I must, quite frankly, apologise for my previous post. I shall throw in my very best squeezy-eyed emoticon, to show my sincerity.

>.<

Because that was no way anywhere near a proper description of a great visit to a paintings exhibition (which, admittedly, had been a fantastic but befuddling show… on my part, at least), and I’ve been in a rather ridiculous mood of wariness when it comes to writing, hence the forced and ultimately pathetic post.

I figure that this might look rather faltering in terms of necessity, but I very truly felt that I’ve ruined it.

I’m sorry. >.<

*ahem*

I’ll move on to today, shall I?

Today had been, quite possibly, a genuinely sort of mix-up in flavour. Like a cotton candy doused with Paddle-Pop ice-cream, lime, chicken rice chilli, belacan and buttons.

Or perhaps I shall say that if I intend to describe today with taste, this is the monstrosity that comes;

First there was a taste of driedtongueandphlegmsaliva, the regular early-morning tang that never failed to greet me every cursed morning, and which requires a little more than Colgate to throw off.

Secondly came the taste of Idiocy, when I boarded a bus without looking and ended up at Genting Kelang instead of college (I shall justify myself by saying that I was horrendously groggy at the moment, and it was 7 in the morning and I had awakened at 5. I’ll leave it for you to judge). I walked all the way back to college, and thankfully the air was cool and dewy as certain mornings are, so that the walk couldn’t get anywhere worse than thick smog and recurring pangs of shame.

Thirdly was the taste of Nothingness, which was the taste of the nasi lemak I ate at a stall (at TBR) before heading for lecture. Well, except for the egg. Which tasted like egg. Fried.

Fourth was the taste of IMMENSE & UTTER BOREDOM, but it was to be expected from a Miss Neoh lecture. What would my parents say, though, if they discover that I spent the lecture drawing comics (strips and all) on my notepad?

Fifth was the blissful taste of Relieve (which incorporates the mix of sweetness, cocoa and Prozac), which came when I saw that I’ve passed my examinations.

Sixth was the fetid lingering aftertaste of Bitter, when the guys discovered their respective results.

Seventh, the taste of Nostalgia, having managed a few moments of Unreal Tournament before heading for class (M-M-M-Monster Kill!!).

Back in class with Miss Neoh was a recurrence in Taste No.4, but at the meantime I had what that was the Eighth taste; Candy, which I bought at the store beforehand.

The Ninth taste was Best-Sweet-Sour-Pork-Ever. At the usual mixed rice spot at Wangsa Maju, where it was sold at a house.

The Tenth taste was the taste of Intimidation. I spent the train ride home reading up the short story drafts of my classmates, and I have to say that I am more than impressed. I am stunned and amazed. I inevitably made comparisons to mine, and had felt, very honestly, jealous and pressured. I guess the competition is tough, if there is any at the first place. Every draft had been a good read… save one, which I shall not reveal here (it is a story that reminded me of something I wrote back in my primary school, and the teacher had commented, in a most polite, gentle and truthful way, that my story was mountains over-the-top).

I haven’t made to check whose story that I hadn’t read yet, though I’m most eager to get my hands on whatever Michelle wrote =P

The Eleventh taste was the taste of Disappointment, because God of War 2 isn’t out yet (on pirate DVD) when I went to check at the stores in town, risking a very probable ticket for parking without paying.

After that I had a taste of Just-Tea (Green Tea with Grape), and I shouldn’t have had it, because I’ve already consumed half the stock we have. Add Guilt to Taste Twelfth.

Now I’m currently tasting Taste Thirteenth, and that’s Regret, because I’m here typing this instead of reading 6 chapters of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, to be discussed at class tomorrow, so I’m pretty much going sit and mouth wordlessly as everyone throw in their best perceptions of the novel. And then I’ll be wondering about lunch, or whether I shall try checking the stores for God of War again, or whether Isaac understands everything that he will inevitably say.

And then I will wonder why I didn’t read the damn book in the first place.

Oh yeah, I was blogging. And the book bores the crap out of me.

Goodnight people.

The painting hung over the ebony piano, which was – to my small dismay – surrounded by velvet ropes that meant my presence there was only welcomed at 3 feet away. On the contrary, however, watching the painting reflecting itself on the dark surface of the piano gave it a vibrant air of classy grandeur, and I thought, perhaps, that the painting comes together with the piano as a complete picture, and were meant to be viewed together.

But the painting was the one I was most interested it, so I got myself as close to it as possible, and I looked at it like I’ve looked at every painting before it.

The title of the painting was “Dita-Summer”.

The ground was red and barren; crimson from the relentless sun. Above, the clouds bore the golden glory of the sunlight the reflected on its misty form, solidifying it into a golden mould of light. Streams of the golden paint flowed gently down the canvas, as though the clouds were raining down on the land…

The clouds were pitying the land…I mused, and I didn’t know why I did. A smile coursed over my face.

It was quiet at the gallery. Like a gallery should be.

Fresh from the 300 movie, Amanda, Teh and I made an unusual drop-in at a KLCC gallery that I never knew existed before. Amanda said it once housed a photography exhibition, which she visited sometime before. Now it was a painting and poem exhibition; works by a man I only remembered as Latiff (from his signature that occupied the bottom of his paintings).

The admission was free. They only needed one signature.

We went in. I didn’t read the title of the first paintings we encountered, and we didn’t exactly spend a long time trying to understand it. The paintings were ones that doesn’t seem to take any certain objects or pictures, and at first glance one can decipher it as merely random swirls and patches of paint. The three of could only guess what it was. Amanda said something about a sheep. Teh said it looked like sailing boats in a dark night. I thought it looked like nonsense.

It wasn’t until I started lagging behind while replying a SMS, and being further apart from Amanda and Teh, when I started spending more time on each picture, and realising that I could only make out the colours that created it (that’s indigo! I know indigo. And yellow. Like bananas. And lemons).

Away from the guys the gallery turned into a corridor of resonating silence. Footfalls echoed and died like coming breezes of wind.

I stood at a painting, gazing at while wondering how the heck one could admire paintings such as this. Subliminal meaning?

What am I looking at? I’m looking at shades of red and magenta, a coursing of green and minuscule droplets of purple and blue, a blending of 3 colours into a certain shape… a man? An old man, hunched and weary, his hands grasping something, a stick perhaps, to support his weigh. His face was long, his nose large and crooked. He was weary. The sun was tormenting him, engulfing him in the crimson fury of its rage. The colours of his face formed streams that swivel down, like sweating, and above his hunch bore the weight that seemed, somehow, cursed upon him…

Huh.

I never knew why, but somehow, it felt like it was the right way to look at the paintings like this. It’s no more different than trying to determine the obscured theme to a story, or deciphering a photograph in whole. Losing oneself in it, and limning the things that we see, regardless of right or wrong… for there never seemed to be one. The painting only provides the colours and the shapes. You make the picture.

And then everything seemed to be fun to look at.

I was soon seeing caves with gorges of swirling water, forests of burning fire that swayed to the winds, waves beneath the surface of the ocean, streams that ran alongside watchful storks, a tower at a distant land that basks in illuminating rays of sunlight and a solemn face of a woman (most of them with little or nothing to do at all with its title).

