,i and i remember my nerves on the verge of an explosions,only this time it was more than just 'Ka-Boom'.

So,my grandmother has a low tolerance when it comes to noise.I understand that,but let's bring that back to present tense.I am still the same person when it comes to noise.But instead of kiddy-Kabooms i play loud music now.I sing in my bedroom,strum my guitar in the dining room and i blast my speakers till my door rattles literally.So how is my grandmother going to survive the noise?Or rather,how am i going to survive her stay here without me moving out into the streets below.

Another ridiculous thing my mother did was to buy a bed for my grandmother.Look,my grandmother sleeps on the floor in Taiwan,with just a thick blanket as the mattress.We've got my old bedroom spared,and she's using that as her temporary bedroom.That's okay,but buying a whole bed for a person who is going to stay here for five days is just plain stupid.You couldve bought a mattress,and that'd be just fine in my opinion.What are you going to do with this new bed after she leaves?Leave it in the room like that?That's plain dumb mother,really.

I know that she is the one who throws us a bunch of money every New Year,and according to my mother it is because we are living so far away from 'home',and we supposedly need more money than the rest of our relatives to 'survive'.But really,we dont need your charity.We are fine,and cant we just have one of those nice grandmother-grandson relationships without money being involved?I dont want to love ou because you throw us money,i dont want to bring myself that low and cheap.

My mother argued that she's been nice to us,and that is true too.But that doesnt mean whatever you say is ever going to change my opinion on anything.My opinions do not change just because you sweet talked,but rather i change by experiencing things myself.I wont change my mind and like the idea of her visit just because you want me to like the idea.I can tolerate her staying sure,but is she able to survive me?

Hope she loves Coldplay,John Mayer,Rachael Yamagata,Wolfmother and Yeah Yeah Yeahs.Okay,forget the last two.

Island in the Sun

It's been awhile since i went to the sunny beaches of Sentosa.Almost a year,to be precise and for some reason i deem that as a rather pathetic statistic.But then again,after questioning a couple of my platoon mates today as we had a day of fun eating sand,i found comfort in their answers.Two years,five years,and some couldnt even remember.So i guess in a way,I'm not that foreign to the tiny island in the sun after all.

Sun,sand and sea is what you should expect at Sentosa sure.But i hate that island for some reason.It's a great place to get a tan,considering how the sun is always a degree or two hotter than the rest of Singapore.There are hardly any shades around,and most of them are taken up by bags,so the only places left are in the sun.I swear if you were to go there for some quality tanning,and fall asleep while doing so,you are going to wake up with white lights flying around your vision and your body looking like the creamed side of an Oreo.That is of course,if you wake up at all.

I find Sentosa an extraordinarily boring place,and the renovations going on there sure isnt helping.I dont see the excitement of Volcano Island,Underwater World and the Pink Dolphin.Of course,the Underwater World WAS fascinating,but it gets boring and you never get enough time to admire those fishes.Jonathan and I were making fun of the island while looking at the map of it today.I ran my finger around the perimeter of the island,and pretended to be a tour guide while saying,"Go around the island and visit every point on it,and i promise you guys that you wont be going back to your homeland anytime soon".Because really,everything is so expensive on Sentosa,i wonder if the residence(or rather future residence)are going to afford the living standards there(A scoop of ice-cream at Trepizza costs $2.40).

You guys should see how the trams have taken over the monorail.I was half expecting a pack of gnomes to be at the back of the trams pushing it forward.It was moving so slow i think if it were to tour the island it would take a full day to do so.They HAD to organise thsoe bloody games on the beach,with the sand blistering hot and on a weekday.Who the hell goes to Sentosa on a weekday?I know it's the Universities having the holidays and stuff,but seriously,nobody goes to the beach on weekdays.

The guys were disappointed to have sighted less than a handful of bikini girls.I on the other hand was more interested in falling asleep under a shade and listening to my iPod.Let's admit it,bikini girls are usually very good from far,and very far from good.A whole bunch of them got excited in the distance,seeing a girl in pink bikini splashing water at her other hot (supposedly) friends.I told Jonathan then,that if they were to go within one metre of those girls they'd probably coming running back to where they came from screaming for their lives.When he later pointed out this fat woman with layers of fat hanging out the sides,i went,"Jon,it's always easier to spot somebody hot,because unglam people are aplenty here".

Oh well,my day at Sentosa was rather brief today,and considering the lack of sleep the night before i was desperate to go home.Seriously,my head was spinning as i made those dives for the frisbee,eating a mouthful of sand while i went head over heels.But oh well,it's a good place to get a tan that's for sure,and on the tram ride back to the bus terminal i was wondering how the whole island would look at night,with a drink and a book under a single light at the beach.I've never been there at night before,should be quite an experience i reckon.

Unravel

While you are away
My heart comes undone
Slowly unravels
In a ball of yarn
The devil collects it
With a grin
Our love
In a ball of yarn

He'll never return it

So when you come back
We'll have to make new love

He'll never return it

When you come back
We'll have to make new love

Mood for Words

I dont remember how my love for the English language came about.I mean,you wouldnt expect a Taiwanese like myself to be more proficient in English than his own mother tongue.I admit,after being out of school for so long my chinese has been going downhill,with the only chance of speaking it being at home.It's rather pathetic if you think about it,but i guess you cant exactly blame me for my Western influences.I can never tolerate my friends wanting to eat at some Hawker Center at the side of the street,or some fast food joint.It's either Japanese food or Western for me.

In my family the difference is rather evident.In terms of musical taste i have a rather similar taste with my mother,who is into Jazz and classical stuff mostly.My sister is,as usual,into chinese pop junk while my father is not into music at all.Perhaps the sound of crispy new notes by the side of his ears,or the sound of my mother cooking some dish in the kitchen.Those are music to him,and anything else are noises.

Anyway,i remember myself being the human library in Primary School.I was into Goosebumps,and saw R.L.Stine as the God of Literature.Which is ridiculous because now that i look back on his writings,they were rather amateurish.But oh well,i was young and i collected all his books from the first to the last.However,his books did not make a lasting effect on me at all,not to mention being the chief reason of my interest in literature.I think it was because of Tolkien's works that got me really into writing.Not just the short stories i do,but rather anything that involves me putting my point across,feeding off my emotions into words,all that stuff.

"...When winter passed, she came again,
And her song released the sudden spring,
Like rising lark, and falling rain,
And melting water bubbling.
He saw the elven-flowers spring
About her feet, and healed again
He longed by her to dance and sing
Upon the grass untroubling.

Again she fled, but swift he came.
Tinuviel!Tinuviel!
He called her by her elvish name;
And there she halted listening.
One moment stood she, and a spell
His voice laid on her: Beren came,
And doom fell on Tinuviel
That in his arms lay glistering..."

--- Beren and Luthien, by J.R.R. Tolkien,from Chapter XI: A Knife in the Dark of The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

That's part of a poem that caught my attention when i first read the book.Most of the people who have read the book usually skipped the poems,but i read through all of them and in fact,i thought the best parts of the books,or rather the universe Tolkien created,were the poems.I know,i can never write as good as him,all i can ever be is a bad imitation.But hey,i remember Tolkien once said something like "Imitation is the highest order of admiration",or something like that.

Anyway,i was looking through youtube.com and came upon a new singer/songwriter called Terra Naomi.She's amazing,and i wonder what took her so long to come up with those songs,now avaliabe on iTunes."Say It's Possible" is such a great song,and i did a cover of it after listening.It's just wonderful to hear the works of other singer/songwriters out there i guess,people who shares the same passion no matter how good or how bad you are.We are all in the same league,though some are in the Premier League while others are in the S. League.Yeah,you get the picture.

I noticed that,after years of writing songs myself,that interestingly the easiest songs to write are the depressing ones.It's rather morbid to think of it that way,since song writing is such a wonderful thing artisitically speaking.But it's true that when one is depressed,especially about love,we usually write the best songs.I attempted to write something out of that trend once,something on the cheerful side.I ended up sounding like a crazy lunatic right out of the asylum.Perhaps it is my voice,but reading the lyrics through alone was enough to make me cringe.It was immature,badly constructed,and most of all i shouldnt even have recorded it in the first place.

So i guess the most difficult task for a singer/songerwriter is to write something other than depressing stuff.Of course,you got to be as good as Ms. Yamagata is order to have your WHOLE ALBUM on morbid love subjects and still have all the listeners falling in love with you.There are a number of lyricists that i admire,aside from Ms. Yamagata.Jonatha Brooke writes awesome lyrics,another under-rated singer right there.John Mayer has the power to make you feel exactly what he wants you to feel while listening to a song,be it a song on growing older,heart break,St. Patrick's Day or traveling the world.He makes you feel exactly how he wants you to feel,and you feel like a puppet sometimes.Only,you are loving the control it has on you,and the strings on your limbs as the notes take you on this strange emotional dance.

