room noises.

A)

2011-12-27T01:48:00.003+08:00

It's gotten late, and now I want to be alone.

All of our friends were here, they all have gone home.

And here I sit on the front porch

watching the drunks stumble forth into the night.

You gave me a heart attack, I did not see you there.

I thought you had disappeared so early away from here

And this is the chance, I never got, to make a move

But we just talk about

The people we have met in the last 5 years,

And will we remember them in 10 more?

I let you bum a smoke, you quit this winter past.

I've tried twice before, but like this, it just will not last.

Make Light

2011-07-03T19:35:00.003+08:00

And you said, it was like fire around the brim

Burning solid, burning thin the burning rim

Like stars burning holes right through the dark,

Flicking fire like saltwater into my eyes

You were one inch from the edge of this bed

I dragged you back, a sleepyhead

In Our Bedroom After the War

2010-11-15T00:14:00.003+08:00

Like the last coin to be hurriedly scraped out of a porcelain cup, the sound of metal; of friction; irritable grimace-inducing friction, is all that's left.

That, and nothing.

Up all night, got demons to fight

2010-10-30T01:20:00.004+08:00

On a hazy, wet dawn, one finds the cup a worthy companion.

Outside; the soft patter of the much-ignored droplets, doing their best to be noticed. Inside; no one cares enough to ease their gaze from the heavy dripping of a stout tap on a counter top.

The musk and tobacco-stench form a perfectly intimate ambience amidst the dim lights illuminating little else but indulgence, lust, and greed.

In this place there are many obvious gateways to sin - complete with their luscious lips, seductive eyes, and carnal hands. One might try to fight against the adamant pleas and requests for one to indulge, by simply turning them down. One could even possibly resist the temptation to interact with such villainous gateways, to ignore them much like the neglected rain.

Yet the villains of the night are a many, and not all of them are overtly blatant.

Taking a drink in hand, our flawed hero toasts with a swig to his heroic victory over the villainous ladies of the night.

A drink.
Two drinks.

A devious new villain lies in the hand of the unsuspecting hero. The villain assumes an outer layer of glass, complete with a sharply elegant curved handle for better grip. A dark black liquid form is assumed for its inner layer, as if it needs any more justification for the poison that lies deep within its content. Uncannily similar to the poisoned apple presented to Lady Snow White, the villain's goal is to lure, and to remain deadly silent about the true nature of itself.

There is little else the dark villain can do but be poured from the tap and into the hero's hands. Yet our villain silently awaits its chance to destruct, knowing that it is certain to gain an intoxicating victory with every ironic celebration the hero makes.

With every sip, our villain enters into the hero. Their thoughts become one, their vision becomes a blurry shade of senseless images. With every heartbeat, the villain fuses misery and pain into the freshly, victorious spirit of the hero.

Our hero overcomes blatant sin.
Our villain causes inherent sin.

Our hero celebrates victory.
Our villain celebrates the true victory.

One can fight everything tonight. One can fight with all his might and all the strength in the World and beyond. If one wishes to, one could invoke every last breath one has left in him to stir away from the obvious course of destruction.

But when the morning comes, our hero will still be at a loss.

Alas, my demons are eating me up inside.

For Emma, Forever Ago

2010-02-20T14:49:00.002+08:00

I find that when your life is being run for you, planned and controlled every minute, you lose sense of what you truly need, what you truly want.

Every day we learn to obey and follow the light that shines from the torch of our masters. Slaves to the flicker of the line. Resistance may occasionally sprout up, denial and defiance strong in our hearts. Yet, the truth remains, at the end of the day, we are still caged.

Feeling this way is not easy.

But last night I dreamt of home. I dreamt of you.
Then I realised how I'm going to make it out alive.

And everything is going to the beat

2010-01-27T17:54:00.014+08:00

There are two sides to every card. Its hidden demeanor, shaded by stripes, shapes, a clown, trees, a picture. The face that no one reads - The lines that cannot be broken.

There is no trick that allows one to see beyond the veiled perspective. There does not exist a single, special, maneuver that will allow you to decipher what the covered region means. It simply cannot be done.

Flip over; And it lies plain for all to see - Spade, Heart, Club, and Diamond. One, two, three, and four. It can no longer be hidden. Fending for itself, praying it deserves trump status.

In the brutal fight that is a card game, the winner is often sure of the hands he is mathematically projected to win. As if written by the sages in times gone by, the strict rules that bind such games have all but one difference: The strongest hand always wins the pot.

An astute player plays to his strong points. He gambles not in mad-faith nor does he leave his fate to chance. He believes in the strength of a reflection vulnerable in nature, while eschewing the chains of his innate desire to be protected against harm.

It boils down to that single moment on the table. The single swift movement where all is laid bare, plain, and open for the world to see. The end of the road. The truth of the cards. My truth, and our truth.

