Rain is art

The streetlight illuminates the raindrops, making it look as if it's only raining under the light. Private rain. Private pain. Is that what heartbreak feels like?

***

Random thought: I wonder if things would have turned out differently if you didn't drive, and we had to take the bus home together everytime...

***

The rain made everything magical. After its cleansing, the gleaming floor shone under the moonlight, a mirror for the lights - so many, and so colourful - making Orchard Road look innocent, beautiful. I sat at Coffee Club, with lovely company, transfixed by Shaw House's giant screen, and felt like I could never leave this country.

***

I've loved everything about the rainy spell these few days. Waking up to the cold air teasing my feet back under the sheets, pulling my comforter closer around me, so warm and cosy. Bargaining with the alarm clock half-heartedly, because I don't have to wake up right now (don't punch me), winning, drifting back to sleep with an easy smile on my face, repeat till I'm ready to start the day. Is this what it's like, waking up in love, happy from the moment your eyes open, only your brain switches on, and you remember - oh, the gloriousness of it all - that you belong with this amazing person? 

And the constant air-con temperature. Weather has a way of making me feel like it's always been like this and it always will be. Very 理所当然 - why not sun one minute and rain the next? Nothing needs to make sense. It sneaks up upon you, forces you to accept it, get used to it, dress for it, and then it goes away as quickly as it came, on its every whim, making you feel stupid and sweaty in your suddenly-inappropriate clothes. No wonder Man wants to control it.

Watching the rain start and stop, start and stop, throughout the day, as I go about my daily activities. Seeing the world drenched in little raindrops every time I look out the window, breathing in the clean, clean air, feeling the little breezes lift and fade, lift and fade. Knowing that it's so cold out, I won't sweat even if I start spring-cleaning. Somehow it makes other tasks a little less daunting as well - a nice change from the cloying humidity.

If you loved me, you would...

We are both too old and too young; too young to know that there are many ways to express love, and too old to accept those that are not our own.

I remember an incident from one of the biggest fights between my dad and Ken, when I was 12 or 13. At one point, he accused Dad of not loving him. Dad replied hotly, "If I didn't love you, I wouldn't fetch you to school everyday." I didn't understand at all then. How could such a simple gesture, which we had come to take for granted, be a way of showing love?

And then I grew up, and understood that every single step of driving us to school is love. Waking up extra early every single weekday, when he really doesn't have to. Braving the traffic. Putting up with our occasional noisy banter in the car. Saying goodbye. Lather, rinse, repeat, every single weekday at bloody 6 am in the morning.

We, as kids, had questioned the existence of our parents' love, not because it wasn't there, but because it didn't take the guise we wanted it to - which often involved buying us new toys, or going to our favourite restaurant.

It doesn't just blight the relationships between parents and children. It can get between siblings, friends, lovers, almost anyone you could ever get close to, at some point in the relationship.

Love me my way, or have me think you don't love me at all.

What an ultimatum.

It's probably one of the hardest mentalities I'm going to have to break out of in this lifetime.

Best to get a headstart now, then. ;)

Mutopia

What if we lost words the moment they were out of our mouths?

What if they could only breathe the air that was inside of our bodies, the internalised oxygen in our brains?

We would only be able to write to each other.

Or whisper, so that our sentences would not be sent flying from our lips. They could hold on to our teeth for dear life.

Gently, gently.

Which words would die out first? Which would survive?

Long-suffering "I love you"s, trapped in the heart for an indeterminate amount of time, that have been repeatedly launched into the inside of the mouth, but never came out, so many near-death experiences. Finally breaking free, only to die forever - a glorious, noble death - after falling upon the eager ears of the one who has waited so long to hear them.

Or perhaps they would be catapulted right into the ears, and enter the brain, to live in another's soul, and if he or she were faithful and loyal and expressive, to return once again to its rightful owner in the future, where this "I love you" would be complete, because they meant what they said, and so it is filled to the brim with meaning and therefore purpose.

Words which fall on deaf ears would die with, or of, regret.
"Make your bed".
"I made dinner, come home early to eat."
"No cheating."
"May I help you?"
"Please don't cry."
"Would you like to make a donation?"
"Am I fat?"
"I had a terrible day today."
"Don't leave me."
"Do you love me?"
"Help."
"Look out for that car!"
"I love you."