"...Songs can be Trojan horses, taking charged ideas and sneaking past the ego's defenses and into the open mind..."

--- John Mayer, from November 1st 2004, column of Esquire magazine

Six Degrees of Separation

"...I read somewhere that everybody on this planet is separated by only six other people. Six degrees of separation between us and everyone else on this planet. The President of the United States, a gondolier in Venice, just fill in the names. I find it extremely comforting that we're so close. I also find it like Chinese water torture, that we're so close because you have to find the right six people to make the right connection... I am bound, you are bound, to everyone on this planet by a trail of six people..."

--- Stockard Channing,as Louisa 'Ouisa' Kittredge in Six Degrees of Separation

I first heard about the concept this from the title of this movie of course.The title attracted me,not because it was in any way fascinating,but because of the fact that it made no sense at all.Upon digging into the synopsis of the movie and reading up on the topic i finally realised the meaning behind the title of the movie starring Ronald Sutherland,Ian McKellan and Will Smith.

I forgot about that concept of course,but was reminded only just now as i watched a little reality show like documentary called "My Date with Drew" on Star Movies.It's about this guy Brian,winning $1100 on a game show,and decided to use that amount money to date Drew Barrymore,a crush he has had since childhood,in exactly 30 days.He and his friends documented the whole journey with a rented camera,based on the theory stated above that everybody on earth is connected to one another by six person or less.

It was a hilarious documentary i must say,and i found myself cheering for this not-so-handsome guy,going through a makeover(Which included a facial,work outs,and almost led to waxing)and actually hiring a fake Drew Barrymore for practising.It was funny,and afterwards i thought of the possibility of the theory being true.According to the show,it was.Tested and proven,and his dream came true as Drew agreed to date him in New York,87 days after the project started.

Before this little reminder came along i've always believed that i am in some ways related to everybody on Earth.That is when internet gimmicks like Friendster comes into play,and i believe that if the program is able to show 5th or 6th degree friends,it's true that everybody is connected there somehow,some way.

Corinna and i used to argue that it is impossible for that theory to be true.In my guts i know that i am definitely related to Dalai Lama somehow,through friends of friends of friends of friends of friends...well,six person is all it takes for me to be related to him.You might think that it is ridiculous,that it is rather stupid of me to believe such a theory.It is,if you think about it.I mean,there are after all ten billion people living on this Earth,and to have everybody connected to one another through six others is almost impossible.

I cant even imagine the relationship between myself and say...a kid living in a mud hut somewhere in the middle of Rwanda.I dont know,i cant even imagine that being a possibility.It has been argued elsewhere,that the theory cannot be true,ever.With the difference in countries,races,social classes etc,it is impossible for that theory to stand as a proof of the universal relation between all mankind.True,but i guess in a way we all want to think that that's actually possible,that i might be in some crazy ass way related to that boy in Rwanda.

I kind of think of this concept is similar to that of a religion.Let's face it,we can never prove the existence of any kind of God in this world.As much as how the religions try to promote love and peace for everything in this world,it is undeniable that we cannot prove the existence of God.Of course,you can always argue that a physical evidence is besides the point with the existence of faith,but wouldnt it be easier to believe something if there is some sort of evidence?

Similarly,i dont think we are able to prove if six degrees of separation is true.We dont have the nominal roll of the world's population,not to mention the relationship between every one of them.But like religion,it is the thought of it that counts.Sometimes,i dont think people need a sold evidence,any physical proof to believe in something.Like love,you dont need a reason sometimes,to love somebody,to like something.You follow your feelings,your emotions,because what these parts of you lead to is ultimately,good.

I guess it is the comfort it gives us,to know that the world is not so big after all.People are never drifting too far away from us,always six people away.Because in this fleeting world,i think us as humans are like a pack of wolves,or lions,or any wild animal out there on Discovery Channel that travel in packs.We cant live alone for too long,and i truly believe that we will sooner or later die from insanity if that was to happen.It comforts us,to know that no matter how cold a city is,how unfriendly people are with one another,we will always be only this far away from one another,six person at the most.Always within reach,within our grasp.Like the presence of God,it's comforting to know that no matter how screwed up your life is,somebody out there is watching over you no matter what.

Personally,do i believe in it?Im not even quite sure myself.Six person seems to be an awfully small number.I wonder who came up with that theory in the first place.I mean,if he came up with such a concept then he mustve had some sort of evidence,right?Or perhaps the number six just popped out from nowhere during a conversation with his friends down in some country club,while smoking cigars and having a glass of whiskey with ice.Because six just seemed like a rather unbelievable,but understandable number.Like something that lurks on the edge but never crossing the line.

I'd like to,of course.To believe that i am never too far away.Always around the bend,like so many people say.It's nice to know that we live so far apart from each other.Almost fifteen dollars if i were to take a cab,or the Bukit Timah Hills in the middle of Singapore separating us.I know the distance,i can feel and see it so clear.But to know that you are merely six people away from me,to know that you are only so far away from me,it makes me feel good that perhaps things are not so hopeless after all.

But even so...

The Weekend After

Somehow the 200th post special entry was like some sort of benchmark for me.Right after that post was typed out and published i felt relieved,for some reason.It felt good i guess,to type everything out the way i did.Im not saying that it is going to make anything better,or simpler,or change anything as a matter of fact.But i guess what is important,what was important,is that back then at that very moment i was happy.

So the rest of the weekend after that post was spent in a rather lazy manner.I stayed in the sofa half the day reading the rest of This Side of Paradise.Guess the retail therapy helped immensely,with myself being the official member of Kinokuniya.Now,i do not easily admit my stupidity,but when Kenneth Kwan asked why i hadnt got a membership card at Kinokuniya,being an avid fan of books,that sentence struck me as a wake up call of some sort.And right then,while i sat at the side of his bed after lights off,i felt genuinely stupid.

So with the newly acquired card i got myself "Life of Pi" by Martel Yann,"Middlesex" and "The Virgin Suicides" both by Jeffrey Eugenides.I can hardly wait to get through "Marry Me" by John Updike and "The Last Tycoon" by F. Scott Fitzgerald,really.Im really excited about the books i bought yesterday.And damn,im in this bookish heaven right now,i swear.Like a friend of mine used to say,how can anybody NOT like books??

Anyway,i can totally understand Amory's alcoholic obsession in This Side of Paradise.The way the book was written at that part,when Rosalind decided to leave Amory for somebody else,i thought of myself in his shoes,holding that glass of Bronx and losing track of time in the hotel he could hardly remember.The sense of being lost all of a sudden,after being guided for so long.I guess in a way everybody has their way of letting go of things,and for him it was alcohol and a brief brawl during a party swiftly afterwards.No,i dont think i'd ever consider any form of alcohol to dull my senses like that,and while his actions were condemned by me in every way,it was to a certain degree,absolutely understandable.

Okay,this is a totally random and to me,pointless entry.Guess the boredom is working up my spine again.Back to the books,back to the books.

The Teak Forest

"For this is wisdom - to love and live,
To take what gave or the gods may give.
To ask no questions, to make no prayer,
To kiss the lips and caress the hair,
Speed passion's ebb as we greet its flow,
To have and to hold, and, in time - let go."

--- by Laurence Hope, from The Garden of Kama (1901)

Castles in the Sky (Special 200th Post Entry)

Why do you look at me like that?
Is it wrong to talk to myself like that?
Does it seem strange to speak to myself like that?
What's wrong with building castles in the sky like that?

Why do you point at me like that?
Is it wrong to play the king like that?
Does it seem strange to dress myself up like that?
What's wrong with living in castles in the sky like that?

Why do you accuse me like that?
Is it wrong to long for you like that?
Does it seem strange to cut myself up like that?
What's wrong with bleeding over these castles in the sky like that?

Why do you leave me alone like that?
Is it wrong to want you back like that?
Does it seem strange to dream of you like that?
What's wrong with crying over these castles in the sky like that?

When it is only this,that is left like that.
When it is only the best,i can do at that.
When it is only me i loathe like that.
When it is only you i loved like that.


It was Monday,it wasn't cold.It was near midnight,raining summer snow.The trees bent over along the pathway,over our heads as we found ourselves the way.They were like fingers of an old men,the way they hung over us like fingers,though almost like cages.I wonder what it traps,the air below or my thoughts,silently spinning round and round in my head as i followed quietly,behind my friend as we moved along swiftly.

The night water trickled down the sides,the monsoon drain was then black,with the sound of invisible waves crashing towards the sides.We broke out of the clutches of the old men,leaving behind only the singing of crickets and the chorus of nature.It was along the drain,where we walked silently back to camp,far off in the distance shining bright,so careless of the night.