Soft Rock Star

2009-07-12T12:05:00.007+08:00

You have been far too distant from your thoughts. Incoherence rambles on like a train in the distance, rumbling on the tracks, eating away at your precious sleep. You barely notice the abrupt changes in the thick, cool, air-conditioned air. Yet that mere whisper, that single, little, utterance of muffled sound, is enough to eschew a would-be dream.

And every night, his little whisper in your ear kills your dreams softly..

You have no idea.

A Love Story Set in the Age of Simplicity, Which In No Uncertain Terms is Deemed as the Dullest Theme to Explore, Encountering Numerous Changes in..

2009-04-27T22:56:00.010+08:00

the Way We Perceive, Hear, and Imagine the Flutter Of a Heart Beat, Which In Its Own Right Should Prove that All is Not Sound with My Mind When the Words that I Should Say Crumble into 3 Stupid, Small, and Callous Words, Which I Must Mention – is the Truth, My Truth and Our Truth.

Enter.

It takes me a while to remember. This is different.

I am seeing colours, a mist of whirling rainbows entwined in a luminous and magnificent spectrum. Your pink hand falls in line with the rainbow as I flip my shutter carefully, caressing the delicate situation. The backdrop – a sky, that is forever ingrained with the faintest hint of blue, on a patched ceiling of white clouds – is not entirely visible at first glance, due to the glory of the rainbow, but is certainly present. I abide on the ground, on the gravel, where I turn my head towards the direction of the breeze, into eyes of sparkling brown.

My face breeds contempt. I ruin the moment with a crooked grin, a crooked thought - A silly recollection of silly actions. I smile again.

The World is not perfect.
It destroys the beauty of the Sun with its urban landscapes and various technological advances. The latest disruption to my precious amount of ray is a grey bench hooded by a grey roof. There are no doors to this wall-less device. We talked under the cover of the bus-stop. It seems almost like October, except the breeze has stopped and it is now humid.

Sweat.

And it finally arrives. Our number.

The Day the Saucers Came

2009-03-29T23:49:00.003+08:00

By Neil Gaiman - writing in Fragile Things.

"That day, the saucers landed.
Hundreds of them, golden, silent, coming down from the sky like great snowflakes,
And the people of Earth stood and stared as they descended,
Waiting, dry-mouthed, to find what waited inside for us
And none of us knowing if we would be here tomorrow
But you didn't notice it because

That day, the day the saucers came, by some coincidence,
Was the day that the graves gave up their dead
And the zombies pushed up through soft earth
Or erupted, shambling and dull-eyed, unstoppable,
Came towards us, the living, and we screamed and ran,
But you did not notice this because

On the saucer day, which was the zombie day, it was
Ragnarok also, and the television screens showed us
A ship built of dead-men's nails, a serpent, a wolf,
All bigger than the mind could hold, and the cameraman could
Not get far enough away, and then the Gods came out
But you did not see them coming because

On the saucer-zombie-battling-gods day the floodgates broke
And each of us was engulfed by genies and sprites
Offering us wishes and wonders and eternities
And charm and cleverness and true brave hearts and pots of gold
While giants feefofummed across the land, and killer bees,
But you had no idea of any of this because

That day, the saucer day the zombie day
The Ragnarok and fairies day, the day the great winds came
And snows, and the cities turned to crystal, the day
All plants died, plastics dissolved, the day the
Computers turned, the screens telling us we would obey, the day
Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,
And all the bells of London were sounded, the day
Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,
The fluttering capes and arrival of the Time Machine day,
You didn't notice any of this because
you were sitting in your room, not doing anything,
not even reading, not really, just
looking at your telephone,
wondering if I was going to call."

And I was. I really was.

I'm running out of places to hide

2009-03-13T23:51:00.006+08:00

Gaiman writes,
“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”

And I think..
So do I.

Her morning elegance she wears

2009-03-10T22:12:00.009+08:00

A few days ago, I figured it would be fun to write against the backdrop of an alternate universe. What if I woke up as a different person, leading a different life? The results vary from the cliched to the freakish. Yet, here I am.

An alternate universe:

I: Waking at the unconvincing hour of redemption?

The radio-alarm cares not for man or time.
It's 7.17AM. It's unhealthy for me to be considering lifting my eyelids.
Some consciousness drifts in amidst the blistering pace of the Sun gathering its army of rays to intrude the perfect dark.

My dream -- in its fantasy World where my Kingly throne is surrounded by damsels, damsels and.. damsels? -- stares at me through my fast closing gap of memory.

Eyes arise.
I see the World for the first time this Thursday morning.

This Thursday morning, is joined by its companions - the January rain and the overcast sky. Although, I am unsure how to feel in regards to the pulsating urge to inhale some amount of air, it is musky and humid. Why can't I feel the cold of the fading winter that crowds around my curtained window, gasping for presence, desiring to ravish the warmth of my tiny home?