At the end of the gallery was a book, filled with signatures and comments of visitors. I pondered for a moment, took up the pen and scribbled (as nicely as I could): “fascinating”, and put a J-E underneath it. Teh wrote that he didn’t understand anything of it but he thought it was nice. We left to get our bags.

Alright, I’m going to begin today’s post with a huge

THANK YOU!

To:

1) Michelle and Diane, for getting me the Good Omens novel!

2) Farah and Pei Ling for getting me that cake (tasted great, though it got mashed up on my way home).

3) Ju Ee for –despite the immense amount of pushing and shoving and disagreeing and protesting and exasperated “woi!”s– still allowing me to pay for her meal.

4) Everyone else at the lunch today, which includes Amanda, Wai Yee and Geetz, for wishing me a belated birthday.

And if you’ve noticed, I’ve just been out to lunch with 8 fantastic ladies and having my birthday celebrated. Mmhmm, on different circumstances, I would’ve been the luckiest 20-year old in the world. Currently, I’m only the happiest 20-year old of Today.

I didn’t expect my birthday to be celebrated as well; for all I knew, I was merely tagging along a luncheon trip to commemorate Ju Ee’s birthday (which, rather incidentally, falls a day after mine). Having no personal gift for her, I figured I would buy her lunch, only to get my share of the celebration nicely set for me.

Thanks girls. I appreciate it, very, very immensely.

My birthdays for me never do seem like a big deal, but nonetheless a day I look forward to exceptionally since the beginning of the year. It’s a day in which I find myself in a contradictory situation; on one hand, I’m very clearly excited about it, and like most people (I figure) wants it to be the best day of the year, and having gifts and a grand dinner and a cake, with the appropriate candles. On the other, I can’t discard the feeling that I don’t actually deserve gifts, or cakes, or a particularly expensive dinner, mainly because I’ve never done much for anyone else’s birthdays, or maybe because I feel that it’s a day where the thought counts most and getting wishes is more than enough.

So I keep telling my parents not to buy any gifts (well, maybe a few exceptions), or waste on cakes, or eat something that’s too extravagant. I never, unless prompted or happened to mention, deliberately tell my friends or remind relatives of my birthday. And honestly, a wish is always enough for me to feel appreciated and remembered.

Thus I never do expect much from my birthdays, and sometimes in birthdays I never expect any more. Like today J.

I’m going to be truthful here; I did find it kind of fishy that Michelle and Diane never showed up after our visit to the bookshop, and when they said they were at the toilet I was pretty stumped out because I never saw them leave, and I’ve been keeping watch at the entrance for several times in case I was too engrossed with browsing. When I called Michelle and asked if she’s alright, there was a strange sort of forcefulness in her voice that made me go O.o for a bit. But then I never suspected that they went to get me Good Omens. Thanks so much =P

Here’s another large

THANK YOU

before I end this post.

Sweet dreams all.

And goodnight people.

Oh noes!

Say it isn’t so!

Dad has once more sought the need to increase the amount of animals at home, and this time it’s…

2 of them! (I can’t get the 2^nd one to sit tight while I take its pic). (The second one is similar in look by the way. Only less greyish).

It’s as though dad never got the hint that I’ve been plagued enough with animal predicaments, which technically fill most of my time and responsibilities. Perhaps I shouldn’t hint, you know… maybe I ought to shout it in the house with a bottle of vodka and my BB gun in my arms… just to prove a point…

But I can’t deny that they’re cute and cuddly… damn.

Dad hurriedly named them Happy and Lucky. Brother wanted to name them Thumper and Humper (-_-). I personally preferred Yarn and Thorn, but then again, they don’t sound anywhere near pleasant anyway.

I’ll call them that when no one’s around…

Just to mention, i've set myself up a little story-hub, which is Monochrome Smogs under my Links list at the side.

Finally decided that i might as well let my works see the light of readership rather than stay molding in my laptop drivers.

I intend to post my stories elsewhere as well, namely www.great-writing.com.uk, but for majority and less appropriate stuff i'll dump it at Monochrome Smogs.

Feel free to drop in, and leave a comment or 2. You don't know how much it means to this fella here.

Goodnight people.

How do you like my new background?

Let me add first, though, that this is not my intended background image. I wanted something radically fascinating yet simple upon a canvas of black, but due to the severe lack of grasp in HTML handling the best I could do is fix up my Death Note wallpaper. It looks well enough for me, so I guess I’ll have it up for sometime.

I guess it’s pretty weird to put up a post regarding the change after weeks of having it up, but I was succumbed to the exasperating haul of the inevitable coming of days, and those days happen to be the Chinese New Year.

I’ll get this down and straight; I don’t enjoy CNY. I used to, but in the recent years of increased fatigue, I generally prefer my holidays locked up at home with as many sleep as I want and as many hours I can get on movies, books and my PS2. Going around visiting relatives and strangers, and being visited in return doesn’t count down as comforting and relaxing on my book. Sure, there is the oh joyful gladness of receiving them red packets of money, which on fortunate times are brimmed with generosity and on usual times are dripping in cold touches of misers extraordinaire… well, they hardly add up to provide me a blissful and well memorable holiday of doing nothing and absolutely nothing.

(I understand that on those days of nothing and absolutely nothing, I tend to rouse up a cascade of “OMG I’m bored to death” topics and complain).

So, CNY. The big, ever populating C, going through their own N Y with crimson glory and insurmountable wishes of wealth and health (wealth always come first). I used to love CNY. I liked the fact that I’m getting new clothes, which will be the topic of a few talks amongst my relatives. I liked going on visits, meeting cousins and collecting ang pows. And then I enjoyed being visited, thrust with more ang pows and chilling with more cousins. Nowadays, things have changed.

For one; purchasing new clothes has become quite a drag for me, and I have developed a certain lack of interest in it (and it often reflects to me my ever increasing weight and waistline). For two; hanging out with cousins isn’t as fun as it used to. Back in the younger days we just hitch up anything fun and played till we’re bored (which never usually occur), laugh and eat. Now, with most of us all grown up, our communication kinda dropped (most times just spent sitting in silence under the banter of the adult chatter… which is the opposite of what it used to be) and playing something seems horrendously childish now. No, we just sit, chat if it’s good and stay silent for the rest of the day. Unless you’re someone like my bro, who can crop up any conversation with anyone, and the way I see it he’s something of a rare breed (too thick in the face, see, and they don’t market them like him no more… ouch kor just kidding… don’t bust my nuts…)

Anyway, CNY just don’t symbolise that, of course. There’s the spring cleaning, which ate up enough days just managing the un-necessities (dad’s fish tanks and stuff). There’s the decoration; hitching up the same old lantern and pineapple and perverted-looking boy holding up a gold bar. There’s the food (the best part of CNY), and this year I’m the har pheng cook (look! Perfectly flat har pheng with the perfect tan). Dad took a change in the snacks line-up by filling jars with sour stuff pregnant ladies adore, and the kuaci took a severe downfall this year with only one jar. The rest is standard pineapple tarts, chilli snacks, dragon meat, kuih kapit (or carpet, variations depending on grandma’s preference in the name) and them white biscuits shaped like animals… I forgot what they call them (this year, I found one shaped like a battleship. Or a very headless owl).