It revealed the shy waves,currents of them as they journeyed down the alley way.The lights in the distance,of lamps and bulk lights,casting white shadows along the river lid by the night.The lights quivered,and the wind was dead.The sound of crickets grew further,only with the desire of came ever stronger.

It was then along that road along the drain,with the rest of the company behind me,did i come up with my castle in the sky.I painted it with words,thoughts for bricks and you the queen.Or princess,or whatever you please.I couldnt talk,i couldnt speak,the boss was right beside and kept urging for speed.I kept silent,with you the only one i talked to.Wasnt it strange,or in a tiny bit pathetic that i spoke to you,though it was really with myself?I learned the word 'schizophrenia' only so long ago,but i've found that word fitting me perfectly so.

A conversation i had,when boybands were good and music taste still bad.Had a talk with my old friends,a talk i cant forget.'Do you talk to yourself?',i remember he asked.'Sure,' i said. 'All the damn time'.He laughed at the idiocy of that,pointed for the rest to see and shouted 'Maniac!'.Timothy to the rescue i remember,calling him back.Said there isnt anything wrong,speaking to yourself like that.

So that Monday night i did just that,speaking to myself like you were there that night.It was strange at first but was clear to see,that it was desire that drove me,not stupidity.It does seem pathetic,and it does seem rather crazy,but what can i do when all you left me was nothing?

I cannot recall,nor can i guess.What i came up with that night,im in a constant state of forget.All i remember is the one thing i wanted to tell you since the day i saw your profile,the mistake that you so obviously made.I laughed at you and the error there,sticking out like a sore thumb,ugly and bare.

So here's the conversation before i forget.I suppose i've forgotten most parts of it,those are not coming back.For whatever it's worth,for whatever that is left.I am writing them down in this entry,so i wont soon forget.

'Daggers.'
'What?'
'You know,what you stab people with.Daggers.'
'I dont think i understand...'
'It's this mistake you made,in your Friendster profile.'
'Mistake?'
'"House of Flying Daggers",not "Dragons".'
'Oh,haha.I never noticed.'
'You know how i notice these stuff.I'm sensitive,you know.'
'Yeah,as usual.Picking on people's mistakes.'
'I done that to you?'
'You just did!'
'Ain't my fault.Just did when i had to do.'
'Ha,whatever.'
'So how have you been?'
'What?'
'How's everything.You and life.'
'Oh,it's been great.I love my school and my course.It's great,really.'
'Yeah,sounds like you enjoyed the new company really much.'
'You know about it?'
'Read about it.'
'You still go to my blog?'
'Once in a while,i guess.'
'Often?'
'Occassionally.'
'Bored?'
'Always.'
'It's nice to know that.'
'Know what?'
'That you still visit.'
'Do you?'
'Not anymore.Not for a long time now.'
'And him?'
'Him?'
'Yeah,you know.Him.'
'Oh,well.He's okay.He's fine,nice.'
'I still think it is rather weird though.Amazing how you made that friend-to-boyfriend transition.Amazing.'
'It's not that hard.'
'It doesnt seem too easy.'
'You get over it.'
'Like you did over me?'
'I'm still trying.'
'Because i hope you are?'
'That is why.'
'Does he treat you good?'
'Not too bad,not too bad.'
'Does he make you laugh?'
'All the time.'
'Good,that's good.'
'Yeah,that's good.He's great.'
'I'm sorry about it.'
'About what?'
'Think i said bad things about you,in so many entries.'
'Ha.Well,i understand...'
'Look,it was my way of getting it out of my head.If i dont get them all down on the monitor i swear it's going to threaten the life that it belongs to sooner or later.'
'I understand,really.'
'I am so sorry.'
'You shouldnt be.It was my fault wasnt it?'
'How is that?'
'I apologised then,in that message?'
'I kept it you know,the message.'
'Really?What for?'
'Remind myself,how stupid i was?'
'Oh,dont think like that.You werent stupid.'
'So i AM stupid?'
'If you want to think that way.'
'Just thought that i need to be reminded that you once knew about it.'
'"It"?'
'Yeah,it.That i liked you.'
'I still know.'
'I know,though you never told me.'
'Told you what?'
'Anything.'
'I didnt have the courage.I had to choose.'
'Well,telling me was basic courtesy.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Dont be.We both did something wrong to each other,something bad.I dont ever want to be sorry anymore.Not to you,not to myself.It pains you,and it pains me for hurting you.'
'That what you want to tell me?'
'I dont know what i want to tell you anymore.'
'Why?'
'I've told them over so many times i guess my mind sort of automatically erased them.'
'Oh,okay.Well,so what do we do?'
'What do we do?'
'Do we say goodbye now?'
'Is the castle not beautiful enough for you,princess?'
'No,it's gorgeous.Really,it is.Wish i had my camera.'
'How about ballet shoes.'
'And ballet shoes.'
'Sketch book and pencil?'
'Sketch book and pencil.'
'So why leave?'
'I cant stay.'
'You can stay.'
'It's a castle.'
'Yeah,a castle.Though it's made up.'
'I have to go,i'll visit.'
'When?'
'Whenever you want.'
'Like the dreams?'
'Like the dreams.'
'That's nice.'
'Isn't it?'
'Visit my castle again,it's rather lonely up in these towers you know.'
'I can imagine.'
'When these walls are build by your own thoughts it's rather hard to keep it intact alone.'
'I wouldnt know about that.'
'Do i sound insane?'
'Insane?'
'Speaking of imaginary castles in the sky with you in it.'
'No,of course not.'
'No?'
'That's why i replied your Friendster messaged in the first place.'
'My camp is around the corner now,i got to go.'
'Guess we both have our lives to lead.'
'Yeah,but yours seem a hell lot better than mine.'
'Does it?'
'Does.'
'Depends on how much you make of it,isnt it?'
'It has never been the same,after you left.I know you wanted,or hoped for things to return to normal,the way things were before we met.But it's so hard to live like that again,without you around.'
'Try,for me?'
'I'm trying.I'm still trying.Give me time,i'm still learning.'
'Guess we have to go separate ways now.'
'Yeah,that's right.Your happy life and my miserable life.'
'Think of me,wouldnt be that bad then.'
'Does that mean you will visit the castle again then?'
'As promised.'
'And that overnight conversation?'
'Will be fulfilled.'
'Good,that's great.Promise?'
'Promise.'
'Hook fingers.'
'Fingers hooked.'
'Night,then.'
'Goodnight.'

Goodnight...
Goodnight...
Goodbye...
Goodnight...

So the gates to the camp opened,and the doors to the castle closed.It vanished into thin air,like the chocolate caste in the chocolate factory.Where Willie Wonka made that beautiful chocolate castle,only for the wrong place and keeping it intact was a hassle.The walls disappeared,and the towers gone.The courtyards empty and you are nowhere to be found.I'm back on my throne,i'm back to being alone.Waiting for you to return,to return the promise that you owe.

Untitled

I was watching a video on youtube,just surfing through the videos when i came upon a girl who sang a song written by herself,filmed,and posted on the website.I thought that song was absolutely brilliant,and because my sister kept urging me to learn this song by a new chinese band called Soler(They are rather good i must say.The chinese music industry DOES have some hope it seems),i'm suddenly in that damn-i-have-to-start-writing-again mood.

So here it is,a little fast song i wrote out of the blues.It's unfinished,and untitles,but i see it going somewhere after i do a few tricks or two with the guitar as the weekend progresses.Check out the lyrics,which were written in no more than ten minutes and totally out of the randomness of my mind(I dont smoke,by the way).

I smoke a cigarette and had a glass of wine
I cant stand the way it fills up when i cry
You know that you couldve made me die
In the pool,full of fools,keep your cool,lose my fight

I watch the smoke as it floats up and rewind
The way i look back on the messed up parts of life
You know that you mustve had a hand
In the plot,in your mind,Oh baby i knew your plan

I know that you cannot make me go
It's not that easy baby you shouldve always known
You suppose i am boxes in your to-dos
But guess what?I'm more than you ever knew

Prunes

I vaguely remember this teacher back in my JC days,who used to give public announcements during the morning assemblies.She was sort of like the teacher in charged of this kinda stuff,and being the four class from the front of the stage we usually get a rather good view of her.

I cant remember her name,but i sure remember the name Samantha gave her one day that got us grabbing our sides,laughing like crazy.I think she called her a "Prune",because she was so wrinkled and thin,like dried fruit left out in the sun for too long.That term was again used on the phone coversation with Corinna on the plane just before she took off for New York.The lady beside her was apparently making a big Hoo-Hah out of the fact that she was speaking on the phone,and she was having a splitting headache.The latest use of that word came from Jonathan,as we recieved the most preposterous and ridiculous news about NS just yesterday afternoon.