Luckier "I love you"s, those whispered at sleeping lovers, and those tenderly uttered when kissing, holding, touching, playing, loving, gazing, would live by the skin of their teeth.

When the last careless person has uttered his last careless word, until everyone learned the same sign language, we would all walk around with notebooks, or writing on our palms, and get by by pointing, gesturing, writing, typing, in a world devoid of the spoken word.

We are all made of paper

We are all works of literature.

Some people are like an open book.

Some are so determined to remain closed, that you need to know just the right method to open them. And it's not always violence. Sometimes they fall open with a gentle stroke, just like Hagrid's monster book in Harry Potter.

Some are mysteries begging to be solved.

Some are whodunnits who never reveal the answers.

Some can be judged by their covers - what you see is what you get.

Some are an acquired taste.

Some get better with time, like wine.

Some have plots riddled with layers of complexity or sophistication.

Some are simple but profound, like The Little Prince.

Some are thrillers - hold on tight to that hand as it whisks you into a world of adrenaline and endorphins.

Some, you love from page one.

Some, start off on the wrong foot, but, if you persist, end up becoming one of the most important books you've ever encountered.

Some, you abandon after a few chapters, meaning to come back to it but haven't found the time.

Some, you want to keep forever.

Some are rotten; awardwinning; long; short; thin; fat; diseased; new; old; handsome; plain; nondescript; antique; tacky; misunderstood; conspiratorial; controversial; dramatic; melodramatic; boring; fun; visual; literary; academic; flammable; silly; sexy; funny; lovely; cute; inspirational; awe-inducing; idealistic; pointless; soulless; directionless; lost; classic; schizophrenic; combative; peaceful;

one of a kind.

Some of the rewards you get from a relationship are like easter eggs hidden throughout the pages, staying out of sight until you learn how to see, or stumble upon them. Sometimes, you even have to read between the lines.

Some are as instant and direct as emboldened text, like a sunshine smile or a hug that makes everything right as rain.

Some reward you at the start or end of every chapter.

Some can be like red herrings, seemingly precious but actually rotten.

Some, you might discover only at the end of the series, like Snape's love for Lily.

Some books can only be read by its author.

Some give pleasure to the masses.

Some are meant for only one reader.

Let's hope he's not illiterate.

I am my own soulmate

It amazes me how little I've changed, even though I am so different now. It's comforting to know that some things really don't change no matter how the sands shift, and how much I've experienced. It's like there's a core set of traits that remain within you, stubbornly resisting all erosion and the winds of change. Your rock. It's why you're still you. I wonder if amnesia sufferers have this.

It's surprising, yet not surprising, when I find money I've hidden somewhere I know I wouldn't usually look.

Sometimes, I happen upon a song I've not heard for a long long time - one that I'd fallen in love with the first time. And I'd fall for it again. And again, and again. Every time I hear it after a long absence. I'd soon realise that it's that song. That song. I'd remember loving it the first time. And then, just like an old friend, I'd greet it with a knowing smile.

Then I'd forget, and remember again.

Love should be like that.

The bottle

Once upon a time, there was a little girl.

One day, on the way to school, she came across a beautiful little pebble. It was white, smooth and pristine. Excited by her find, she picked it up and put it in her pocket. Just then, an idea came to her. She would collect a whole bottle full of such handsome pebbles, and give them to her future lover when they met.

From then on, every time she happened to find a pebble worthy of her collection, she would keep it in her very own bottle.

Time went on, and as the girl grew up, so did her collection. She smiled proudly whenever her bottle got heavier, confident in the knowledge that when he came - whoever he may be - he would love this gift.

One day during her teenage years, she found her friend crying. "What's wrong?" she asked. Her friend pointed on the ground. There were tiny beads strewn helter-skelter and several pieces of smashed glass - the remains of her friend's prized collection. "He broke up with me and threw my bottle on the ground. He said he hates my collection." She began to sob again.

The girl did her best, but her friend was inconsolable. So she opened her bottle, and fished out a pretty azure pebble - one of her favourites. "You can have this." Her friend was very touched, and her tears finally stopped.

That day, the girl realised that love comes in many kinds. From then on, she kept another bottle just for her family and friends.