"Hum. Hum. Hum."

Ahh. The radiator is my best friend.

[insert section where location, characters and situation are described]

II: Yes, I work.

I work in a room full of boxes, dust, grey, and more dust.
My office is located along the busy street that surrounds the local shopping mall "Glow and Frings". As to, exactly how one might find his way along the busy street that surrounds this mall, you might have to ask a policeman. Or a painter. Or a cat. I just have no idea.

Every morning, my mother sends me to the office. With some amount of effort, I finally have nailed down the events that chronicle my eventual conclusion of arriving at the mahogany doors of "Primrose and Garlands co. (Flowers are man's best friend)"

1. Breakfast. A toast is always good. (noted: 19/8/1997)
2. Bath. I like the lukewarm shower with the occasional mirror mist frolic. (noted: 5/12/1999)
3. Car. Mother has said that I should always wear my seat belt further down my chest. The constant tug on my neckbone irritates the nerves. (noted: 1/1/2000)
4. I think the streets around my office are quite dirty. I just saw an old man have his breakfast of old jelly and crushed up cola can. (noted: 1/1/2000)
5. Fiona Apple was on the radio. I just thought it'll be nice to note that. (noted: 4/5/2001)
6. "Glow and Frings" is especially crowded this morning. I do suppose the office will be too. (noted: 25/12/2001)
7. Office doors. Here we are. (25/12/2001)

Usually, after opening the bronzed handle door at the entrance, I climb the long wall stairs that lead to the top of the shophouse. I enter my office and greet my assistant Melanie with a smile that reaches the tip of my ears. Then, I make my routine observation of the surroundings from the window. Our office window sits at a prime location between Greenwood and James streets. It observes the traffic light -- with its 30 second intervals and white crossed lines marking the street -- that signals the start of a busy shopping day for most of my fellow townmates. I habitually grab a chair and cut ribbons while I stare out at the urbanised setting, from the comfort of a 2-storey shophouse residing in another row of 1970-esque shophouses. The view is quite astounding. Today, I saw a woman smack her child for dropping the sacred coin purse he was handling. I should tell mother never to try that.

After cutting ribbons, I normally make a cup of "Instantly Ice-Cold Coffee (We only give the BEan-S-T!)" with an "Instantly Ice-Cold Coffee" packet and a cup of hot water. After my break, I tie the ribbons around pretty flowers Melanie has already trimmed and cut. Mother always sells these at the local market down at Home Road.

I like Melanie's face.
It is a round and peculiar face. She is very slim. I understand the two concepts do not usually go hand-in-hand. Melanie wears little make-up. She looks a bit like Renee Zellweger. I like that. Melanie is 27 years old, and loves to wear little striped blue blouses. She also plays guitar for a band called Primrose - named after our proud establishment of "Primrose and Garlands co." One day, if I can remember to, I will ask Melanie out. Maybe I should note that.

8. Ask Melanie out. (noted: 12/3/2009)

...

The story behind the main character -- who remains unnamed -- is such that he is intriguing in nature, and very careful with everything he does. It does come to the extent that one might compare the character to the popular private investigator Adrian Monk. I digress. My character has hints of lapses in memory. How long these lapses last, how frequent they are, I have not yet decided. The setting -- location of which also remains unspecified -- is rough and sketchy, with some degree of urbanisation at least. There is a reason I left out these vital details that might give some backbone to the ramblings that these 2 chapters seem to entail. I left this blank, so I could work on it further. I simply don't feel in the right frame to concoct a storyline right here, right now. This could work in the long-term, but first stories are always first stories. I didn't enjoy writing this one. But, I am pleased with how it turned out.

Are you?

P.S.: Feedback on this blog entry is appreciated. I am contemplating my chances in this industry. So far, I do not feel very confident. I feel like I'm new to a video game, and getting absolutely slaughtered even by the worst of all players.

Right. Off to covers, pillows and dreams of damsels now.

I'm so tired of learning to talk, building fences on the wall

2009-03-07T15:26:00.004+08:00

A Thank-You Note to No One in Particular:

It occurs to me that once every few years or so, on a rainy, lazy, uninteresting, afternoon, as you sit at your desk and contemplate the headstrong aroma of boredom, you generate inspiration from an array of products that flash before your eyes. Heavily decomposed, almost warhol-esque, their mere presence in that browser of yours belies the disaster your life seems to be in. You forget your pain. You immerse yourself in a World you seem to have misplaced.

To some, Art is a medium.
For me, Art opens one up and strips him to his bare essential self.

And so I thank you dear artist.
I thank you for making this day, a little more bearable than the rest.

And Now We Resume the Update on My Life:

I'd like to think that no one really knows where they're going. I'd like to imagine that we are all stuck in a vacuum that urges us to make the best of our situation, but denies us the ability to predict, prepare, or fashion the future to our liking.