NS stands for "National Service",or "National Slavery" depends how you look at it.Now,a comment perception of NS is that the bunch of male population would gather on some island and walk through jungles,mud,rain,and do some really physical activities to defend our country from potential enemies.Sure,that is true but i bet nobody ever expected that NS also encompasses charity work.Yes ladies and gentlemen,you saw that just right.We NS-Men has got to do charity work as well,can you believe it.

Now,i wont go into detail as to what we are supposed to do exactly,but let's just say i'd be more willing to carry boxes of groceries at NTUC or sweep the entire Orchard Road with a broken broom up and down three times over.Seriously,the job description was just utter bullshit,and it is as if the ABTF standby,the 4NTM standby and the usual guard duties are not enough,some motherfucker had to add this little charity work shit into our schedule.It's easy to come up with the idea that you want to put a good image to the general public that the military is more than just protectors of the country's security,but also cares for their citizens in different ways.It is easy to come up with such plans,but the execution of such plans take a toll on all the men under you.Yeah,ranks.You speak of ranks,but you havent the consideration for us poor men with lower brain and apparently,higher IQ level.

I shall give you guys a brief outlook on the charity work though.It involves us getting out of camp,making our way to some bloody old folks' home and taking old people to swimming pools and swim with them.I'm not sure about the swimming part,but i am sure as hell i am never going to get into the water with those old prunes.I dont have a thing for old people,but when they are involved in the charity work that i supposedly 'volunteered' to do they get on my nerves.Really,i have half the mind to pay the old lady twenty dollars and ask them to spend the next half a day by herself,do whatever she wants and buy whatever she likes.I'd be here by the pool on the bench enjoying a little sun tan and my time out of camp.If you happen to feel dizzy,and you feel like you are drowning please shout loud enough so you can wake me up,or else dont shout at all and just succumb to your own pathetic fate.I am not a charity sort of person,and i never will just because you have a misery family story.

Perhaps they should have a record of my History of Charity.I have perhaps the worst charity history anybody can think of.Most of my donations were made because i was forced to do it.Remember those irritating NKF donation cards?I used to stuff money down the pocket at the back cover of the cards because i was too lazy to go around my neighbourhood asking for donations.The most tedious charity work i ever done was also forced as well,which involved collecting old newspapers from an estate in Ang Mo Kio,and the brief encounters with other freakish prunes in Singapore was enough to being the living daylight out of my very soul.Or they can make a call to NFK and ask what i did to that Indian lady who gave a call to my handphone asking if i would like to have another one of those NKF donation cards sent to me while i was walking down Orchard.I told her no,but she persisted stubbornly.I simply hung up on her afterwards,and rejected all her calls.

I mustve sounded like Vlad or Stalin,this cold-hearted asshole not giving a shit about the poorer population out there.Guess i should clear something up here.I hate charity,the sort of charity that FORCES you to donate,or make any sort of effort.That's the charity culture in Singapore,the way they forces the donation can on you,or the way they give you cold stares when you dont donate enough.

A year ago after the Tsunami incident,i remember the sergeants asking for kind donations from the platoon guys.They had a nominal roll,and i looked through the list looking at the donations made by the platoon mates.They were pathetic,with the maximum of five dollars donated from somebody i cannot remember.So i tossed out fifty dollars from my wallet and gave it to the sergeant.I remember him telling me that he hadnt got change for my cash,but i told him that that was my donation and i wasnt asking for change.

Another incident to prove that i am not a cold-hearted bastard is the time back in India when we were about to leave the country.As we were about to leave the camp our PS asked if anybody wanted to donate to the local orphanage of some kind,and any amount would be fine since he couldnt care less about those children.I tossed out another fifty bucks (Singapore Dollar)and gave it to him then,the highest donor on the list.

So you see,i have no issues with prunes.I have no issues with donations.I just hate the way they force it on you like some irritating salesman at your door selling ridiculous smelling shaving cream.Really,have you ever thought about the toll it takes on us,the fact that perhaps we DONT WANT to do these charities?Bloody hell,fuck you NS.Fuck you.

The Saddest Sad

"...The saddest kind of sad is the sad that tries not to be sad. You know, when Sad tries to bite its lip and not cry and smile and go, "No, I'm happy for you?" That's when it's really sad..."

--- John Mayer

It's hard for so many people,how everybody stands up to the onslaught of emotions.When it bites,when it really takes its bite into your skin,forming teeth marks deep into your flesh,how long can you tolerate the pain?How long can you hold yourself together,and not scream out loud?How long can you take this,before you break down,and into pieces?

Tolerance was never something i associated with myself back then.I mean,my mother used to tell me how bad tempered i was when i was a kid.I vaguely remember some of her stories though,but one of them i particularly remembered vividly.I recall having this set of toy train,and that the tracks were green.They were supposed to be joined together,one of those DIY toys my mother bought for me.I tried to make it work,but the way the tracks kept squeaking on the wooden flooring pissed me off so badly that i started crying.It was over such a trivial thing,and i blew up in front of the camera my dad was apparently holding.I even have the photograph to prove it,and no i am not posting it.

My mother used to tell me that if i continue to be so pissed off over little things,the veins in my neck and forehead will swell out so much that it bursts.Of course,death is usually the final threat but i couldnt control my anger back then.I was like Hulk,but without the clothes ripping action and skin-colour tone changing trick.I was,in fact,a kid with anger management problems.Of course,that had everything to do with the fact that i couldnt control my emotions.Not just anger,of course,but so many other things as well.

I wont say that NS hadnt done anything for me.Of course,it's not like i've been this angry kid all my life right up to the point when i got enlisted.But the fact that NS,in nature,is intolerant towards intolerance(Wow,that sounded rather oxymoronic didnt it?),i learnt to control my emotions rather well.There is of course,the fact that getting yourself into a fight will eventually end you up in DB.Guess i learnt a lot from NS,in terms of tolerance.I've pride myself in the fact that i've been able to hold my head up high at the lowest points of my life.The ups and downs,the sliding down from the crescendo,everything.I've been able to tolerate those,it seems.Hold myself together,dust myself off and move on with life,always looking on the bright side of it.You might call it a dumbing down of sense,how the regimental life of it all is making me dull,incapable of feeling anything,anymore.Perhaps that is the reason,the true reason why i havent shed a tear before.I tried to reason with myself,maybe it is the fact that i am still in shock,in disbelief.Or perhaps,it's just the dulled senses inside me,the way i dont feel,cant feel anything anymore.

But what if this is not as simple as it seems,sometimes i ask myself.I do not believe in this sort of change,i dont believe NS has such great powers over my emotions.After all,if it does i wouldnt even be here blogging about it would i?Before NS i was so afraid that i might lose this side of me,the emotional side.I remember telling my mother on the car ride to camp one day,that i felt like a Tin Man.Feeling emotional about not being emotional.Isnt it strange?Did that make sense?

As of late,though,that thought came rushing back to me.It's not because of NS,for i have already tuned myself to the fuckedupness of it all.It is of course,back to square one.It's always about her,isnt it.Everything that you do,everything that you say,reminds you of her in so many ways.It pisses me off,it really does,that my will is not as strong as it used to be.She's always coming back to me,and it sucks to think it is never enough,even the mere thought of her.

It is true,that the saddest sort of sad is the kind of sad that tries not to be sad.John Mayer nailed it right there for me,and i finally realised what i have been feeling for so long.Nothingness,the way i have convinced myself that i am not totally sad,depressed,devasted by the situation.Of course,i was in so many ways,the above.But i guess i am just telling myself to feel that way,and not exactly FEELING that way myself,on my own accord.Why do i tell you in my mind,that i am happy for you when i really am not?It's just the sadness acting upon me,telling me to tell you that i am happy for you.Do i truly feel that way,is that what i truly want to tell you,in truth?

I think when you are in that sort of situation,when the saddest sort of sad bugs you,when you are holding yourself together for so long and you realise the truth,there is bound to be a point when you explode and break down.I wonder if i have crossed that state,if i am over and done with that already.

Thinking back,i have been trying to be strong for myself,for the people around me.I havent been bringing the topic up voluntarily.Always the people around me asking about it,and i tell them how i feel about this whole thing.But it sucks,it really does,when in truth you dont want to be such a strong individual.Sometimes,you dont want to be strong,because you just want to break down,you want to have a shoulder to lie on because your neck hurts,your heart hurts,everything pains you.

People are breaking down everywhere.Once in awhile,you see your friends,sad MSN nicknames or blog entries.Even the girl at the side of the road,burying her face in Kleenex,with the world around her fleeting past,wondering how come nobody is feeling her pain,or perhaps it's just not pain enough?I've always been there,or at least tried to be there for them.To be the strong one,the stronger one,to be the support.But it tires me,it makes me so exhausted to pretend,to act,to fake my strength because i am not what i am,who i pretend to be in this bloody play.I want to join these people,join the club of sadness and just cry together with everybody.