As usual; first day, head down to PJ and visit aunt and uncle, and during then dropping by dad’s aunt and uncle’s (in which brother gets set up with a distant female cousin… very humorous, and very unsuccessful to begin with). After that, back to Kajang and to grandma’s for dinner.

Second Day, i.e D-Day, where we get visited, and everyone’s up early to prepare for the feast (dad’s excellent chicken rice). Being maid-less this year around, we’ve reduced our guests to relatives only; friends and acquaintances are happily forgotten and left brooding in their loss. Food is only chicken rice, chicken and veges with complimentary soup. No chicken feet, friend ma yau fish in soy sauce, dark soy sauce chicken, curry rendang chicken and whatever dad would often throw in. Workload and hectic-ness down from insanity to considerably comfortable. Ang pow haul down 50%, though… but still, can’t complain.

I broke new ground this year by tackling the task of de-seeding the chillies without any form of skin protection whatsoever, which resulted in several hours of immense agony and some tears (yes, I shamefully admit… then I’ll just leave you to imagine the pain). My hand was throbbing, stabbing, burning and numbing. Good combo of pain. In the end mom had to take to me to the clinic because it burned so badly. It took 2 layers of different creams to soothe the pain; something salt, a bucket of water, a running tap and ice could not.

Past day 2 and the rest of CNY settles down to a calmly descend of tasks and troubles. Things would’ve been great if my copy of Rogue Galaxy (I’m in Malaysia, so you know what sort of copy I own) wouldn’t load any further down Chapter 7.

The time being, the best thing to do is just nothing. And nothing gets boring after a while…

Goodnight people.

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.

Occasionally, I find that sleeping and waking early can be rather cool. If you know me enough, or by chance I’ve mentioned it sometime someplace, you should know that I’m one of those who preferred staying up past midnight and more yonder. Not that I’m one of the nocturnal type (like Amanda, and most of you out there); by golly, I handle sleep deprivation horrendously (short a few hours and I trudge around like a zombiefied penguin with a migraine). But the time after the stroke of 12 and into the depths of night opens up to additional and potentially great enjoyments (most call this’ nightlife’), and I daresay you know it, perhaps more than I do, so you should understand my reasons perfectly.

But anyhow, I slept a great deal earlier than usual; 11 p.m. or less, due to reducing my sleeping hours so that I get to wake and study for my advertising paper, and found myself freshly awake at 8.30 in the morning. I laid idle for a while, saw my brother out of the house, went out to buy breakfast and ate watching Austin Powers (International Man of Mystery)… and say, it’s only 11 in the morning! So I powered up the Ps2 for a few games of PES6 and Disgaea: Cursed Memories, hid in bro’s room to watch anime on Youtube and ate left-over porridge while reading The Order of the Phoenix (4^th read-through). And it was only 3 p.m. after I decided I’ve had enough of Potter for the afternoon.

Normally (on uneventful days like this) I’d wake up at noon, do something a bit and eat, and after that it’s already 4 in the evening and dad’s home with chores and un-necessities dumped at me with as little mercy as possible. And dad being home means no PS2, no hiding-in-room-doing-God-knows-what (because inevitably I would be summoned out, either to do stuff or just so to check that I’ve not died rotting in the room) and no freedom on the TV, so the little time I get to do something fun in a day is as short as recess in high school.

Today, I’ve learned that whenever a friend returns a book I lent out, I should do well by opening it when I reach home. You’ll never know what souvenirs that friend might slip into the pages of that book, be it a tear in a page, a smudge of dahl at page 54, multiple dog-ears and a hollowed-out section made to hide in a packet of weed. In my case, however, it was a Thank You note for lending the Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time. So instead of reading that note and say “hey, there’s no need for a thank you note, really. A cup of bubble milk tea, or a movie at KLCC or a gargantuan combo set at McD’s would do fine”, I must’ve looked like an arrogant git who didn’t care less whether or not a friend had sincerely left a note in his novel to thank him for providing a good read. Good going.

Sorry mon ami Amanda, for taking so darn long to reply that thank you note of yours. And really, there’s no need for a note. Bubble tea will do fine xD

Goodnight to you ;)

And goodnight people.

I woke today hearing the lizards making weird chirping noises that sounded like a drowning bird; hearing Lanna barking at something I assumed to be a toad that lumbered into my yard; but not hearing the usual blaring of my alarm clock.

My first thought was that I slept pass the Ain’t No Holla Back Girl alarm tone (which never usually fails to wake me) and that I was most likely late for my photojournalism exam paper, but the dark sky outside and the lingering cold air of early mornings told me otherwise. I settled back hoping to sleep until my actual waking time, and I did.

I dreamt that Michelle was offering me a packet of biscuit waffles, which I politely declined. Isaac then appeared wearing like he did during our Introduction to Drama presentation act, and with his Pickering voice told me that that was no way to treat a lady. He proceeded to stuff my mouth with the biscuit waffles. I was shouting “Don’t ruin my diet!” over the thick vanilla crisps, only to spew them onto Mr. Yusof, my photojournalism teacher, and he failed my paper on the spot. I had to pay my monthly allowance for a re-sit, and while doing the paper the guys appeared and laughed at me. It turned out that add-maths was required to calculate the balance between aperture and shutter speed for the perfect camera exposure, and since I forgot fishes about additional mathematics, Mr. Yusof failed me again. I was yelling at him only to find myself yelling at a Jurassic Park arcade game. Then I thought, why not? I rolled in a token and blasted a few raptors, zombies and Cloud Strifes, who told me that I didn’t equip his materia properly, and now he’ll get PWN-ed by Sephiroth. I told him to shut up, because I was cold, and I was supposed to be asleep…

Calling this morning a cold morning wouldn’t be entirely true, nor was it entirely an understatement. It was cold, for one, but perhaps not as much colder than I had to undergo. My morning shower almost send me into a shivering frenzy, and approaching my car parked lopsidedly at the lamppost outside my house I was greeted by a wind perfect on warm days but nasty in freezing mornings. Thankfully on mornings like this I get chee cheong fun to warm me into blissful satisfaction. It feels that the chee cheong fun store at the market has become a makeshift bar of sorts, and aunty have become my makeshift bartender (that serves up a hot plate of chee cheong fun and yong tau foo in chilli). And I’m like a workman who needed his alcohol fix after work, downing a few shots of whisky or whatsits while leaning over the counter to chat up the bartender. At the stall I would plunge myself into utter awakening as the chilli toils warmth in me stomach, and aunty would tell me all sorts of things, from milo being too sweet when served outside to people who sell flowers despite a diploma cert in their hands.

Still, the morning proved too cold even for aunty’s best chilli and soup to remedy. The train was freezing. The LRT was freezing. The college bus I took was freezing. The CIT lab was freezing, and doubly so when some idiot found it hot in there and fanned himself with a bunch of papers, so that I get the wind too. And during my paper I had the misfortune to sit underneath the air-cond, which froze the heck out of me halfway through my second essay question. I had my windbreaker on, but it could only do as much as to keep the chilly winds from directly hitting my skin. I even had my hood up at times, like an Eskimo taking his A-Levels in a refrigerated igloo.