Friday morning was particularly insipid.
I would say that the idea of being in their shoes one year from now, is aptly frightening. Yet, I am not quite sure of the events of this fulfilling year. Am I going to be bold, brave and ready to tackle my inapt ability to work when push comes to shove? Do my teachers see me as something worth the squeeze? Will I make it to the end where I stand and smirk at my pink sheet of paper?

I have no idea.

Just like the first droplet of rain, that hits a hard dirt patch, from an ominously cumilonimbus setting. I'd like to imagine that though I am not entirely drenched, I am on the path to fulfilling my aim. Eventually, someday, somehow, I will be able to soak through this thick uninspired desire and push myself to work.

Alas.
For now, I wait.

Alas.
Dear friend, I am scared to lose.

I followed a rabbit, through rows of mermaid entwined shrubbery

2009-01-10T22:37:00.008+08:00

How did you begin your year?
2009 began with a tolling bell, faces I onced talked to, and a car that offered no glimpse of the horrid nature the future belongs to. I recall I turned to the window. Breathing against the cold, now-moist glass, I placed my hands against the furthest corners of that tiny-squarish portal of vision. Trees, greenery, darkness, more cars. Except this time the picture kept moving on and on, as we travelled through time and path. Blinded by the city lights, and the memories of a dozen inconsequential experiences in them, I sought the guidance of a power so divine that I felt ashamed of how oblivious I was in the previous 365 days.

How simple is life truly? That on January 1st, 2009, at 12:00AM, we are separated from the year 2008 by a mere second. - A fraction of time that deftly flips over the calendar pages so smoothly.

I placed my hands against the furthest corners of that tiny squarish portal of hope. I wanted to see the future. Did I see it? Perhaps, I did.. If it did happen, maybe I saw a future I immediately sought to forget. And hence, I cannot remember. Thus, all I know is the mere coincidence that, on that dear night, I felt like I did not want to enter a darkness - that is the unknown. The unseen, the unheard, and the unherald.

By the by, it dawned upon me that everything was going to change. That everything had to change. As though, the big silver ball in Times Square became my personal harbinger of mist. I suddenly realized that I do not have certainty for myself anymore. A distant voice screamed a distant warning, or truth, "It's a shoreline, and it's high speed. It's a cruel World, and it's time."

Dear reader,
everything is changing.

If you are as lost, as I am, in this gust of the unseen, take care.

How can you say your life is empty

2008-11-09T22:38:00.004+08:00

Alot of people would disagree with me. But personally, I feel that the following is the best conversation ever recorded on Grey's Anatomy.

" Alex: I understand that you're scared, but if you want to live you need the surgery.

Jack: If I want to live? Have you been paying any attention?

Alex tells Jack about Ava/Rebecca; How she had an hysterical pregnancy, how she slit her wrists and had to be sent away. Alex talks about his roommates wanting to kick him out, adding that he has no money for a deposit anywhere else, so basically he's homeless.

Jack accuses Alex of making it up to make him feel better.

Alex says that Jack must have something to live for, even the possibility of something, as he says this Karev glances at Izzie. Jack mentions a girl at the grocery store. Alex prompts him to go for the surgery, because his luck will turn around.

Alex: Your luck is going to turn around, and when it does, say hello. "

One day I'm going to say Hello.

I feel I must interject here... You're getting carried away feeling sorry for yourself

2008-10-20T01:06:00.005+08:00

So in my most ridiculous attempt at livening up my blog, yet, I have decided to post up pictures. Random, silly, and absolutely humiliating pictures.
.
.
.

As most of you know, my parents are out of town at this very point of writing. Hence, I am required to do most of the chores at home. (Does not include cleaning the toilets. Who cleans them anyway? Just kidding. I clean them sometimes. Just not this time.) Picture me slogging my heart out mopping the floor, or wiping dishes or even folding clothes and I guess you would have a brief idea of what I'm supposed to do around the house.

As such, it brings me great honour and pride to announce to you that, I have conquered the challenge of folding clothes. It took a while, no doubt. Yet, I stayed in the hunt for the ultimate prize of fresh and clean, warm, clothes and I folded them carefully. Bit by bit.

Mommy always buys me shorts with football clubs crests on them. I've grown accustomed to wearing them. So cute. Even if they are fake.

So while you're mocking my utter narcissism, allow me to explain in detail the objects of my affection on my shelf. :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)

Right, anyway - One of those days when I was bored and highly susceptible to peer pressure and illogical thoughts, I chanced upon a black cloth. Now you must know that I am an ultimate Harry Potter addict. I broke up my paintbrush and painted it white just to make it look like Dumbledore's Elder Wand. This is sounding highly sad and pathetic, but there's more so hold your horses! Anyway, one of those mad Harry Potter wish-days, I decided that I would make Deatheaters out of that little black cloth I found. I had a pair of skeletons hanging on my closet (SRSLY. NO PUN INTENDED.) door and so I had the necessary materials all lined up perfectly. The end product was better than I expected. I chipped up a pencil to ensure that these Deatheaters would have wands and they would look menacing and fierce. See for yourself.