But i cant,i just cant.Have i been robbed of my ability to feel,for you?Guess i am lost again,though i was once upon a time found.Found by you,remember?In the MRT station.That was the first word i ever uttered to you,face to face."You found me",i said,as you smiled.Guess i am losing my grip tonight,losing my grip these days.It will be okay again in the morning,im sure.It will be brighter again in the day,when everything is back to normal and fine.But what does that mean,what does that mean fundamentally.Does the problem fade with the rising sun,the fleeting world?Or does it still exist,in this graveyard of emotions where everything is dead and the only growth present is the growth of death,the smell of it all?

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
I Hurt myself again today
And, the worst part is there's no-one else to blame

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

Joker

Once again,back from the bloody camp and at the comfort of my home,blogging.I must say that i was in a rather foul mood this whole week,this gloomy frustrated self,though i am not sure why i felt that way either.It must have been the fact that we had a little more to do this week than the previous weeks,the way we get merely an hour of rest before every activity and all the ridiculous extra chores to do,frustrated me to a point whereby i was literally cursing to myself in front of everybody.Which was rather strange,but oh well.

Today the schedule was extremely kind to us,with the commanders away and the company sinking into a sort of serenity usually found only on weekends with everybody booked out.The afternoon brightly lid the corridors,and the sparrows pecking away between the tiles down below at the courtyard,as i strolled up and down the corridor listening to Wolfmother,a band i found out about only a week ago.

Im not exactly sure why,but their song "Joker and the Thief" reminded me of my days in Primary School.Or rather,the way the social circle worked and was structured.Perhaps it was because of the fact that i was reading "This Side of Paradise" by F. Scott Fitzgerald,about Amory Blaine's school life in Princeton that provoked this little memory of the past,but whatever it was it sure placed a smile on my face as i thought back at the innocent times back then,and of course the stupidity being the chief ingredient in everything we did.

I remember back then,even innocent kids like ourselve had social class system.There were different groups,or rather type of people in every class,and the variety was very little back then.The joker of the class,was perhaps the most sorted after position i remember,and here's a little rundown on how we consciously,or sub-consciously divided ourselves in classes.

1)THE Girls
Now,im not just talking about ANY bunch of girls in the class.I am talking about this specific group of girls,always hanging around together,signing each others' autograph books and getting a kick out of making fun of other boys,bitching to the teacher about how another boy in class supposedly looked up her skirt,and of course if one of these girls happen to be the class monitor then all the names on the board while the teacher is away,would be the boys'.Primary School is the very first place girls,or rather most girls,train to be in cliques,which would prove to be a very effective defence mechnism in life especially in JC,though however self-destructive it is in nature.

Anyway,these girls could be noticed with their distinctive laughter,the way they always point and laugh at whatever you do,sort of like the role model of every other girl outside that group.Every girl wanted to be like them,and every boy loathed them,hated them with a burning passion.

2)The Prefects
Arrogant,boastful,and full of themselves.Those are just some of the personalities of prefects,in general of course.Back in my school days,prefects had to wear ties,and they were maroon in colour i remember.With those ties,notepad and a pencil they wield those like swords or clubs,at other kids talking during assembly.Like the counsellors in JC,they always tend to group together,and seldom engage in any other activities with the other people,simply because they saw themselves as people of a higher class,and that the other schoolmates from the middle or lower classes were expendable,disposable,rubbish.They were,in other words,snobbish.

3)The Untouchables
Or the social outcastes.These people were nowhere,simply because they were strange in so many different ways.I remember in lower primary,our class had this girl called Kelly.She was a strange girl,with a bad hair("The Bowl")and those ridiculously huge pink spectacles,and who can forget the buck tooth.She was memorable,in a very very undesired way.Anybody could hear her laughter from three classrooms away,because she had this shrill and ear-piercing laugther that was commonly compared to the likes of a goose.I remember a little rhyme we came up with back then,and i can still remember it till this day:

O-E-O-E-O
Kelly bo ching ko!(Kelly's not wearing any pants)

Then there's Chee Wei,the strange artist back in Primary One.Just when you think Nobita from Doraemon is as unrealistic as it gets,this guy is perhaps the personification of Nobita.Seriously,i never knew that it is humanly possible to attain a big fat zero in a test,until this guy came along.He sat next to me back then,and had eyes so small you could blindfold him with a fishing line.The teachers hated him,simply because he was rather bad at his studies.Nobody was quite sure if it was his brain that wasnt working,or his passion for drawing.I must say though,that during one of the lessons he was drawing a battleship instead of whatever was happening in class,and the detail to that ship was astounding,back then anyway.

Of course,who can forget Brandon Ong.Brandon was universely hated by everybody.I was a little guilty when he added me on Friendster actually,and i wonder if whatever the kids in class did to him caused any permanent damage to his fragile soul back then.Though not nearly as bad as Chee Wei,he scored really badly for every single exam as well.I remember his mother coming for a Parent-Teacher meet,and his mother came in this ridiculous black dress with purple flowers all over,and those big curls in the head.Brandon was next to her,with his "hole-y" shoes and yellow uniform,hair in disarray and the lot of us could almost make our flies swirling above his head.Because really,he was a mess even as a kid,looking dirty and being dirty all at once.Kids kicked at the back of his chair for nothing,and he used to turn back and give this really helpless shout back then,but people just laughed at the way he retorted,or the way he laughed,the way he ran,just everything.

4)The Dirty Boys
Soccer was the in thing back then,and nobody bothered to bring a ball,or was rich enough for a soccer ball anyway.Flattered cans replaced round balls,and at the sandy area at the back of the school everyday during recess,you will find a bunch of chinese boys going against the malay boys.

For those,however,who disliked soccer,there were the basketball courts.Well,somebody would bring the ball for some reason.I guess flattered cans couldnt work as bouncing balls.Anyway,so everytime after the bell rings,the boys would grab the ball and dash down to the basketball courts and battle it out until the bell rings once more.

Back in class,all the boys who played whatever sports would smell like dirty socks and rotten fish.Because really,the way the uniforms stuck to our backs was excruciating,and i guess children have this inability to smell their our stench.I swear if i smelled myself back then i wouldve washed myself with bleach and acid.

5)The Joker
Like i said,the most sorted after position in class.There could be just one joker,or a number of them in one class.One would be battling with another,to see who can catch the class's attention longest,or make them laugh the longest,or anything along that line basically.They would bring little tricks,funny comic books,or the boy who imitates the retarded character from the latest TV show.Oh,and they are usually the ones to pass notes around the class with the teacher's sketch inside,only fatter,uglier,with mucus flowing out of his or her nose and a funny line or two scribbled beside the sketching in bad Primary School type handwriting.The cursive writing lesssons sure didnt help,im sure.

The joker was perhaps the most admired position.THE girls wouldnt like to admit that,but they secretly have some sort of respect for these jokers.The arrogant prefects stay their grounds as always,thinking the jokers as jesters of the court,to please the king(teacher),and see them as mere lifeforms of a lower class.But you wouldnt want to mess with the joker,because the joker usually have a bunch of lower class followers,and they would do anything to get the joker to the top of the food chain.That of course,includes finger pointing,name calling,note passing,all that childish immature stuff.

All right,so that was a brief breakdown of what happened in my primary school days.Of course,i shouldnt reveal which class i belonged to(Not the joker),though im sure most of you can guess by now.Hope this entry reminded you of those stupid and innocent days.Till the next entry,ciao.

Wheel

John read my thoughts.

Pure magic.

For Me You Wont

You said,"For you I will" so many times
They are just four words too many times
Almost too cheesy,and rather corny
When what you said really was a lie

'Cause baby,for me you wont.You wont.

You said,"I love you" a handful of times
They are just three words too little times
Almost too cold,and way too old
When what you said really wasn't so

'Cause baby,for me you wont.You wont.

Deleted Post

I deleted a whole chunk of post right before this.I tried to get my thoughts out,get my feelings out,but i couldnt put them down in words.It's one of those strange days i guess,when nothing made sense and nothing poured out of my mind.I was trying desperately to get them all down on my blog,get it out of my skin so it's not going to threaten the life it belongs to.But i couldnt,just a blinking cursor and a blank screen,staring back at me as i sat before it in the dimly lid room of mine.

It was titled "Assumption: Hate" initially,but for some reason whatever i typed didnt seem fit.Valerie asked if i have any plans for Ahmad's birthday that is coming up.I said no,and she suggested perhaps she should treat the both of us to dinner some time."Both of us?" i asked,and she reminded me that my birthday was coming up.Yeah,she reminded me that MY birthday was coming.Oh,i thought then.That's right,that's right.I almost forgot.Or rather,i havent been giving much attention to it lately.Just,drifting with my thoughts,along with the current of it as it bears me hence.