You know you’re in trouble when your start wondering if your question papers would make a good bonfire. Add in a couple of dry figs and diesel and I could have several charmanders crawling from their burrows to bask in its warming glory.

What’s a charmander?

(OMFG Pokemon).

After the exam and lunch over at the college canteen (in which I ate in the company of ladies thick with conversation that I could never seem to participate in, even when I’m practically brought into it), I slept my way (yes, slept) to Berjaya Times Square and subsequently Sungei Wang to check on the modem routers. Literally lost in Sungei Wang, I spotted the familiar, small built of a girl carrying the ever unmistakable orange-and-black bag, with her bespectacled face among the crowd of shoppers (a look which I could distinguish miles away while wearing spectacled coated with cooking oil). And Amber’s look when she finally saw me was as priceless as a Mastercard advertisement.

“A large mall as this and I could still run into you,” said she, in her strangely amusing Cantonese.

Coincidence could only come so far, mon ami. The rest is all misfortune and tough luck on your part.

Well, she was kind enough to point and walk me the correct way to Low Yat, after I aggravated her enough with a multitude of things. I still owe her a few meals.

Miss Amber Ng, what would you say to Death Note 2, my treat?

I owe you more than that ;)

Goodnight people.

There was a wind tonight.

It was a strong wind, the type which you wouldn’t probably constitute as merely a wind, like a squall, perhaps, yet it wasn’t powerful enough to for you to deem it as something as intimidating. Still, it was strong enough to shake the branches of trees, to bristle the leaves and blades of grass so that the night became a symphony of rustles and silent wails, and it was gentle enough for you to feel comforted under its breath. There was a certain air of eeriness to it, though, largely because the trembling branches threw shadows on the walls, but if you’re one that doesn’t fear the shadows and whispers of winds, you’ll probably find yourself in a solemn hall of melancholic breeze.

Just like me (but the shadows did creep me out a bit… don’t tell anyone).

If you realise, or took time to realise, you should probably know that winds whispers things. Something inaudible, something that you can’t decipher under the gusts and rustles and whistling, yet you’ll feel as though it is trying to tell something to the world, and the most you can get from it are gist and feelings you sense. You’ll know if the winds are telling a happy tale, or weeping a sad song, or yelling a torrent of anger (you should grasp by now that angry winds are those during storms and hurricanes and whatnot). But then, of course, one as sane minded as you won’t find yourself coming to conclusions such as this; you know, that winds whispers and speaks. Mental. Yeah, I don’t normally deny my state of sanity, so let’s just leave it at that.

Tonight, the winds whisper melancholy and morose.

Perhaps it is my thoughts, my toiling of emotions and sentiments, which most usually find themselves lodged between glum and obliviously cheerful, that made me think that way. Still, there was something about that warm yet chilly gust of air that brought out the depression in me, and I found myself standing in the middle of my lawn, just after managing my pet dogs, and letting the wind wash over me and my gloom.

The song that I sang minutes ago, when I tended to Max’s bowl of rice, seemed to echo with the wind, singing itself in its own tune.

But only love can stay,

Try again and walk away,

But I believe for you and me

The sun will shine one day,

So I just play my part,

And pray you have a change of heart,

But I can make you see it though,

That’s something only love can do…

The feeling of helplessness surfaced, clawing at the walls of my chest and decided upon itself that it should clog my breathing just so I can feel miserable and alone, thus fulfilling its purpose which it was set into when the were the Words at the beginning.

What am I playing at?

Why can’t I just stand up and act, ignoring the fact that I can’t do anything or something worthwhile… worthwhile enough to aid in the soothing of a troubled heart?

The one heart I worry so much about…

I stood there for a while, pondering those things that you know better to place in your own concern, yet can’t help but feel that you ought to worry about it.

It’s not your business. There’s nothing much that you can do.

Nothing much… perhaps.

I turned to walk into the house to liberate myself from the descending knowledge that I was making myself a very easy target for mosquito fodder.

The winds blew again.

Something seized me, something rash and irrational, and I turned and said;

“Can you tell me, then… how do I help her?”

And I stood there, watching as the winds died down, I lingered there on my spot, waiting for an answer I know will not come, yet under the ensuing silence I could almost feel that an answer would, eventually, whisper itself to me, through the winds or the rustle or silence or the roaring cars that pass by.

The winds didn’t return. I felt stupid.

And I walked into the house, feeling as helpless as I ever had, and has, felt.

It feels tiring, everyday. And I thought ever since I got the photojournalism assignment out of the way I would have considerably less hectic days. Well, not that these few days have been anywhere hectic (save Saturday, which I will get to later), but everyday came and went with a weighty sense of lethargy sinking in and numbing the mind.

Ah, the photojournalism assignment… I haven’t, in all my honesty, ever attempted something which I’ve undeniably poured in galleons worth of attention and effort. I have Michelle to thank, because if we didn’t decide to labour on this together as a makeshift team I wouldn’t have an ounce of the motivation needed to complete this exhausting but excessively enlightening (and fun) assignment.

Blink a few blinks, and I found myself liberated from insane the trudging through the many places we had to visit just for that few photo shots of old people eating wholemeal bread with a mug of coffee… yet, in a way, I wonder when I’ll be able to delve myself into another experience that was last month’s, and the thought of it makes me miss it already.

It felt as though I’ve flitted through a month of running around seeking leads, of having to face harsh rejection despite the immense trouble, of placing ourselves in the company of the lonely elderly and taking shots of them whilst listening to the exact definition of ‘grandmother stories’, of paying a visit to an orphanage and having fun there (well, I guess I’m the only one having fun there; Michelle was practically petrified by the culture shock). The prominence of the month had settled with weight on my shoulders; the exhaustion, the lessons, the experience… what a month. And great quality time with Michelle. What more can a single, un-obliged 20 year old guy ask for?

Then the presentation night, which was - if I may be permitted with a little pomposity – greater than I can ever expect. It wasn’t GREAT great, and I was journalistically wrong, but at the end of it I felt the effort pay off, the risk worthwhile and the experience priceless. And my marks for my photo essay wrap it up nice and warm. Cheers J.

Now I face the merciless, ferocious beast that is my semester finals, and it’s very safe to say that I’ve been dutifully vigilant with my continuous procrastination and carefree lazing, so I’m now wallowing in intense guilt while hovering close to the edge of failure. In my defence, however, I can say that the past weekend (especially the Saturday I mentioned earlier) was very unforgiving and willing to allow me some precious study time (most which are normally squandered under daydreams and Final Fantasy 7).

Saturday was a crazy day. Full stop. I was close to the brink of death, and no I’m not kidding, just exaggerating, and truly, Saturday was tiredness of the past month combined together with a year’s worth of social work and lawn-mowing. But the reward was good… no, wait, the reward IS FUCKING AWESOME. What’s the reward, you ask? Why, it’s hard to say it without the risk of bursting into an enthusiastic hysteria. Still, well, you did ask so I’ll just say I GOT MY OWN ROOM! WOooHOOoo!

