It rained tonight.

There was a definite absence of rain these few days; our laundry have managed to escape the violent tumbling of our dryer, instead finding themselves swaying complacently under the scorching sun (which, literally speaking, did prove rather scorching if you happen to be mowing the lawn at 3 p.m.), and I haven’t remembered taking an initiative to water the plants since a long, long time. I’ve also noticed that the tall plastic rubbish bin (not unlike the ones you can find at the back of malls and restaurants) which serves as a makeshift water tank – for convenience of washing the kennels – does seem lose a foot of water or more every now and then.

Anyway, it rained, and it’s still raining as I type this, the droplets of water hitting the roof of the kennels in noisy clatters. Strangely enough, the house felt warmer than usual, and the wind generated from my stand-fan isn’t as pleasantly refreshing as I would’ve hoped. Lanna made several barks, accompanied by Max’s whines. I didn’t let them out today, much to distracted by The Simpsons in the evening, so I guess they would be a tad dissatisfied today. I’ll see if I can let them out tomorrow… that is, if dad doesn’t pile me with chores to detoxify the house before Chinese New Year.

Mom’s laughter filled the hall, travelling past the door and into my room. Brother was laughing as well. It’s been a long while since I sat myself down amongst them, watching as the latest Chinese drama unfold in its typical fashion. I wondered when I started feeling less interested with such Chinese serials, which, if you have Astro, airs every weekday evening at 8.30 to 10.30. I forgot when I discovered that during these sessions I would less likely find myself interrupted halfway through writing, or while using the internet.

Now, of course, I have my own room, which means my privacy isn’t trespassed as easily as walking past the dining hall, and finally procuring a modem router means I get to access the internet from the comforting confines of my room. Brother don’t need to tell me to “fuck off” from his PC, and I wouldn’t be derived from my online conversations with friends. I could hitch a poster up now; I’ve had the Fullmetal Alchemist poster that Michelle gave me a year ago (or maybe 2) cellotaped to the wall. There’re still a couple of hindrances that isn’t allowing me to stick up more, but I’ll get them figured out soon enough. So far, my room is perfect. Just perfect.

I apologise if my entries have been more or less a cumbrance, or an annoyance, to read lately. Pei Ling pointed out that I’ve been starting my posts ‘Story-like’. I myself also realised that after my recent Gaiman novels, I’ve been writing and typing like these lately. It’ll be hard to explain without conviction and honesty… and I still don’t think that I can say for sure, despite being myself and understanding myself to the extent of self-consciousness. But I figured now, perhaps… I’m a storyteller.

Not a good one, I’d say; if you’ve been reading this pathetic blog you should know how well I fare in the world of storytelling. But I’ve been thinking back… and to really think of it, the best things I’ve ever done is to sit and cook up a story for English and B.M homework, then letting the teacher correct me and, in some instances, compliment me. I would feel the pride and drive and inspiration, and would write for more days to come until I hit the brick wall of creative block. My greatest pleasure is to find myself – in the words of Stephen King – ‘fall into the hole’ that appears on every parchment, paper or screen, and just write myself until my arse numbs or my head ached.

Yeah, I would say that I love to tell stories. And everyone tells a story, no? They live a story, think of other stories and collide with others. While conversing with your family over the dinner table, you inevitably tell stories about the day at college, or how a bitch the class moron can be, etc. How often do you regard a journal entry as a chapter in your life? Songs, music, the back of your DVD cover… stories are just everywhere, and it’s just how you want to tell it and what you want to tell.

Me, I make up stories, though in my regret I never seem to get them down on paper, or typed into the laptop, or even related to a friend. At most, I like to tell friends about the stories I have in mind, but it would seem like I’m too conceited and selfish by forcing it on them (and bore the hell out of them, until they froth and go into cardiac arrests). I’ve also developed a persistent fear of putting my stories into words, because I didn’t want to ruin them by writing badly and heaven knows that I always write worse than I hoped I can.

I’m learning… learning to tell stories, and by heaven’s grace; by luck; by destiny or fate or everything else… I can continue, and always, become a storyteller.

Goodnight people.