Paragraphs after paragraphs were what i typed just now,just a flow of emotions coming right out then.It mightve been Rachael Yamagata again.Damn,i need some Wolfmother.Anyway,i hate myself for loving her.I love myself for hating her.I hate myself for hating her.I love myself for loving her.That didnt make sense,it doesnt make sense.Nothing makes any sense.Any,sense.

Just write me off like that.Sure,why not.Am i not merely the boxes on your calendar,with each passing day you strike one off with a big black cross?I had to assume then,when the tides turned overnight like the way it did,the way you stopped speaking to me,the way you didnt.I had to start guessing your feelings,your thoughts,your emotions and your feelings.I had to guess every single thing about you afterwards,making stupid assumptions and guessing implications of the most trivial things.The most trivial,of things.

I had to assume,that you hate me now.I had to,because i dont know how true that is.Does it make it easier,does it make it simpler for me to forget?Yes,and no.Right,and wrong.Contradiction rules.

Do you know what sort of detrimental effect such an assumption has on me as a person?It makes a failure,a fucking failure.Because the assumption of hate exists,and with that existence it only means nothing mattered.Nothing that i ever did mattered,nothing moved you,nothing struck a chord.And that makes me,a bloody loser because i hadnt done anything to change anybody,to change you,what i set out to do in the first place.I had to assume,i had to guess,and do you know how painful it is to do so?

You dont leave in the middle of the night like that.You dont stop talking in the middle of a friendship like that.You dont run away in somebody else's Chevolet like that.You dont disappear all of a sudden from one's life like that.Because...because you just dont,that's not the way it works.That's not the way anything works.You dont run away from such things,you dont leave everybody guessing your motive,your intentions.You dont.You just...dont.

Okay,strangely enough after deleting that previous entry i committed the same mistake.Sort of...typed without actually looking at what i typed.My fingers lost control,and emotions sort of took over then.How random of me,how unlike the usual self.I dont do this,i dont post such random thoughts,do i?

I've always held myself up,no problem.Take a deep breath,dust myself off and i am ready to.I dont consider myself the most mentally matured person in the world,or my age of course.But i guess in a way i am better off than a hell lot of people out there.Strangely enough,i am here feeling myself unravelling.This predicament upon me like rain over earth...

Okay,stop.Here,right now.You are being hysterical again.Here,fullstop.

Stop.

What She Saw

Waking up a little before nine in the morning
The streaks on the window the rain storm was making
Made her smile,immerged in the mood for a photo-taking frenzy
Watching the world turning into a shade of gray,threatening yet beautifully

Hairy little raindrops reminded her of something
Dismissing the thought,still dancing around puddles gracefully
The cafe was there,in the rain still lighted with warmth comfortably
Coffee,she thought she'd have.With dark chocolate brownies

The place still smelled of baked fish and coffee beans
With the children still playing chess,one of them losing a queen
Something was different she noticed.Something she has never seen
On the wall in the corner,where the both of them have been

They faded a little,as she later noticed
The ink on the wall.It's been six months now she then reminisced
The fat cat was still there,but in black marker were phrases
Written clearly by the boy,next to her old sketches

She borrowed a pen from the counter around the corner
Found herself a spot under his words,right under the border
She started with a line,then two,then three till there was
Nothing left to write,but to smear on the wall her runaway tears

She capped up her pen and was ready to leave
The sofa and the cafe where they ordered the same old thing
The rain hasnt stopped,and she chuckled at how it all rings
The bell of the old times,when he waved and smiled,turned and leaves

What He Wrote

Waking up a little after four in the afternoon
Reminded him of that Sunday as he pondered through his to-dos
He took a stroll again,down to the curb for a cab
Without warm Brownies this time,as he told the driver where to

He paid the driver with a pocket full of loose change
Found that the road under his feet hasnt changed
Trying to remember his way around the turns,back to the cafe
Where they went fishing,one Sunday afternoon far away

The place still smelled of baked fish and coffee beans
Same drawings and words,spread across the walls across the beam
The sofa in the corner,with the painting of the fisherman who seemed
Peaceful and quiet,sailing upon the seamless sea

They faded a little,as he later noticed
The ink on the wall.It's been six months now he then reminisced
That fat cat still smiled,with her name signed off nice and neat
He smiled too,with streaking tears bloody and sweet

He uncapped the marker he has long prepared
Chose a blank spot amidst the sketches,empty and bare
He started with a line,then two,then three till he noticed there
Was no space left as the vandalised wall later declared

He capped up his marker and was ready to leave
The sofa and the cafe where they ordered the same old thing
None of the cab stopped for him,and he chuckled at how it all rings
The bell of the old times,when she waved and smiled,turned and leaves

3964

The following is some interesting,and rather strange Magnolia-type moments in World Cup i read in today's Today.The coincidences cannot be denied!

Magic Number 3964

Except for France who first won 1998, teams in the last 20 years had something in common.The year in which they won the World Cup, if subtracted from 3964, reveals the year in which they previously became champions.

Argentina --- 3964 - 1986(Winner) = 1978(Previous Win)
W. Germany --- 3964 - 1990(Winner) = 1974(Previous Win)
Brazil --- 3964 - 1994(Winner) = 1970(Previous Win)
Brazil --- 3964 - 2002(Winner) = 1994(Previous Win)

And,if the assumption is made that the equation works,and we do the same for this year's World Cup,we can successfully predict the winner as well.

3964 - 2006 = 1958

Brazil.

In Cold Blood

Thanks to the outfield last week,this week has been rather tiring for us,tiring in the sense that nothing happened.Nothing,at all.Aside from those little short runs in the morning,or the pacing of SOC-takers in the afternoon,nothing much went out throughout the week.I was thankful for that,really.I mean,i needed a breather i guess,to take a break from just...well,everything.Get down to reading those books that i bought,and it felt good to sit there and prowl through those pages,emerging yourself in those pages and amongst those words.It was quite an adrenaline rush really,despite the fact that i just sat there the whole day.

I had the chance to start on Truman Capote's "In Cold Blood".Yes,THE Capote.The guy with the movie made about him.It's a non-fiction book,sort of written in a fiction format,about Perry Smith and Richard Hickock,two jailbirds who jumped parole,breaking into the residence of the Clutters in the winter of 1959,killing the family of four without apparent motive,leaving behind no clues of any sort.Detective Al Dewey,who was at that time in charge of the investigation,was baffled as he looked over the clues,or lack thereof.The most confusing aspect of the crume,mustve been the lack of motive behind the killings of the Clutter family.

All the family members(Herbert,Bonnie,Nancy and Kenyon Clutter)were bound,gagged,then shot in the head at close distance with a .22 shotgun.It was described at the back of the book,"...Blood and hair all over the walls...".A ghastly scene,even to imagine it myself as i read the book.With merely forty dollars missing in the whole house,robbery was definitely out of the question.I started to guess the motive of the killers,what they were really intended on doing in that house on that particular night.What sort of monsters would kill this family,deeply loved by their community and God-loving christians.Like Detective Al Dewey,i was equally confused then.

At the beginning Capote makes you hate the murderers,the way they wrote blank cheques while going on their shopping sprees,run over stray dogs with their trucks,and stealing food from malls.You start to hate this two characters,cursing every page that they will soon get caught.But as the story progressed,you find out a little more about these murderers,and the story behind their lives.You start to wonder,if the motiveless murders were actually,in a way,though however condemned,were understandable?

Perry Smith,the man who really murdered the family with the shotgun,grew up in a dysfunctional family.His mother ran away with all the kids one day,living his father elsewhere.After a divorce,he was sent to an orphanage,where he was constantly tortured by nuns,who would strip him naked and force him to wash urinated bedsheets in ice cold water in the winter.He never had a good life,ever.His brother killed himself with a gun over his wife,one of his sisters jumped out of a hotel window and his other sister is afraid of him.Being the only uneducated family member he was envious of them all,and felt like he was never treated the way he shouldve been ever since he was young.That caused him to hate the world,hate every life within it,hate everything in and around it.

Killing the Clutters to him,wasnt the target of it all.As it was later revealed,a fellow jailbird named Floyd Wells worked for Clutter once.Richard inquired him about Herbert Clutters' wealth,and was immediately interested by it.Floyd then told him the layout of the house,the location of the safe,the money in the house etc.Richard,the mastermind,then planned out everything from the weapon they are going to use,the alibi they are going to fake,the gloves they are going to wear,and where they are going to escape to.Everything,right down to the smallest details.After jumping parole they headed down to Garden City,Kansas where the Clutters lived and killed them all.

It was money initially,but as they searched the house and found no safe,and no cash save for the ones in purses and wallets,it was too late to turn back for them.They killed everybody in the house,not out of rage or anything.Perry killed,because he saw his hated father in them.He saw his dreaded mother,the nuns,his own life flashing across those faces.And he shot them,as if by killing them he was able to kill the ones he hated as well.