Finally, after 20 years of my short life, I get to have a room of my own. Which means I have a sanctuary of full-privacy, complete freedom to do whatever I want and a bed I don’t have to share. Banzai! What’s left is a modem router, and soon I get to have an Internet connection without having to undergo mortal combat with my brother for it.

It’s not much, my room, but it’s perfect enough. I have a single bed, a study table which is over 15 years old or so but still fine, my novel collection right beside me, my laptop and a TV (which I haven’t gotten around to fix up, and it’s a sadly old TV, so the PS2 can’t work with colours on it). My only qualms are the large mattress that we had to hitch in our room, since there isn’t any other place to put it, and the mattress is taking up the wall room I intend to stick up some posters, and that bugs seem to manage to find their way into my room. Well, it was the maid’s room (and partial storeroom, for the little stuff we have no room to squash into), and heaven knows how well she takes care of her abodes.

There is something, though, about sleeping alone at night, and the fact that I’m sleeping alone makes me feel rather lonely. Not the sort of drastic lonely, like ones where people realise that they’ve drifted so far away from company and friendship, nor to the point in which I wake up and cry into my blankets and talk to my Wilson volleyball, but it’s a peculiar sort of loneliness that keeps my mind on it for a while before I shrug it off for sleep. I’ve been sleeping with my brother for years now, taking the top bunk of the 2 double-deckers we shared, and while most nights ended with either one of us uneventfully sleeping first, there were those nights where we found ourselves chatting into the night… chatting about everything and anything, from girls to anime to what constitutes a fuck. Now that we sleep apart, I wonder when those conversations might occur again.

I miss her, especially during those lonely moments, even though we aren’t intimate or exactly very close. But I find myself thinking of her, then hoping that she’ll be fine, and trying to shake off the discomfort of the cold truth between her and me and what we may ever be. And I wonder if she feels lonely, because she never does seem to be so, but she is one, whom I observe from time to time, project such loneliness that it would shroud me for several moments. I worry about her, but I try not to worry too much, because I know that, perhaps, I don’t need to worry about her so much, as she has the world that worries for her. She doesn’t need me, but there are times when I felt she does, and too many times already I needed her.

So here’s a goodnight for her, and goodnight to you too.

Goodnight people.

If I ever could describe today in words; any word at all, I would say that it is a peculiar day, and how very peculiar it is indeed, though peculiar would only graze the lowest touch of it’s vastness of strange tidings and utter abnormality. In other words; today is a strange day, and I don’t know why.

Today (my apologies for the insensible repeating of this word) is cumbered with an unsettling shroud of dissatisfaction, as though I’ve descended upon a phase where I would never feel the warmth of complacency, and that my stomach was a void that has never known satiation, so I ended up being in silent mode throughout the rest of the day. Not that I’m completely silent, mind, just preferring the contention of being quieter and less conversationally inclined. I spent the train ride to college mostly delved into Neil Gaiman’s Stardust (of which I’m most delighted to have purchased last Friday) and under the placid deluge of my Mp3 playlist, talking very little to Pei Ling whom I had rather coincidentally met at the train station.

Dinner also ran in a similar way. Sitting at a hawker stall just across the college hostel gates, I placed myself in the company of Michelle, Diane and Isaac, and had talked just as much as a tinkle of salt into a plate of salted fish, occasionally distracting myself with passing cars or straying cats, and feeling rather frustratingly jealous of things that are completely idiotic to feel any spite for at all. All I did was sit, nod, reply dim-wittedly, nod, fork my lacklustre noodles and drank in the sour dregs of lime of my drink hoping that it’ll just dull me into utter senselessness, so I wouldn’t feel like a fool sitting in a table of well conversing scholars.

Everything felt morosely empty. The noodles that I had devoured unenthusiastically rested disdainfully in my gut, further elevating a sense of perpetual nothingness that crept ever so annoyingly everywhere. The only thing I could feel thankful of is Stardust and my Mp3, and with them as company on my lonely travel home time seemed to past considerably faster than usual. It was raining when I got home, first a scattered curtain of drizzle, which slowly grew into an all out cat and dog analogy. I bought a packet of steamed peanuts, the heat of it warming my palms and stomach as I slowly ate them on my walk to the car, parked pitifully alone under the shadows of the walls that made the front of the New Era College and away from the streetlamps that threw amber light onto the wet streets, so that wet roads too were amber. It was a beautiful night, and had the rain not steadily grow harder over the minutes I would’ve spent a few moments by the car feasting on peanuts and watching as the world flit past.

Now I’m here, at home, feeling the same sense of discontent that had plagued my day, wondering whatever could’ve made it so devoid of anything (but the pathetic feeling of misery) and anything so devoid of it, apart from pondering why the heck I’m here whining like a talking donkey harassing an exasperated green ogre. Sigh, best not dwell too much in these sense of idiocy. Perhaps a good sleep will clear it up, and I’ll attend college with the usual veil of glum and dull, colourless shades, but at least being able to feel contented when I get to.

Goodnight people.

What is the difference between love and hate,

When it stems from the same thing?

Affection is best of us, and the very worse.

7 a.m., sharp.

I woke.

Just like that.

Initial and foremost reaction; snooze alarm, wait till the next ring 9 minutes later, get arse off the bed and prepare to spend the day in a boring stupor and render myself completely exhausted once again…

Only that I didn’t arm the alarm, and it was Saturday. Means no class by default, and no motivation to attend replacement class at 9 a.m.

Back to sleep I went. Woke up 3 hours later.

The lethargy took time to sink in. Halfway through the curry noodle breakfast I could feel the clawing, scuttling ascend of laziness creeping into the muscles and seeping into the bones. By midday I’ve subjected myself to curling up comfortably in my room, avoiding any dodge-able chores and complacently satiating my fan-boyism by downloading a buckload of anime wallpapers.

I deserved this break was vividly hovering in the mind, justifying my irresponsible loafing and lazing. Conscience made a futile tug to get me into working mode; the photo assignment’s not done, and I’m inches away from the finals without any revision whatsoever. But what the fuck? I’m tired out, thanks to the past 3 days, with yesterDAY doing most of the tormenting work.

But I did spend a considerably large amount of time alone with Michelle. That almost made it all worthwhile. Almost.

Well, it’s VERY worthwhile, if I’m being honest. Look at it this way; I get to spend hours upon hours, alone, with a hot and pretty gal that literally is so randomly bizarre it made her nonchalantly eccentric. Fun? Not even close. Bliss describes it with utmost precision.

We’re both supposed to do our photo essay on Pudu Prison, currently Hang Tuah Police Station, and we went miles around to know enough of the procedure that’ll get us in to do it. It’s actually simple in sound, as according to the beefy corporal at the prison, all we have to do is get a permission letter from the college, get it chopped, diced and verified at the Dang Wangi Police Headquarters, bring it back and Open Salami! Snap some pics, trade them with each other and home we go with the biggest pain in the ass gone and done for good.

So we got the letter, which was done on Thursday, and flitted down to the Dang Wangi Station, only to find that office hours are up and the head is back home to screw his wife or whatnot. Alright, nevermind, we have tomorrow. Go home, tired as an ass dragging his farmer’s obese aunty on a tow-cart, to rest up and head for college tomorrow.