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.
.

And that marks the end of a weird post. I apologise if this is exactly the style you wished I would never adopt in my blogging. Feel free to comment and let me know what you think about my new method of "livening up" the atmosphere. I won't do this often. Just testing the water I guess. Here's to Gossip Girl tomorrow night. Cheers.

6 pounds and 7 ounces

2008-09-01T01:32:00.000+08:00

Sangria, sangria, red bull and banana. On the stereo, Ingrid sings of hope. She sings of butter, and of wine. She sings for men lost, and sings for love divine. She sings in vain to be noticed, she sings wistfully for solace. She seeks an escape, a place to call her home. I keep her words in my mind, so maybe I won't have to die alone.

Starting now, am I supposed to be fearless?
That all of sudden, I no longer dream of monsters or fight wolves in my silver lined clothes? Why, in all my fantasies of grandeur and greatness, I might even be the knight one cries out for. Instead, as warped as my mind can get, I might just turn out to be terribly wrong about myself. Blood-drenched swords instead of victory poses. Death instead of victory. Tears instead of joy. Say, I might even join forces with the evil witch to poison snow white just to destroy something beautiful.

In the distance the ideal couple sit upon the rocks. A mismatch. Beautiful nonetheless. He was wild, she was calm. He was the eccentric one, she exuberated typicality with such ease. He held her hand when she cried. She held his heart. Yet they part with such informality. No one's trying. He's an asshole, she's a wreck. No one wins. No, not really.

On the highway I hear of car wrecks and hundred mile pack ups. Lives squandered and destroyed in a flurry of ill precipitated action and rash impulse.

Thousand of miles from where I sit, early this morning with fingers cold between my sheets, the land of the free and home of the brave is finding out that it has to be the bravest it has ever been to brace itself for an enormous storm. A declining economy, dead young sons in a foreign land and carnal wreckage, perhaps. Forgone conclusions for destroyed hope.

Tic-for-tac. Pawn for rook.
In this endless war of tribulation and ever-impressing mortality, I've never felt so alone.
And I laugh.
I laugh because you said everything was going to be okay.

No, not really.

2008-08-07T01:26:00.002+08:00

My arts council application:

Just like letters a child writes to Santa Claus, just like letters a young man writes to his distanced lover, (unlike letters bored people write to the Straits Times forum page), my application to you, dearest seniors, shall be in the form of a collection of letters. : )

23rd JULY 2008

Day I

Dear Arts Council,
Give me a good coffee, a wireless connection, my laptop or a notepad, and I could blog/doodle all day long. I derive pleasure from these simple acts – so often overlooked, taken for granted. No one truly appreciates the beauty of expression anymore. But I remember the days of past when one treasured the art of cathartic writing. I like this lifestyle. It’s just who I am. I love writing. I love words.

[edit]

12:13AM

An emotional post of sorts. : (
Nostalgia, remembrance, and reflections.
When you reminisce the past, you remember your mistakes.
Many say it’s a hopeless action. A grave mistake in itself. I find the past comforting. Comprehending my mistake, dancing with my wrongdoing, going through the very sins of my past, is how I learn. This is how I grow stronger. This is how I mature. Reflection’s not a mistake; it’s a gift. Reflection is necessary. Retrospect, hindsight, reflection. Each and every episode’s lessons bring me closer to completing the jigsaw that is my life. It’s a gift that belongs to me.

24th JULY 2008

Day II

Dear Arts Council,
A little boy once wished to change the World. This little boy went to an arts and craft class every Saturday morning, where he would draw a few bananas, irritate the girls on his left and right, draw another banana, and then discover to his great astonishment that his art teacher had graded his yellow masterpiece a ‘C’. It was then and there that this little boy decided that he would take control of his own destiny, he would fight tooth and nail to ensure that he would dominate the World. That World, as the little boy knew it, was art. That little boy’s name was Pin Li.

He didn’t mind the fact that he had a lot to learn, compared to the rest of his classmates. He didn’t mind the fact that he was the youngest in this class. He didn’t mind the fact that his drawings were all of bananas and the topic ascribed to him that morning was entitled, “Heaven.” Pin Li loved bananas, and he didn’t care what anyone or everyone else thought of his heaven. For it was his heaven, his way of interpretation. He saw what others didn’t. He saw beauty where others saw ugliness. He saw hope when others saw none. He escaped the norm, chose the unique, and he was blissfully happy. Perfectly, blissfully, happy. That’s all that mattered.