So,one mistake in life.One misstep,and they took their walk down the mile,to death roll.

While they were there,locked up in the prison cells on death roll,they met other fellow serial murderers.One of the most famous ones,Lowell Lee Andrews,murdered his whole family with a pistol and a shotgun on Thanksgiving,faked an alibi,then called the police.When the police arrived he was playing with his dog at the front lawn,with his face in an absolute calm.Strangely,he was titled the "Nicest Boy" in the town he lived,and never had a problem in school with grades,friends,whatever.

I was just thinking,after reading the stories behind these murders,if murder itself was really just irrational thinking,just out of pure rage.It's scary in a way,to think that anybody can just explode one day,take a dagger and stab you simply because you were in his vicinity.Those murders were not out of hate,not out of anger.They were committed,because somebody needed to die.Somebody needed to be the sacrifise,and you were in sight.That is all.Anybody could be the victim,anybody could be the monsters.

I sat there,and i thought how scary it was,really."Rattlesnakes",the citizens then refered to one another,implying how anybody couldve been the murderers of the Clutters.Guess in a way we are all rattlesnakes,you and i.What if i,one day,go mad and start a killing spree.Despite being able to tell from right and wrong,would the inability to have any emotional attachment make me in any way,more guilty?Or more innocent.It's so hard to tell,so hard to tell.So complicated.

Oh,by the way.GREAT GREAT book.;)

Stitched Up

Something random i came up with once again.Was thinking about stitches last night for some reason,and ended up jotting these lines down in the dark.Perhaps i should use these for Kaye's new tune.Hmm.Oh well,here they are.

Won't you stitch me up,this hole?
With those needles,they dont hurt no more.
The nights are not so chilly anymore.
You left for someone better,someone new long ago.

Don't pry open the scars in my soul
They dont want you around,your love no more.
They dont desire your pulse,your scent,your kisses any more,
Than the memories lingering,but even so...

21 Upon 25

One of my insomnia reasons,one of those thoughts that went through my head was a little conversation that i had with my Economics tutor back in JC,Mr. Teo.I remember it was early August,and it was late morning when he asked if he could talk to me about my results.I was reluctant then,never too willing to face up to reality,the fact that my results were plunging to historically uncharted territories of one's intelligence.Really,it was bad bad bad.

I finally agreed,after much persuading.We were outside the staff room,at the bunch of tables where students usually studied with their tutors.He asked me about my career choices,and what happened to my results and stuff.I told him i simply wasnt interested,and thought that JC was a complete mistake for me.It was,and still is a bloody mistake i dont seem to be able to mend.I mean,what can i possibly do now to change the fact that i made the wrong educational route?

I told him about what i want to do in life,my passion in writing and music.Geography,Economics and Maths really werent what i was interested in,or what i had a hang off.I blamed myself then,i told him.I blamed myself for choosing the wrong way,realising it only too late.He agreed with me,the fact that it was too late to make changes.I remember him telling me,that since there isnt anything you can do about the current situation,the i might as well make the best out of what i had and pull through the final hurdle.

I didnt really take that to heart,sad to say.I mean,i was hard-headed.Still am,and his words didnt get through to my brain at all.I hated Economics with a passion,the way every single question and result puts me down like a crowd mocking at my stupidity.I hate to do anything that puts me in that sort of situation,when i am place in disadvantage.I hate to feel stupid,to feel foolish,useless.And those were the exact feelings i had when i was in JC.Total uselessness.

After the talk,i remember a couple of weeks later we had this little mock test.It was held in the lecture hall i remember,and i just did what i studied there and then.I didnt give much thought to it,just wrote that essay that way i pictured it.Turned out,Mr. Teo gave me a 21/25 for that essay.Next to the red,bolded marks on the top right hand corner was a little note that read: See,you can make it if you want to!

Back then it was an encouraging thought,the way i was merely four marks short of a fullmark.I mean,when a teacher tell you something like that,give you that sort of a grade,it must be some sort of turning point in your educational life,right?I mean,this sort of result doesnt come for no reason at all.So i was encouraged,and motivated to actually work for something,though i didnt know exactly what i was working towards.But at least,i had a general direction back then.It didnt last me too long though,before i gave up once more.But hey,i was actually motivated.

Come to think of it one night,while i was tossing around on my bed in camp cursing the bloody fans above,i realised that Mr. Teo probably lied about my grades.I mean,he did give me 21/25 sure,but it was probably a fake.My essay probably wasnt that well written anyway.It was merely a fraud,a boost to my morale i guess.To fake a result and tell your student,"Look,you can do it if you try" kinda shit.Great trick Mr. Teo,great trick.However much i was fooled by your little trick back then,it worked.However short that spell worked on me,at least it was there.It was there,for a moment.

How sad,to think of oneself as an idiot.I admit,i am a complete Economics idiot.If you were to ask me to write an essay for GP right now,about the press freedom in Singapore,or the effects of World Cup has in our society i'd probably ace it,or at least do well in it.Economics,not so lucky.I was constantly at the back of the class in terms of my grades,and to think that my class was rather bad in that subject,you can imagine how bad my results were.

Back then i thought,"Hey,maybe i am good at this.I just didnt know it yet".Successfully fooled by Mr. Teo,i was tricked to think that perhaps some parts of me were rather perfect.Right now,i must admit.In terms of studying,i am a complete failure.Just like in so many other things,so many other things.

But at least i am proud of something else in my life.I dont need a 21/25 to boost my morales on these things,these things i pride myself in doing.Keeping this blog is one thing,i take pride in each entry that i type.Each word that i use in every sentence.Im not that blind,wistful kid back then anymore,getting a kick out of that stupid grade,that fake grade.Great trick Mr. Teo,but you are not going to fool me again.Ever.21 upon 25 my ass.

Nightmares Part II: Drowning

Part two of my nightmare saga,i am going to touch on this nightmare i just had yesterday which had a lasting memory on me.I remember i was really in a state of fear,didnt know what to do then.Unlike the previous entry,fear of being caught by somebody,in this dream i was afraid of dying,and seeing death all around me was rather overwhelming.

I was under some kind of arch,the arch of a bridge.It was an afternoon,with the environment covered in a strange hue of brown.It was the Brooklyn Bridge i realised,and i was under the bridge on some sort of platform.Below me was the river,with a ship going under the bridge,filled with passengers.Only,the ship wasnt meant for passengers,but looked like some sort of oil tanker,but without the crates and stuff.

I ran down the steps winding downwards,and through another arched doorway i came onto a lower landing,with the ship looming in front of me.They were Indians,all of them,filled the ship like sacks of rice piled over one another.I remember a women nursing her child,while her other son kept crying and crying due to the unbearable heat.

The ship came closer,and i remember talking to somebody,telling that person perhaps the ship was coming a little too close to us.Just then the front of the ship crashed into the landing where we were standing,and a loud thunderous rip in the hull of the ship rang through our ears.We covered our ears then,as the ship came coming into the harbour.We dashed backwards,and were backed against a wall when i decided to leap onto the ship itself.

I did that,and like some unbelivable action movie i ended up on top of the ship.People were coming out of the ship then,looking over the sides at the damage.Just then the centre of the ship cracked,and the crowd screamed.The hull broke loose,and the back of the ship separated from the front.I was at the back,and as the gap grew bigger it floated away out into the open sea.People were falling out of the ships now,falling into the yellow,muddy water down below.People were screaming,and people were yelling,crying for help.The section where i was kept floating away,and as it did so,it started to disintegrate in the middle of the ocean.More screams came from the people around me,all frantic and looking for a way out.Some people jumped into the ocean,while others held on to the sides of the broken ship,awaiting their doom.

Debris were floating all around,debris from the wreckage.I leaped from platform to platform,clinging desperately to each of them as they kept sinking under my weight.A bunch of the passengers followed me,and kept flooding onto the floating platform i was on.I kept asking them to get off,but as i looked down into the dead bodies floating into the water,i didnt have the courage to kick them off the platforms.I just looked,and kept jumping.Kept myself afloat,looking at others as they drowned under the surface.

The ship stopped sinking,and the section where i was from was now sticking out of the surface like Titanic.It stopped sinking,not because the waters were too shallow,but because there were too many bodies in the water.All around,under the surface,i could see bodies of people who drowned then.Men,women and children,all under the surface,staring helplessly up at us,as if still crying for help,still trying to take their last breaths.

In the middle of the yellow sea was a tree.It was burning,and on top of the tree hung dead babies,wrapped in tattered clothes.I watched in horror,as the babies stared back at me with blank eyes,helpless eyes full of hatred.It was as if they were asking,"Why didnt you save me?Why didnt you save me?"