The next day, we head down to the station once again to discover that we’ve made a mistake and that the headquarters, similarly named according to its area, is a few monorail stations away. Yeah, thanks police-lady at the counter, and if you’ll be kind for us again please tell the policewoman we met yesterday who oh so conveniently neglected to tell us that we were at the wrong station to go eat a boxful of stale doughnuts. Helps clear the bowels, you know, only painfully so.

So we head down to the Dang Wangi police headquarters, and was instructed to meet with the Chief Inspector. Only that the Chief Inspector decided to go have her morning mamak fix. Dia pergi minum. Mmhmm. Think of the impression that it gave.

Well, we were spared for waiting like a fool at the place by a portly, friendly policeman who told us that we need to get the authorisation at the Bukit Aman headquarters, since Dang Wangi is under it anyhow, and then bring it back here. Aw crap. But whatever. So we paid a taxi driver and he got us there in a jiffy.

Bukit Aman is huge. It reminded me of those royalty residential grounds, up in the hills amongst the thickest jungle growth you can find at the heart of the city, and you have to drive through some fancy winding road to get to its brazen gates boldly intimidating with gold and static bodyguards, so you’ll turn away and leave them be. To get to the department we were directed to go we had to walk down the path, past the armoury, police quarters, logistics building and criminal investigation department, into the tall building, change our visitor’s pass to Class 2 (or something like that) and wait for the clerk to buzz the department’s head. Michelle said this feels cool. I couldn’t agree more.

We couldn’t meet the department’s head in person (away to minum, I assume), but the authorisation got through in a matter of moments. We were just asked to sit at the waiting hall, approached by an officer asking us our purpose of the assignment and before we knew it the letter was signed and copped by someone. Good. Our prospects were growing better and great expectations were flaring up to maximum optimism. We returned back to the entrance gates, got our ID checked out for the 4^th time of the day and luckily enough managed to hail a cab the moment we walked down the main road.

We stopped by the Heritage Hotel to get Mich’s bus tickets back to her hometown, and headed back to the Dang Wangi headquarters. It was almost noon by then, and apparently the chief inspector wasn’t back yet, so we sat and waited for her return. Past noon, and we approached the office. Everything did seem fine when we were asked to sit by the chief inspector, a woman in her late 30s by my guess. I stared at the stars at her shoulder, pinned to her uniform. 3 stars. Chief Inspector, according to the chart on the wall, which showed which ranked are which based on the stars on the uniform.

I was too busy with the dazzling stars to be concerned with her face. Too late.

The face practically spells HEAD BITCH: I’M HERE BECAUSE I BITCH. GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT?

Well, apparently we needed to submit the letter of permission at least 2 weeks prior, in order to get it properly authorised so that when we get decapitated by a madman criminal at the cells, the responsibilities can be sorted evenly.

1) No one told us that, not even Mr.

Beefy Corporal,

2) we needed authorisation from the District Head Police, who was on duty someplace else (no one told us that either) and

3) HEAD BITCH could be nicer when telling us that (while we can’t deny the fact that she’s HEAD BITCH), but instead she chose to make us feel like juvenile idiots that doesn’t know the ‘common’ in common sense.

So she flitted between being bitch and dastardly bitch, stern and intimidating, sounding angrily exasperated and slam-dunking a load of crap on our head as though it’s the most obvious thing to do. She then grabbed our letter, said that she’ll file it to her boss, not guaranteeing that he’ll see it, and then passed it to her secretary. I had the impression that it was the last of daylight our letter would ever see. It’ll stay moulding under some drawer somewhere until some cockroaches feast on it.

We had REJECTED slammed at our face. After all the stinking trouble. And by HEAD BITCH.

I’d chucked the stapler at her face if it wouldn’t get me pounced on by a dozen of roti-canai-and-teh-tarik-filled coppers and whisked into the lock-up cell where I’ll get my nuts under therapy of a very eager buzz-baton.

I didn’t mind the utter shittiness of it all, but disappointing Mich was the last thing I wanted to do. We came under a stunned dazed, and spoke little. I had the urge to punch every car at the parking lot, and Mich was buried so deeply into her cell phone that she was in danger of becoming car fodder without even realising so until she went to heaven. It took sometime for us to calm down and not drift off on our own. We took the monorail to Times Square and had KFC.

What happened after was a couple of unperformed ideas that we cooked up, a lot of ranting, a tonne of frustration-wallowing and enough sighs to fill a whole new planet with carbon dioxide. We stayed for an hour or more at KFC, where our discussions shifted from worry to love predicaments (funny how it went that way).

In the end, we couldn’t do anything about it at the moment, so we headed to Borders to grab 3 Neil Gaiman novels (it was on promotion). Then we went around looking for the boots that Mich had her eye on during our previous outing there. Things calmed down considerably there, and it was good to see Mich smiling again when she tried on the boots and looking at herself in the mirror. She looked good, but insisted that she wouldn’t know how well the boots will go until she’s wearing a skirt. Then to Sungei Wang to hunt for some DVDs, but piracy raids were on and the shops switched to their legitimate counterparts. So we just walked. And talked. It was great.

I watched Michelle board the train to the KL station, where the bus will take her back to Penang. She waved a small goodbye in the throng of passengers. I went home and got myself stuck in traffic. It rained like mad. I had to drive dad and bro to the restaurant for our dinner, in which I got nagged and accused of driving like a madman (which I do). Dinner wasn’t all that bad, nor was it any good.

I slept at 10 at night.

It’s Sunday morning now, and Arsenal is playing Liverpool in the FA Cup as I type this, wondering how to end this entry. I guess I better settle for the usual.

Goodnight people. Pardon the mess of it...

Ever the same.

I began the day hoping that it wouldn’t come. And sure enough, my prospects were considerably good. The sun was bright, warm and strong enough to dry the laundry, and though there ware the few distant glooms that hovered ominously over at a distant; the afternoon was completely dry and positively hot.

Perhaps it may never come. Perhaps this New Year would’ve been different.

Perhaps things may be different for a change.

But came it did. The rain.

I was out to buy tonight’s dinner, and just before exiting my mosquito netted door I saw the tell-tale signs of imminent shower. The damned grey sea of clouds, the rumble of muffled thunder, and the cold winds that whip chills to the face. I managed enough sense to grab my cap before heading out to the food courts.

It wasn’t a heavy rain, and a drizzle might not even be a proper description of it. It was more like a scant, falling curtain of mist, and with an occupied mind one might not even notice that it was raining, until they realised that their clothes were damp and dew were caught at the tips of their fringes. I’d prefer something like this during quiet evenings at home. But not now. Not during today.

Thus, walking back to dad’s crummy old Land Rover, the usual stuff took hold once again. Looking up at the dull sky, feeling the droplets of water tap onto my face, and wondering why it has to rain again this New Year. Then wondering about myself, or what I’m going to do, etcetera etcetera…

It’s another New Year under the rain.

I’m 20 years old now.

Well, technically speaking. I’m still 3 months and 3 days shy if we want to be more specific. 20 years old. Funnily enough, those figures hit me just as hard as guilt does to conscience. I’m 20 years old now, one year away from emancipation, and one year apart from teenage frolic.

Why does being 20 makes you feel like a worthless piece of crap, decaying under a decadent stretch of barren junk?