25th JULY 2008

Day III

Dear Arts Council,
I have dreams of making it big in the future. I have dreams of climbing onto a pulpit and shouting messages of “Repent! Repent! The Kingdom of God is at hand!” I have dreams of pumping my fist wildly, screaming “Now is the time, for change!” I have dreams of elegantly reciting angst-y teenagers’ messages on an FM radio station. I have high hopes for myself. I dream of the day when I can finally express verbally what I have failed to say when I missed golden opportunities to chat up a really cute girl.

Don’t you see dearest, sweetest, honourable seniors?
I dream of the stage.
I dream of public speaking, day and night.
I want to stop dreaming of it.I want to start living it.

So…(Won’t you give me this post?) (Pretty please…?) :)

30th JULY 2008

Day IV

Dear Arts Council,
Today’s entry will be the last of my series of posts.
I trust that you may have either understood me more through my various expositions on my lifestyle, or you may not fully understand why I long for the relevant position so much. Perhaps, you might not even comprehend the sheer enthusiasm I have to drive on in my application.

But if anything, know this.
“Who knows how long I've loved you, you know I love you still. Will I wait a lonely lifetime? If you want me to I will.”- The Beatles, “I Will”

For I’m just a little boy, trying to change the World.

XOXO, Pin Li

No amount of coffee, no amount of crying

2008-05-29T21:17:00.006+08:00

When I was little, I loved my garden.
There was absolutely no place I'd rather be than squirming around on the dirt, face meeting the gravel occasionally, hands caressing the flowers that adorned the perfectly trimmed bushes and trees. I remember digging random holes to see if the ants or perhaps a mole might present themselves to me. I was blissfully entertained. Child's play.

When I grew a little older, perhaps just before I hit my teens, I loved photography. Maybe it was the environment I grew up in, that inspired my attraction to the language a camera speaks. I would run around taking photographs at gatherings, on holidays, on buses, on tour trains, boats, at home, in my room, on my desk. I remember with vague details, setting up a photoblog once, to show the World the pictures I took. I was blissfully entertained. Child's play.

A year passed.
I fell in love with editting graphics. I would steal random, abstract photographs off image searches, perhaps using a few of my older photographs as bases. I would input phrases I found meaningful into most of them. "The Blowers' Daughter", "This is your life.", "I just found out there's no such thing as a real World.", "Look at the stars, look how they shine for you." After a while, when my computer deteoriated, so did my passion. But, I was blissfully entertained. Child's play.

Hitting my mid-teens, perhaps 2 years prior to this entry, I fell in love with ambient music.
I remember the solace I found in simply being glued to my chair, headphones on and perhaps something lengthy to explore. A book perhaps. Sigur Ros, M83, Zero 7, Explosions in the Sky, Boards of Canada, Godspeed You Black Emperor!, Mogwai, Pelican, and Film School were the masters of my days. Hours were spent revelling in their beauty, as I conjured images of the purest euphoria my mind would know and - has known. Epiphany after epiphany, book after book would pass. But I was happy. Blissfully entertained. My "child's play".

They say that what canvas was to an artist in centuries past, is what film is to us now. What their paints could capture, our cameras can capture now. "Camera Obscura" is latin for "Dark Chamber". A chamber where an artist would give life to his canvas sheet. A chamber where the artist was alone, in darkness, albeit for the pin hole of light that gave rise to his creation and his depiction of the World. What "Camera Obscura" was to that artist, is what the camera presently is to us.

Past or present, we will always find ways to capture what our heart desires. What matters is whether we'd still have the desire to fill our heart.

What filled my heart 10, 5, 2 years ago.. can be replaced.
What photography was to me, something else may present a replacement.

I type this entry as I began my new journey into a new hobby.
A good book, a good cafe. Good ice-cream, good music. Early hours. Pretty girls. Perhaps not. :)
Good friends. Blissful entertainment. Child's play.

This is my life. Rather, this is the start of me living my life.
A replacement.
A filling of void.

What Camera Obscura was to an artist, - my eyes are to me.
Wish me luck.

Bones sinking like stones, all that we fought for

2008-04-29T21:28:00.003+08:00

I would say the attitude I have had in the last week or two, is sorely regretted. I make apologies for the descent into a feeling of emotional drain and for most probably bringing your mood to an all time low. However tough the week was, I understand that most of you probably saw my previous entries as a way to light up your eyes. (Self-praise is clearly not intended in this entry, whatever amount of it that remains is mostly unintended and yet evidently true :D ) Anyway, I regret my sink into a state of singular depression.

These few days have been the closest I'll felt to utter happiness. A happiness akin to when the new year first greeted me.