Years went by, and soon, the girl could no longer find a bigger bottle for her lover's collection. Looking at the big bottle, filled to the brim with all the pretty pebbles she had found throughout the years, she suddenly felt sad. Perhaps he was never coming, and then what would she do with all these pebbles? A gift is not a gift until it is given to someone who truly cherishes it. And so, she began to paint the pebbles and transfer them to the "family and friends" bottle, to be given out as personalised gifts on special and sad days.

Still more time went by. Sometimes, there would come along a boy who stirred the girl's heart, and she would shyly present him her bottle. But each boy would smile and say, "Thanks, but sorry, it's not for me", and return it.

After each setback, the discouraged girl would not contribute to the lover's bottle for some time.

At the cusp of adulthood, the girl met a boy. The boy smiled at her shyly, and presented her with his collection of exotic candies. The girl was overjoyed. Finally, a boy had deemed her worthy of his own collection. So she kept it. But one day, she decided to open it up and try one candy. It was extremely sour, but at the very end, just as she was about to spit it out, there was a burst of sweetness. She did not like it. The girl was disappointed with herself, and confused. Would she ever know how to appreciate these exotic candies? If not, was she the right owner for his bottle? After many hours of consideration, she  took the bottle to the boy. Sadly, she said, "Thanks, but sorry, it's not for me", and returned it.

Around her, friends had spats with their lovers, parted and reunited. Some stayed together, but others had their own precious bottles smashed in front of them. The girl began to fear love, and question its worth.

Her own lover's bottle began to gather dust as the girl grew sad and disillusioned. Her friends and family comforted her. "He will come", they said with a nod and a smile. They were confident. She wasn't - not anymore.

Still, life goes on, so she turned her attentions to growing her friends and family collection. It was very rewarding, seeing the smiles on their faces whenever they received a pretty painted pebble, and unpainted ones too. It was a different kind of love, she knew, one that sometimes cracked the bottle but would never end with it getting smashed in front of her. And the best part was, she would always receive all kinds of gifts from each friend and family member's very own special collection. It kept her happy, widened her horizons, made her realise many important things.

But despite her best efforts, a part of her still yearned for his arrival, and she was convinced that she would not experience complete happiness until then. Occasionally, she would drop a new pebble into the dusty bottle. Whenever she felt discouraged with the long wait, she would take a pebble from the dusty bottle, paint it, and drop it into the other bottle.

With the passing of each decade, on her 20th, 30th, birthday, her loved ones would tell the forlorn girl, "He will come. Just a while longer."

After her 40th birthday, it became "You have us."

In the blink of an eye, it was time for the girl, now an old lady of seventy, to move into a home for senior citizens. Her oldest friend, the one who had received that pretty azure pebble all those years ago, came by her home to help pack her belongings.

In a forgotten part of the house, her old friend made a surprising discovery. There on the shelf and covered in dust was

She clasped the bottle in her hands, and silently cried for this silly, silly girl who had waited all her life for someone who never came.

*Update: Click here to read Part II.

I never know what I'm feeling until I write.

Confession

Dear friends, I have a confession to make.

During my 5 months on exchange in Hong Kong, there was a lot to adapt to and deal with. Laundry to do, meals to settle, people to socialise with, room to clean, roommate to communicate with, a whole new language to decode...the list goes on.

So, naturally, I needed an outlet for the stress. And to keep myself warm in the 12-degree weather.

I offer my sincerest apologies. I know that most of you thought I would know better, and vested your hopes in my seemingly immovable integrity. But I am very, very sorry. I have let you all down. If it is any comfort, it was a moment of extreme weakness that forced me to succumb.

The following pictures bear testament to that moment, and the series of events that followed. (Credits: Sara-Jean for uploading them, and Sheryl for taking them) I am putting them here because it is true what they say. Once you start, you can't stop. And so I hope that coming out of the closet will help.

Once again, know that I am sorry. *deep bow*

It all began with this little guy. Believe me, they are dirt cheap in HK compared to here. I know this is not an excuse, but it certainly didn't help.

The moment of my shameful betrayal - to my own body, my friends, my very beliefs.

I tried to decrease my guilt by getting Sara-Jean to speed up her mortality with me. She refused.

But only at first.



Ohh believe me, we knew we were doing something wrong. But after the first, it was impossible to stop.

With one vice comes another. Very soon, I found myself upping the stakes and "showing hand" with my Doraemon Monopoly money.