A couple was behind me then,and the Indian lady was reaching out into the water grabbing at something.She was looking for her missing son,and as she floated upon a wooden plank she kept flipping over floating bodies,hoping that she'd find her son there,alive or otherwise.She kept crying,and her husband kept his hands on her shoulders,comforting her.She lost hope then,as she collapsed onto the plank,gave up finding her missing child.

The sea disappeared,the ocean retreated.The bodies under the water were gone,and it left behind miles and miles of desert sand.The Brooklyn Bridge stood alone in the middle of it all,with the survivors now living in tents.I remember crawling towards one of the tents,hanging between two twisted branches of a dead tree.Two women were inside,one old lady and the other my age.They were both Indian,and for some reason i started digging at the sand in front of the tent.They watched,as i scooped up handful of sand one after another.Finally,i came to what i was looking for.It was the body of a dead baby,but only the face of it was revealed to us.His mouth and eyes were covered with sand then,and upon seeing the baby both women started to cry.We embraced each other,with the eyes of the baby still staring up at us,wondering what happened.What tragedy just happened...

Yeah,i have strange ass dreams.I wonder what the babies implied.I wonder what everything implied.The flood,the deaths,the babies.I am disturbed,deeply disturbed by these dreams.I wonder if they mean anything,anything at all.Hmm.Intriguing,yet disquieting all at once.

Nightmares Part I: The Headless Girl

As mentioned a little earlier,the insomniac inside of me seems to have returned into my life once more.Like i said,i dont give credit to World Cup for this of course.I have insomnia not because of World Cup,but rather the other way round.I watch World Cup because i have insomnia,to be exact.

Like this old friend visiting from the depth of my most dreaful memories,the way the thoughts haunt you at night is unbearable.I wonder if this is going to last throughout the rest of my life,the way they come and go like an old friend from overseas,one of those friends selling pyramid schemes,bugging you to buy them.Yeah,that sort of friends.How bloody irritating.

Anyway,i have very blurred memory of my nights in camp these days.I mean,i dont exactly know how i get through the night most of the time.Adjusting my head constantly on my pillow,when the burning sensation in my cheek gets way beyond the point of tolerance.Or the constant debate as to whether i should cover myself with blanket or not.On one hand it's way too humid and on the other,way too cold.It's one of those dilemma things that bug me throughout the nights,and that is of course besides the thoughts that lingers in my head.Verses of songs ive heard,verses of songs in my head,random sentences that rhymes with some words,this and that,him and her,yada yada.

The worst part of all though,is not the fact that i cannot sleep.It's the dreams that i have when i finally do.I've been troubled by terrifying dreams,though they dont exactly have lasting effects on me after i wake up,but i vaguing remember the fear inside of me while i was in the dream world.I remember my palms all sweaty,my hands shivering as i closed the cupboard,afraid that somebody might find what i had inside of it.And the doll,the face of the doll,rotting and melting in my hands...

I think it was a gloomy afternoon,when that dream happened.Everything was in a strange shade of gray and blue,for some reason.I remember walking towards a cupboard in camp,and it was Kumaran's cupboard in reality.In my dream it was mine,and i opened it and looked into the dark shady cupboard.

Inside it was a box in the bottom right corner,and in the box piled on top of one another were junks i cannot remember.I remember i was desperately searching for something,but at that time i didnt know what it was.I threw the junks out one by one,and when i got to the bottom of it i startled and stepped back.I spunned around,to see if anybody was in the vicinity.Everybody was somewhere,not in the room.I took another peek,and i was so sure that i did it,though not sure when,why or how.I was convinced that i did it,the way the dead body of a little girl laid in the box,with her head chopped off.

There was no blood,or anything gory,but like a Barbie Doll without a head she sat there,with her body against the side of the box.I wanted to dispose the body,i remember.But where?I asked myself.I didnt know which part of the camp was secluded enough for me to dispose of the body.I was rather desperate then,and didnt think twice when i carried the body out of the box.

Just then,a little doll rolled out of her left hand.It was the doll of Willy Wonka,the one from the Chocolate Factory.I picked it up,and examined it in my hands for a while.It looked rather ordinary to me,and wondered if they had Willy Wonka Barbie dolls on sale.Then,when i was about to return the doll to the girl's palm,Willy Wonka's face started to rot,like that of a dead corpse.The rotting sped up,and his facial features decayed and turned green,revealing the skull below the skin now peeling away quickly.I screamed,and threw the doll back into the cupboard.The headless girl was before me now,still lifeless and dead.

I kept screaming,and screaming until i finally woke up in a puddle of sweat,glad that i was awake.Some dream that i had,i thought.

Night Life

Allow me to give you a little description of what happens in my camp at midnight,and of course the area around it.Or rather,what really(or should)happen in an ordinary night life in Keat Hong Camp.

It's all quiet,usually after lights off.All is silent,save for a few fitness fanatics still jogging around the compound around eleven at night.At the gate the sentry guards,holding their SAR 21 rifles dozing off while standing there,fighting with the Z monster.The toads,hiding in the bushes and shrubs,composing strange verses of songs not understood by the prowlers strolling around the perimeter of the complex,while the crickets chattered away in the trees,with the puddles of water around those still warm to the sun,now long retired behind the western skies.

Serene,is a common thing in my camp at night.You can say that after lights off,you can find more cheer in a graveyard.Indeed,the only thing we have more of here in camp after light off is perhaps the lights all around.A little more on the lights,a little less on the cheerfulness of human populated community.

Lately however,the night life of Keat Hong Camp has been rather different.In fact,i reckon the night life around the whole of Singapore has been rather different.Two words: World Cup.Those two words have driven the whole world into a uproar,into this bloody football frenzy.People have been staying up late just to catch their favourite teams battle it out on the field with a single ball,kicking that around with each other.Others,injecting a little more excitement value to the whole game,decided to bet half(or sometimes,all)their pay on a single match.Either gaining everything,or losing everything.Some cheered,some wept.Some got insomnia,while others plotted ways to kill themselves.Really,those things happened around me in real life,and bullshit you i do not.

So,in Keat Hong Camp it is not different.Bunch of guys would gather in the rest room,and even after lights off it's not uncommon to find people still lingering around the television set,cheering for their favourite teams with blankets wrapped around their bodies and bags of potato chips scattered on the table.

I've never promoted myself as a very sporty person.Not to mention soccer,of course.But considering the fact that the World Cup happens once every four years,it really is hard to resist the beauty of it all.For some reason the insomniac inside of me is back,and ive been finding myself tossing and turning in bed without actually falling asleep at all.Sometimes i would wake up in the middle of the night,look around and find the bunk half empty,because those people who used to occupy those beds are in the rest room catching a football game.

I dont blame the soccer matches for my insomnia though.It really are my thoughts,just bouncing around at the wrongest times.Also,the fear of actually falling sleep,terrified by the dreams i have been having lately,which i would elaborate later on.Anyway,so yesterday night i decided to crawl out of bed and down to the rest room to catch the England Vs. Trinidad match.

To my surprise a bunch of people were already stationed before the television set,while a mini-soccer match was going on at the empty space behind the rows of sofas,between two teams of three equiped with a mini soccer ball.It was half time,and i jumped into the sofa next to Benjamin Horn,who at that time was suffering from insomnia as well.Just as i was about to settle down in my seat for the second half of the game to start,my blood froze and my heart stopped bounding as i caught sight of Sgt. Eddie sitting at the edge of the seats.But then again,i thought to myself.Since he's here and not saying anything,he obviously doesnt give a shit that the bunch of us are here after lights off,watching a World Cup match,right?So when Lt. Melvin came in and shouted at us,the sight of Sgt. Eddie sort of backed him off,which had me and Benjamin grabbing at our sides,laughing our heads off.

The match was excruciatingly boring.I mean,what was up with England in the first half of the second half?I'm glad i didnt sit through the first half,because nobody actually scored anything then.I wonder how the rest of the crowd sat through that,without any signs of moulds or decay going on.It was a sleep incurring match indeed,and for a moment there i was actually glad that i was finally going to fall asleep.

Then then 82nd minute came,they finally scored with a header.Everybody cheered,and the whole rest room trembled under the ferocious screaming of crazy England fans.I was part of the lunatics,climbing on top of tables,jumping around and high-fiving each other without actually being a crazy soccer fan myself.How strange,that i actually went esctatic over a ball going into a giant net.

Anyway,later on England scored again.This time we cheered even louder,and according to Jonathan who was sleeping at that time,the same type of cheer was heard all the way from Cougar and Archer the same.Guess everybody agreed that England was going to win then,and the bunch of us went crazy again,dancing around in circles shouting "Goal!Goal!Goal!" over and over.Haha,it was fun in a very stupid way,and though it didnt help me get to sleep afterwards,it sure made the life in Keat Hong,the night life in particular,particularly fun.