Thinking back, it feels as though time had passed relentlessly quick, and yet the memory feels the sagging weight of gathered reminiscence. Almost 2 years now, 2 years since I began bounding towards a foreign, new life on a train everyday, meeting new people and facing new experiences that rendered my naivety more profound and obvious. Finding courses in life, understanding passion and dreams, falling in love… 2 years now, since I last called Jansen, or chat up with Albert, or spend quality time with Chin Liang and Yuen Ho and catching up with each other.

2 years… what have I achieved, and what have I lost?

I haven’t change, or rather, I did change, but the changes were insignificant as they are irrelevant. I’m still fat, and short, with a love to do things that I can never do well enough, perpetually stuck with a mentality and intelligence befitting an oblivious 12 year old. I haven’t been striking mutual discipline while handling things, and still the slacking procrastinator that does nothing and goes nowhere. My love life… well, let’s leave this out.

Things did change, however, only that I’m not changing with it. It feels like standing in the middle of a revolving room, where the walls rotates and distorts, shifting and changing into various whatsits, while I’m rooted at the middle watching it change. I see how my brother steadily grows into an adult, whilst maintaining a mischievous shadow that bears his childish demeanours. I observe my friends, and how each new revelation makes them seem older, more matured and disciplined. I gaze as my younger cousins slowly embracing their teenage years, learning new lessons and gaining new experiences.

And all the while I stay in the middle of it, idle and never moving. Never changing, never learning, never living.

Today, I had the choice of accepting a pretty gal’s invitation to go on a new year’s night clubbing, or saving the cash and buy myself 3 new novels. I chose the latter. They say that people regret more of what they didn’t do compared to what they did. I sit here, somehow regretting not grabbing my jacket and flaunting down to Bangsar to some random club, tasting cocktails or dancing off into the night, or maybe even observe some development between me and a certain someone. And after, heading off to some Mamak stall and replenish ourselves with whatever we can feed ourselves all the way until morn, then head home with a heavy head and insufficient sleep.

Instead, I had chosen to save the cash and head out to Borders the next time I’m able to, and grab 3 of the Neil Gaiman novels that I want, and after spend every possible idle time I have delved deep into it, ignoring the world and ignoring myself.

Does it mean that, inevitably, I have once more chosen to stay within my circle of safety rather than head out and feel something else?

20 years old…

And things still stay the same.

It's funny to think that I'm here, finally able to blog, sitting in front of a less competant PC at the college CIT and downloading advertisements that're way too large and far too long to copy (why are things way harder to deal with when it comes from Sheetal?).

I'm utterly sleep deprived at the moment, owing to the cascade of assignment deadlines that are relentless as they are insane, and it's rather a miracle that i can type under the weighty influence of a can of RedBull and a lot of bullshit from teammates that annoy the veins out of me. I haven't been updating in a while, and i guess i won't justify myself with reasons i'm sure you know... that is if you know me enough. I best spare you the cliches i use in my vindication. Let's just say that i'm busy enough to shun away from a few blissful hours of blogging.

i'm surprised i haven't puked out a murderous amount of blood at the moment, and if you're one who is weak of mind and heart you'll most probably try and find various ways to utilise your bottle of Dettol that can cause you grievious bodily harm if you're here in my place. Pardon the pompousity; this is mere pressure and strain from a few days of crazy assignment workloads and horrendously irresponsible teammates, and honestly nothing compared to whatever mid-life crisis some poor individual might be under. But things are getting very out of hand at the moment, and if i survive this gallow of bloody-as-hell assignments i'll treat Michelle to Nando's and Eragon.

Meh, what am i to complain about? This is brought upon myself; hammered down by my own laziness and perpetual procrastination habits that never does seem to learn. What's crappy enough is that my usual teammates are also subject to such irresponsibility (even more so than I), and things never does get a head on unless I start panicking enough to start work. It's as though the word incentive and initiative never existed in their dictionary (maybe it doesn't, i mean, once you think of their grasp of the english language) (man, i'm mean).

Now i face 2 deadlines and incomplete work that doesn't look like it even started. Ladies and gentlemen, i present to you my Death in glorious Technicolour and Dobly 5.1 surround. Popcorn sold at the outside booth.

It sucks. Someone taser me at the balls. No, just kidding... really...

How often do you get someone telling you that “you need to get a grip of your life”?

As far as I can remember, or even if I do try to remember, those words have been shovelled into my conscience just as much a juvenile delinquent would receive from doting parents. Every time it struck the heart, sinking a rusted anvil down my gut. It was funny how I wouldn’t develop immunity towards it, much as I often do to things that were constantly bulldozed over me, and the familiar feeling would clog my throat until I mentally whisper enough consolation to myself. Consolation... hah! How proper that word fits… I console myself that I need not rise to grasp my life into perpetual order. It’s pathetic.

Yeah, perhaps it’s about time to grab life into a Russian chokehold and drop it with a German suplex. Much as I hate to admit it, I am a pampered brat. Pampered by the existence of a maid, and pampered by my own optimistic thinking… words that I fill myself with that tell me that life would in fact unravel peacefully like red carpet, and all I have to do is strut like Jude Law towards the opening night of Cold Mountain. I’ve allowed sheer naivety to govern what I decide, and haven’t most of my decisions faltered shatteringly into shards of disappointment?

My brother had issued me the newest “you need to get a grip of your life” line a few days back, successfully drenching me with a cold bucket of reality and realisation, after dad nagged me for not getting my hair cut over the week when I promised I would by Thursday. I’ve been telling myself that there were circumstances to my not going to the barbers, but all I did was feeding me with concocted excuses for jumping into decisions that were selfless in a less fancy manner. And after that I didn’t what to think. I didn’t know what to tell myself. I was, once again, in a loss of answers.

And until now, I haven’t even answered myself.

I still haven’t overcome my pride and admit my arrogance to tell myself that my life needed a whole new overhaul.

People, as far as I saw, find it hard to change. It is always easier to raise a barrier than to break it, though the phrase that I should go is: it is always easier to gain weight than to lose it. To lose weight is not exactly hard, in fact (as my brother had pointed out); all you need to do is just starve yourself. But there were a few things to vault over when you intend to lose weight; hunger, temptation and habit. It’s always hard to fight hunger, just as it is hard to fend off the dangerously sweet voice of temptation. Over the years you raise your mind with habit, and stays in the vicinity of the habit without will to leave.

Healthy people would tell you that you need 3 general things to lose weight; discipline, willpower and determination. Sadly, when your life revolved around hunger, habit and temptation, those 3 things either never come or come in short temporal moments.

Just like me and life.

When they say that it’s hard to break out of old habits, they weren’t just giving a half-assed attempt at philosophy. Discipline. Willpower. Determination. These never came to me when I do things for myself.

Senseless selflessness. Someone told me that sometime.

I’ve… known the lessons and what there is to learn. Just that I’ve never gotten around learning them. Like reading your course layout, knowing the chapters and topics but never studying them anyhow (it’s what I do, until my exams). No lessons learned.

What the hell am I playing at?