Friday:
Now you must know something about my lifestyle these days. I've been awfully in need of a new backpack. (Well ever since Yen and D said my current one minimized my size.) It is with great difficulty that the past week I engaged in saving and scrimping for cash. "Every cent counts" was the catchphrase D would throw at me every time I indulged in something. Therefore, the last 2 weeks were filled with sandwiches and homemade goodies. A water bottle that served the only purpose of keeping me filled up so I wouldn't buy canteen food came in handy at times. Yet anything goes when you want a perfect bag. Friday was no different and I actually woke up at 4.30 A.M. to make the most elaborate recess I will ever taste in my life. (Well, actually I didn't specially wake up to make the noodles, rather as I was sick I was awoken by my cough. But just let me feel all high and mighty right now!!) I cooked 4 packets because pro said she wanted to have some. I actually planned to include several slices of ham and scrambled eggs but my weariness prevailed and I forgot all about the extra ingredients. 9.30 A.M. came and all I had to offer to my horrified classmates was a filled-to-the-brim box of instant noodles with a seasoned tom-yum taste lingering. My dear twin decided to redeem my folly by buying some food from the Mixed Rice stall and dumping some into the box. Success! I actually conned Choon Min into eating what was now a "rather decent" meal of noodles and curried beef. (Yes, Choon Min you've been conned. Haha! You realise it only now!) It's funny though. Professor Les can't take curried or chilli at all and repulsively seeked water sources as if she was a thirsty traveller in the Sahara upon her first few tastings. The day ended on a sombre note with a sincere conversation involving the emotional wreckage of the weekend past. While Saturday brought laziness on a bed with an iPod in hand, Sunday had more to offer!

Sunday:
An overdue session of dialogue and ice cream (We would both agree to utterly be crazy over while possessing an indulgent smirk as we slurped our spoons) with my best professor. Just talking to pro enlightened my view on many issues that cropped up previously and as well as issues that are certainly starting to arise. Randomness engulfed our conversation at one point. Which mostly consisted of gossip and loads of doodling on each other's notepads. It is of notable interest to you that we most definitely did not stop to admire the Mud-pie. (Oh, yeah right Pin Li!) Yet as D would tell you, I am on a save-money campaign that requires me to bring sandwiches and a water bottle to school. Therefore, I most certainly did not purchase a mud-pie. Nor did I indulge in a milo drink from Macdonalds. Nor did I purchase an apple pie. I am not lying right now, stop smiling. Anyhow, at the end of the day pro told me not to neglect me-time. Thus, I will not neglect me-time and will always find time to engage my inner self. Wise words, wise words indeed.

This week thus far:
I would say that the 4 ham and butter sandwiches I made this morning (Of which I only had 2 to myself.) certainly makes the grade at last. No longer will I be known as the guy who mashed up nutella with overflowing, excessive margarine spilling out from the seams of the bread. Rather, I will make quality sandwiches equivalent of the pricey ones they sell at Delifrance. (Which, no offense to the attorneys of the French company, I have to say might just sell their own versions of mashed up stuff with bread..) Tongue in cheek guys. Tongue in cheek. Don't sue me for that. How screwed up is it though, that I have to attend one-on-one sessions with my chinese tutor for being a bad student at articulation? Sigh. The days of C6 and smiley faces are long gone.

After school this afternoon, a group of us pursued our ambitions to emulate Shawn Lim's lifestyle. Queueing up in the 2 storeys-high crowd of people outside Ben & Jerry's, while playing hold'em on Yen's hands, inspired me to desire a strawberry cone at first. And I really do mean at first.. Because we queued up for a second round. (Our first cones in tow!) But seriously! Free cone day is a day where everyone gets the opportunity to sneak a few cones into their stomachs without feeling guilty about it, simply because we didn't spend our week's pocket money on purchasing it! Altogether Ben & Jerry's Cathay seemed to have lost 70 bucks from just the few of us. You can imagine the total cost for the thousands more in Cathay at that particular time. Multiply it a few times to picture the hundreds of thousands of people queueing up for free cones around the World. Well, thank you Ben & Jerry's.. For allowing me to not only enjoy 2 free cones, but experience what it takes to go on a merry-go-round trip twice. I will most definitely support your business. (Come free cone day next year of course..)

Right now, I have to rush a ton of essays and fix a file that isn't even ready.
Labour Day just won't come fast enough..

P.S.: Thanks everyone. :) I am alive and well.

I'll stop the World and melt with you

2008-04-21T21:41:00.007+08:00

I am sick of the old route. I am sick of always following a daily plan that does not matter to anyone anymore. I am sick of always being the least I can be. Sick of being left to ponder what if? What could have been? Where would I have ended up?

It is the sickness that destroys my desire to fight on. A cause that perpetuates itself each and everyday. And yet, at the first glimpse of dusk, I have no idea what the cause is anymore.

Today, like any other day represented a dull, moody monday that had absoutely no perks at all. If anything I already miss the life I used to have.

Holidays, I keep reiterating to everyone I meet, are something I have grown to desire and have yearned for in the past few weeks. I have planned out exactly what I intend to do in June, or perhaps even in December. Yet, time passes as though it is stuck in an unpenetrable vacuum.

However for the sake of discussion, indulge my next few paragraphs.