You can guess who was on the losing side.

Losing money at gambling and smoking is a vicious cycle. Which, incidentally, leads to a third vice. Desperation knows no bounds.

Having already taken up 2 other vices because of her losing streak, she finally became serious about her game. It's time to turn the tide, her expression clearly says.

Easier said than done, pal, my expression (strangely reminiscent of Stephen Chow) quickly retorted.

At the end of the day, we were all losers, with 3 vices each under our belts.

I stand before you, ashamed and remorseful. Will you forgive me?

A Day with Me! (4 April '09)

Warning: Lots of pictures in this post, so loading time might make you impatient. Sorry!

Since I seldom blog and take photos of myself, I reckon my bosom buddies out there must be rather curious to know what I get up to everyday here and how I look like now. So I had this idea to document the little things that happen on a typical day (or weekend, as the case happens to be for this post), the scenes that I see here everyday but I know will soon be forgotten.

Hope you enjoy this :) .

The day begins, as it always does, when dark becomes light as I open my eyes.

This is one of the first things I see:

I put on my glasses, and the world becomes just a little clearer.

The view out of my window agrees that it is a good day (not too misty; misty = cold).

Looking good.

Mr. Sleepyhead here is still tired after hugging me to sleep and being kicked around by me all night, so I tuck him in before stepping out.

On the way to the MTR station.

This is Kowloon Tong MTR station, the one that's nearest to our school.

A funny sign at our first destination of the day.

Wan Chai MTR station.

We decided to shop around while waiting for the remaining two people to arrive.

Lunchtime.

One of my friends' noodles with criss-cut sausage.

One of my favourite dishes here, 牛腩面. It's cheaper and more common than in Singapore, and relatively cheap. Love the tenderness of the beef.

Read the line below the shop name. It's one of the many funny signs in HK.

The objective of the day: electronics shopping.

But first, we dropped by our favourite fast food restaurant. Shaker fries is our ultimate weakness.

Our stomachs directed our attention to something else, however.

Si Hui with her float thingy.

Joycelyn with her ice cream cone.

Sheryl and I with our sundaes.

The fantastic thing about HK McD's sundaes is the free peanuts. Peanut + chocolate = heaven. What will we do when we go back to eating peanutless sundaes in Singapore? We have decided to bring packets of chopped peanuts with us wherever we go so that we may enjoy peanut sundaes without paying extra.

Along the MTR line which goes to the more touristy places, there are caligraphy paintings on the walls of the stations. The focus of this photo, however, is me acting like a passerby. It triggered off several more acting-like-a-passerby photos.

On the train.

None of us show any talent for this acting thingamajig.

In search of lower prices at the computer centres in Sham Shui Po.

Hilarious signs of the day #2 and #3.

Say "boo" to Boo the pouch, my purchase of the day (in fact, purchase of the month since he's so cute and worth my money)! He only costs S$1! How nice of him to float along just when I decided that I need a lanyard-pouch-thingy to hold my camera for convenient photo-taking on camwhoring days.

This is a stationery shop.

Dinner: roast goose + char siew rice.

Having finished my aim of checking out the prices for portable hard disks, it was time to go home.

On the way back from Kowloon Tong MTR station.

Our hostel at night.

The mailbox area, which I religiously check everyday, but always for nought.

Random shot of my S$0.60 socks from Mongkok.

Time check after I reach my hostel.

My purchases for the day: Boo and friends (as pressies; faster chope while stocks last) and a Kang Xi Lai Le DVD set with 68 episodes. Boo is so useful! Look at his back!

If you thought that that was the end of my day, you are wrong! The night was still young for the hyperactive youths that we are.

Me v.s. Si Hui.

I may employ a slack playing style most of the time, but don't underestimate me. You might not be able to handle my aggressive mode. It shocked my Korean friend. (Remember our painful loss to Korea during the previous previous Olympics?)

Then it was Si Hui v.s. Sheryl, as I take a break from the relaxing game to relax with my DS. Here, let me add that our ping pong games may be relaxing, but the hilarity that somehow always ensues helps burn a lot of calories.

At about 11 or 12, we decided to call it a day and retire to our rooms to chat with each other on Skype.

Lights in the darkness.

I close my eyes. Lights and darkness, two become one.

And then...