How do I suddenly come to despise the one subject that I’ve been looking forward to since last year? It was as though I was kid eagerly waiting for Christmas to come only to find that Christmas is nothing more that a day at the gas chambers in a POW camp (which is not, I apologise, and Christmas is still the best celebration ever Christmas is good Christmas is cool deck the halls with boroughs of holly mistletoe nice jingle bells please don’t hate me…).

This is the deal here; photojournalism. Sounds cool? Heck it sounds cool. It sounds like Linkin Park bashing it up at the KLCC Park, and if things don’t sound cooler than that, Eminem decidedly joined in the party with Snow Patrol and Sum 41 bringing up the ante. So here I was expecting things to be cool, and I mean COOL baby, and yeah is it COOL. In the other sense, that is.

Because I was freezing off my buttocks as I sit waist-high in utter boredom while trying to fend off the bloody swarm of exhaustion and starvation, all while the lecturer thought it was a great time to tell us his daring(!) and amazing(!) tales of his as he tried to survive his campus days with crappy meals and antique cameras.

And that’s what we need, don’t we? We need grandmother stories to further fortify our knowledge and talents as we brace the cruel harsh world of journalism, and the boredom of listening to it is only the easy part my son, for when you face the reality of the cold barren lands of adulthood you will be a man for all to see…

One word: Fuck you. (Oh wait, sorry, there were 2 words).

No, I’m not exactly glad to sit myself under the insane cold of the damn air-cond (who in the right mind would blast it to full? It’s the rainy season for sakes of sakes) while the lecturer thought it would be cool to share a ‘little’ experience of his own. Oh well, I shouldn’t really mind too much, well, one can’t normally help but to tell a story, no? I mean, yeah sure, numb our minds with a tale as long as The Long Walk itself and wow us with the intense(!) and insurmountable(!) adventures(!) you had when you were young, and by all means help yourself thank you very much, because we really care oh we do we do we love it I want to know what happens next yay joy someone ask him to freaking shut the fuck up before I ram the damn keyboard down his throat…

Sigh, I’m not saying that he’s bad, because he’s not, really. Still, I’m not glad to have to put myself at risk of hypothermia (first of its case involving an air-conditioner) and having to listen to stories that I don’t think is very relevant, and especially after having to sit through a gruelling 8 hours of class before. I love the pics, and sometimes stories are good but I don’t really need to know what happened when you went to Indonesia and saw a natural monument that tells the tale of Si Tenggang the Dastardly Asshole and having to listen to you to tell us the whole Tenggang folklore yourself…

Honestly, if I take any more of this, I’ll pull a Di Caprio and shout “Give me a bottle of scotch and a freaking handgun to blow my fucking head off,” at the local psychiatrist so that I can get a prescription of anti-depressant drugs.

Things can often feel like a painting, sometimes. I would usually stare at one trying to understand its complexity (as well as things I only to know), wondering what’s within…

What’s it trying to tell? What does it mean? What’s that thing that dwells beyond the confines of the colour and strokes, that thing that keeps hovering in your mind waiting to be deciphered?

I didn’t realise that sometimes simplicity is the answer.

Sometimes the answer is just so simple, almost as simple as answering yes or no. The complexity and befuddling thoughts of the human mind has ways to make things intricate. We often think that the hardest, most profound answer is the best, but just as powerful (in all of its simplicity) are answers that are, well, simple.

Last Friday, during PR tutorials, the tutor gave the class a question; “Why does the source need not pay the media?” (Perhaps not the actual question, but it went like this). The class went into a state of confusion, browsing notes and leafing through the text book. My poor friend Derwoei was tense as he was clueless, uttering answers that were neither wrong nor right. Sometime later the tutor leant close to Amanda, and she said “The media need not be paid because it is free.”

Oohs and Aahs left the mouths of my fellow classmates, and I was stumped by it in a way. Free. It was simple… why didn’t I think of it earlier? Plunging through and through into confusing definitions and lacklustre descriptions hoping the find the answer, only to discover that it is merely free. Simple. And when you think of it properly, yeah, it IS free. Everything opened up, and the light from the doors poured seamlessly into the mind. It is free because the source merely needs to announce, and media will gather by itself. One simple answer would open up into the proper more definitive one.

The trouble is that we, just as often as we can, tend to complicate things.

Like falling in love… love, simply, is just a strong feeling of affection for one another (ie; I like you, you like me. We happy). And yet we just complicate it. I shan’t go into details regarding it… I’m sure you know the complications we seem to create when it comes to love.

Now I sit here with a strangely gentle regret… for not seeing things as something simple. If I had forsaken the complexity that I had slowly built around me, perhaps things would be different from now. For better or worse, I wouldn’t know, but one can’t help but to wonder. Wonder about that question that is always there, that question can both spawn bliss and lament. What if?

What if?

But had it actually happened, perhaps, I wouldn’t be able to see things as it is now. Had I departed myself from the course that I had chosen now, what I feel now never would’ve been stronger and heartfelt. I never would have realised what I’m feeling now, and I never would’ve known the magic of it. The realisation, the discovery… the understanding. Things that had happened, and are happening, were in a way forming into something amazing.

My decisions from the past had formed something powerful here. And I don’t think I should hesitate on this one. I hadn’t seen it as it is before, but now I see it in all its beauty and grace.

My apologies if the above are beyond comprehension, for I have not the ability to makes thing comprehensible. But if you see it, or understand it somehow, then I must applaud you.

For you may see what I see. And boy is it beautiful.

Bla bla...

I beg pardon for somewhat abandoning this blog, and also from ignoring a few well-meant messages from friends asking if I’ll update soon enough. The past week had been rather eventful, though I believe I shall blog about it when I feel that I should.

I haven’t been purposely ignoring my blog entirely, because I had been somewhat occupied by typing down my Nanowrimo novel; something which I had neglected to inform due to a few circumstances (mostly involving the thing we call laziness). There’s supposedly a participant icon at my sidebar symbolising my, well, participation, but apparently the HTML is screwed. Perhaps I should consider putting it in place of my picture instead.

Progress is extremely slow, in case you’re wondering. I’ve only done 3000 words in 5 days, which I blame it on a strew of things that somehow got in the way (like cleaning out my room… geez, leave me in peace), and there’s also that time when I discovered that I was typing without direction + care and thus causing the damn thing to sound idiotic (it still sounds so, only severely less). So I retyped the whole thing, and now i'm twice slower than the average participant.

Still, I am glad to say that I’ve been having a great deal of fun with it. Nothing beats a good run of uninterrupted, inspired typing/writing (that is if I don’t count in eating, and also a great sleep after a long long day). The novel’s pretty rough, and I am doing it impromptu with barely some planning… only the basic plot’s fleshed out, and no other characters planned apart from my lead and his mother. I read back a few lines earlier and it gave me shudders. No time for editing, by the way.

I’m ‘bout one of 102 people in Malaysia participating in it, and most of them already have great progress. 24 more days and 47000 words left… my future seem doubtful.

I guess I’ll crash in earlier tonight, probably waking up to see if I can make some progress. And I don’t want brother to occupy the whole mattress… our new double-decked bed is coming on Tuesday, so on the meantime we’ll be sleeping on the floor. And we’ll have to share a mattress. Shit.

Goodnight people.