let down

how incredibly dense of me to hope that a moment of perfection could change anything.

nothing gold can stay.

remember this moment baby

because life right now is some sorta perfect.

let's sail away.

dischordance

the instability's startling when you find yourself faced with two strains of music; each sounding independently sublime on their individual threads, but weave them together with the needle of fate and you'd simmer in wide earred wonder at the dissonance created. if only the resulting migraine was restricted to the vulgar crevices of the mind but when it reaches the virgin petals of the heart, you wonder how much you can take before you decide to switch the music off. yet those transcient moments of perfect harmony, so fleeting that you have to steal a quarter of a breath to realize their existence; aren't these what we live for?

this is no fairytale, romantic symphony we're faced with. this is open war.

[and i wonder what it is inside me, what kind of stagnation or regression of sorts that plagues me into doodling on lecture notes; little random scribbles on random pages blending together in a hopeful question for the future:

"are you happier today?"]

talking 'bout the birds and the bees

i should be reading pygmalion really, or one of the other lit texts that sit menacingly on top of my bed, like squat phantoms demanding for attention. but well, life gets cranky once in a while, and i quite agree with patke when he said that the english lexicon is simply starving for expletives to capture the angst of the everysquee. [in my defense, at least it's a sign that i do pay attention every now and then during my lit lectures]. now, just because i don't vocalize them, doesn't mean that i don't think about them; and i think myself some sorta insane in that while i was having my mandatory shower this morning, i found myself wondering at how certain swear words have sex-related etymology. and i'm not just talking about the classic that starts with the sixth letter of the alphabet; that one's so grossly over-rated that it's bordering on cute. in fact, even if we were to travel beyond the frankly limited english lexicon into that of my dear dialect, hokkien; well. the boy seemed rather amused at my random declaration that i was a blue bird. and when i demanded to know why, he decided to put my translation skills to the test. hokkien-speakers, do your thing. still, i marvel at the sheer fascination with, well -

let's just say that we get a nice little stereotypical congregation of beer and bengs around a kopitiam table; engaging in a discourse generously littered with our classic hokkien expletives. and if we were to do a quick translation of the many abbreviations along the lines of "knnccb" or even our rather adorable "blue bird", one could quite easily picture a gleeful tiny freud in the form of an apparition fleety fleeing around, giggling to high heaven.

so what quoth thou? shall we then expand our budding english expletive thesaurus by taking a page from its hokkien counterpart?

very well then.

oh, vulva.

yo ho yo ho

a pirate's life for me.

*squee*

ahem.

better than sex.

[no intentional fallacies, please.]

this is a chaste entry.

under the sheets

i wish i could hide under the blanket, cuddle up to my pillow and basically build myself a sanctuary from this world today. all my strength depleted like a soldier lost in a desert without any hope of revival or replenishment, it takes every last inch of resolve to remove my head from the sand dunes.

God, please be my survival. i can't do this on my own.

riding solo

swaying on the tip of the threshold of adulthood reminds me, albeit none too gently, that it's about time that we all woke up and smelt the daisies. ultimately, we're all solo travellers who cross each other's paths; for some, the ride's longer, and i guess we are the lucky ones, somewhat. but maturity sticks its big fat nose in to remind us that, sometimes, the ride's gonna be solo when we reach certain crossroads so we've gotta grin and bear it.

i just hope we reach a turning point soon.

the bubble trap

the inertia of striving to squeeze a significance out of everything, no matter how contrived it may be, has always been an inseparable bane of my character. which is why i find myself wondering about how the constant presence of a ring and a watch on my fingers plague me in materializing my thoughts in the scheme of this virtual reality. i could come out and simply say that i find it rather uncomfortable to type with accessories on my hand; but i've never been big on simplicity at times like this, and i reckon that nothing's going to change anytime soon. but the point of it all was that if i saw the world that simply, these eyes would belong to someone else and since i find it decidedly disconcerting to conceive of any part of my anatomy being in the possession of someone other than me, we shall put that thought to rest.

pushing it though, one could draw a parallel to the way a relationship has doused my sensitivity to the subtle nuances of life that had prior played hopscotch so gaily in my grey matter. which makes it rather ironic that -

hold on for a sec and allow me to indulge in a rant on the evils of making a mac convert return to the dark side of owning a pc, regardless of how sexy many have attributed it to be. perhaps this piece of machinery had the immodesty to fixate itself with the high hopes of becoming my post-modernist muse, slyly cultivating the secret vocation of pushing me on the path of being the next e e cummings. why do i say that, you must ask. why spout the drivel that you do? well i suppose it'd take one with a certain degree of artistic proficiency or at least a nice damn amount of patience to deal with the cursor doing merry hops around the place, interrupting words with letters dislocated from where they were meant to be, generally turning an entire long-winded blog post into a wishful and fond nostalgic salute to "the grasshopper."

rant over and out. which makes it all the more ironic, as it were, that the point of this ramble would be the way everything falls into place through the words of macniece with regards to the loss of the sense of poetic/intellectual wonder that i had once be doused in, whether voluntarily or otherwise. what i do experience now, is this willing and intangible imprisonment in a bubble trap whose exclusivity relegates the majority most mercilessly to the periphery.

"time was away and [he] was here
and life no longer what it was,
the bell was silent in the air
and all the room one glow because
time was away and [he] was here."

is the bubble trap a safe place to be? perhaps not for the intellect, although a quick retrospective view of the soliloquys emerging from what i had fathomed in yesteryears and months serve as quite an irritating proposal that perhaps my so-called lost "intellect" could very well be a mythological construct. touche. but for what it's worth, my consciousness has no guilt to play other than that of sloth in the act of my penetration of the bubble. but now that i've regained in parts some residue of my "rationality", i know this still.

i wouldn't change a single bit of the way things are right now. not for the brain cells of any einstein, ideal or person, living or dead, in this world or beyond. existing in relation to someone else is part and parcel of this existential shite we're caught up in and when all has failed, and the petals fallen, i'm just thankful to have a witness to my life and words, however insignificant they may be.

some call it love. i concur.

wanted: therapy from retail therapy.

sneak previews of the goodies for the babies:

for the boy:


for zeezee:


for my bestie:


one realizes how much one has aged when gallivonting around the bugis area provokes an unrivalled cocktail of grumpiness and weariness. and frankly, if i have to hear one more rendition of a sugary, identity-less, girl band hit, i will asphyxiate and die. i swear that i'm swearing off shopping. at least for the mo.

sue me for typing in fragments you grammar nazis. i'm a defunct one myself.

regrowth

and no, i don't mean the kind that spouts from follicles, unless they're of a metaphorical sort.

i just thought that a 6 months hiatus was proving detrimental of sorts on the mental inscape of my brain. which you can probably tell from the way my words are taking shape. and it totally makes sense that the intangible plagues my brain in the inhumane fragments of the morning, making it impossible to negotiate a deal with the sandman to just leave off the jump cuts that throw my mise en scene in disarray; while now that i'm offering a chance for concretization, they bashfully deign to remain hidden.

then again, maybe love did nothing to heal my verbal/articulated impotency. darn.

still, the thing is. i'm back. sweeter, snappier and just a bit more jaded.

hooray.