When the holidays arrive, I should like to wake up early on most days. Breakfast at a favourite cafe represents freshness to a lifestyle of mundane studying. Perhaps tuition days might pose a potential stumbling block to early mornings. Yet, the majority of my days will be spent with a caffeinated drink in hand, my laptop enticing my other hand, and perhaps a close friend across the table ranting about his lovelife and the fences that have engulfed it.

My afternoons will be spent rather lazily. Whenever time poses a threat to my enjoyment, I will not hesitate to dial a familiar number. Bridge will be the order of the afternoon, most afternoons at least. We shall slouch ourselves in white-cushioned sofa-seats, chat about the idleness of our current situation and discuss in great detail, the possibility of wasting more time with more meaningless enjoyment. Perhaps for the greater good, a movie might present itself as a great way to end off the sun's presence. And perhaps at this point, we enter the night.

Dinner.
Descriptions need not be extensive. Dinner has always been just dinner. Nothing defines the final meal of the day, neither does it need any extra indulgences. Dinner will be dinner. And this shall be the rhetoric you will find me adopting. Post-dinner, however, will present a different story entirely. Music makes me passionate about the finale to my awakening hours. I should like to finally visit an ambient, quiet place that offers me the greatest relief to a sore day of absolutely no work. Sipping an equally quiet glass of whatever-the-hell-I-feel-like, I will gaze longingly at the brilliant instruments conscripted to action. After hours spent counting the total tabulature, my hands shall clapse when the music stops. As much as my mother would love for it to, the night will not follow suit.

Le Fin.
A walk.
To refresh my thoughts. To remind me of the paradox between this holiday World and the next. The anxieties, the worries and the burden of caring for unrelated topics will not subjugate me. No, for I will be walking. And thinking, of course. And my hands shall reach for those familiar white strings of attachment. And my ears shall engage themselves in combat with the environment that is now ghastly quiet, and the soft, sombre strings of Nouvelle Vague. Perhaps I might fancy Azure Ray. Who knows? I shall have the luxury to choose between both. With only the faintest of drum beats making the faintest muffled, distanced bobs of sound.

When my legs can go no further, I hail the green lighted saint of transport. Closing my eyes and gripping firmly onto the soft, delicate feeling of slumber, I will utter a command. Following a journey of intense struggling with the demons of soberness, I will rest my head on my Kingly throne of pillows. And when my head rests, I shall be amazed at the prospect of reliving the schedule at the very next instance.

Bring it on.
I fancy the new route better.

You've got to spend some time, with me

2008-04-20T21:09:00.008+08:00

I think its most probably the attraction of sitting at a nice cafe somewhere, doing something as superficial as blogging and as soothing as sipping a mocha frap that extraordinarily costs 10 times more than the materials used to concoct it. Clicking iTunes I select Death Cab for Cutie to be my sole companion through this meaningless entry. I talk to Ben Gibbard sometimes. I tell him that if I had his voice, I would release 500 albums to make sure every single person in the World knows of my wondrous ability to craft emotions out of guitar distortion and rhymthic beats.

Patrons at this joint make me cringe. The old foreigners that pick up a copy of The Straits Times and secretly wish for The New Yorker instead, the domestic helpers (toddlers in tow) helping their employers attend to the milk impartment process while the former attends to handing out wads of 2 dollar notes in the exchange - a daily routine of cupcakes and coffee. It is at this moment in time that I realise the distinct beauty in being able to pen what I truly see, what I truly feel, without feeling stuffed up or simply bored by the dull home page. Maybe the superficial side of me wanted this, maybe the lively part of my soul had a thirst for an awakening in my mind. But I will attest to the fact, that this time I will tell you exactly what I experience. You are my companion. You oh great journal of brown background, will become my greatest confidente to such a degree that I cannot fully unwind a day without logging onto you. You oh great journal, will become my mind.

This afternoon, I spent approximately 5 hours tirelessly trying hard not to make my Group Project Proposal sound like an eulogy or a dedication service sermon to Bono. It seemed at that time that the proper thing to was simply to praise the dedication of Bono so thoroughly that it would almost be certain our teacher will be suckered into buying the idea. It did however, get me thinking. Rather randomly as well..

One day, I would like to travel the World. Go to places I've never been before, perhaps Turkey, South Africa, or maybe even Brazil. I would entertain myself with the wildest of intoxications in Turkey, the most perfect natural experience in South Africa and the thoroughly effective cocca beans in Brazil that no doubt will leave me awake for hours at hand. And when everything has been done, every place has been visited, every warm summer sun basked in, every sky admired fully, I will frolick with the wild, tall, grass somewhere in France. And I wouldn't even mind if at that point, I succumb to the frailities of life and depart. Because I would have experienced it all.

For now. That remains a dream.
And you are encouraged (somewhat strongly!) to donate to it's cause. :)