TheWulltoThink

The Nerdy Side

2011-12-15T22:40:00.002+08:00

To quote myself and all the gaming geeks out there:

"If I substitute three levels from my wizard/fighter/bard with two levels of warlock and one level of sorcerer, I should be able to increase my average damage output per round by approximately 1.45 points per swing"

Now substitute all the gaming terms with resistors and electronic jargon and you have yourself an engineer.

A Certain Creative Fanwork

2011-12-09T23:55:00.006+08:00

Code Name: SHUFFLE
Gender: FEMALE
Power: KEYED COORDINATE EXCHANGE
Level: 3

She can "key" an object to one of her ten fingers, and exchange their positions by touching the correponding finger to the other. Teleported objects retain their momentum and direction. If the original object is heavily modified or damaged since time of 'keying', the teleportation will become unrealiable. Works on Organic and Inorganic, though the latter is prefarable due to lower variance.

She combines this power with throwing knives attached to ropes to effectively "jump-fly". She can also teleport keyed foes into horrible traps, or into a prison itself. Besides this she is a skilled acrobat and gymnast and a frighteningly skiled card-shark.

Her power, due to the simplicity of using "keyed" objects, consumes very little power and requires less concentration. Shuffle mostly relies on tricks, traps, and tranquilisers (poisons) in battle to defeat foes.

She has some training with a elephant gun for shooting foes from afar.

Code Name: CANDYMAN
Gender: MALE
Power: OBJECT-LINKED CLAIRVOYANCE (REFLECTIVE SURFACES)
Level: 3
SPOILER: His power is actually magic-based

He can 'link' two reflective or see through surfaces (usually glass) together as light-only portals. This translate into the ability to use any looking glass as a camera, linked to things like his glasses, his watch, the screen of his phone...etc.

Strength of link affects clarity of image and is limited by distance. At high levels of clarity it is possible for his image to appear in the glass being viewed through. To 'acquire' a surface he needs to have at least visual sight of it, though touch works better. Once acquired to touch he can look through it without trouble. It is not unusual for him to "sight hop" by using multiple reflective surfaces to gain visual of a normally closed off area.

He is not much of a front-line, usually supports his team with intel via comm links.

Code Name: RICOCHET
Gender: FEMALE
Power: PERFECT COLLISION
Level: 4

She can create a "field" around a particular object which results in "perfectly elastic" or "perfectly inelastic" collisions with all objects. Usually she employs this with metal balls to create barriers, injure opponents, or perform complex long range maestro-type attacks. She encloses a ball in a "perfectly elastic" field and drops the field millimetres from impact. To increase power she uses a specially modified ping-pong racket. She can also use the "perfectly elastic" field on her shoes for mobility, or a "perfectly inelastic" field to perform stunts like bullet catching (all energy is split between her and the bullet, so while she gets knocked back no penetration occurs. Blunt damage will still have an effect due to shock of impact, so if done improperly her bones will break)

She's the team's main power muscle and defense. While not the most tactically sound she is good at improvising on the battlefield.

Code Name: BLACKBOX
Gender: MALE
Power: HISTORY DRIVE (PSYCHOSCOPY)
Level: 3

He employs psychoscopy to download the entire "history" of an object. Effectively, this allows him to extract data from secured disks or thumbdrives as he needs simply find a point in the object's history when it was accessed or unsecured to "read" its contents. Doing so allows him to download information from almost anything, such as video feeds from a camera, or data from a computer. A major disadvantage of his power is that it is very time consuming to sort through an object's history. To overcome this, he can "download" information and "store" it for later reading. This consumes a lot of memory and energy, which is why he "forgets" all unneccessary information once the relevant data is found.

He can overclock this ability in a short time to temporarily gain complete knowledge and understanding of an object's history, the way it was used and its limitations. Doing so lets him use almost any device, weapon or tool with the skill of its previous owners. However as this knowledge is foreign to his mind the strain of utilizing this information to the max strains his mental stamina, and can be employed to a maximum of 10 minutes.

He uses a lesser version of this in his everyday life to speed read, pick up various skills and languages. As such he is a jack of all trades, and has skills in multiple kinds of fire arms and martial arts.

A negative side effect of his power is that he always seems somewhat distracted due to the mass of information clamouring inside his brain.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just some ideas running through my head from watching too much of a certain popular anime. I'll clean it up later.

Soul Food

2011-11-15T08:00:00.001+08:00

The doctor just sat there, mumbling.

That was how Amelia found him, thin and ragged with bloodshot irises and gray bags under his eyes. Mumbling, mumbling.

"Ethan? Ethan, what's wrong? I haven't seen you for days. You skipped church, didn't answer my calls, are you...Ethan!"

He jerked at the sound of her voice. The look he gave her was chilling. Haunted, like a man who just performed murder or found out his mother died in his abscence. One bony hand clutched the cross around his neck. It hung there by a small silver chain, which was shaking. His knuckles were white. His wrists could not stop jerking.

"...thetic foods..." she caught him mumbling.

"What? What food?"

"Synthetic Foods. Pills. Nutrition jabs. Lab-grown proteins. Drips."

His voice was barely a whisper.

"You mean the Artificial Nutritional Sources project? Didn't it get scrapped? I remember the biologists saying they didn't provide everything grown organics could. Said something was missing. One of the biggest mysteries in the field in fa-"

"I solved it."

"What?"

"I found out what's missing."

"You did? That- that's amazing! You could- we could-"

"Come look through the scope."

Suddenly, Amelia felt uneasy.

"Erm. Can I? I mean, it's your discovery, and I have my own..projects..to..."

"Look through it!"

The chain snapped. A tiny trail of blood seeped out from where his fingers gripped the cross and dripped onto the floor.

Hesitantly, frightened and worried, Amelia looked.

"Is- is that...?"

"Yes."

"You mean all this time, we have been-"

"Yes."

"It looks so...beautiful. So fragile..."

"Can you see how it screams? How it begs for release, for a right to exist? It doesn't need words, it talks straight to yours. They are the same thing after all."

She shuddered.

"The soul. You discovered the soul. And every living thing has one. So when we eat something, does that mean...?"

"Yes. Look through the other scope."

"...I think I'm going to be sick."

"True Soul Food. Hah! Guess we never knew how accurate that was eh? Ha. Hahaha..."

The grin he gave her was the crazed, starved smile of one who had not eaten for three days, and would probably never eat again.

Schrödinger

2011-08-19T17:35:00.001+08:00

He's here! He's here!

Commotion spreads, the only word to describe the reaction being...excitement. Or reluctance. Or eagerness mixed with fear, joy with sadness. All these feelings suspended simutaneously with each other, flickering between the poles, never quite reaching a state of rest

Rest. Such a simple word. But how does one describe its opposite? Not quite non-existence, not quite shadow. Only the observer could bring it out of the endless, and into the real.

Color surged into being. Light, matter, gravity, these things came first. The observer was approaching. He had never come here before, lost in his own sphere of familiarity. But now, another sphere would be experienced. And thus, experience back.

The world condensed. Walls and tiles, lights as science gave birth to electricity. Shops flowered, smells swirled in the air. Air. That too was observed and thus existed now. Or rather, always had.

The lucky ones, they became the background shoppers, the throngs that filled every such hub of civilization. It savored the words, new concepts beyond the abstract mathematical potentials that were before. The observer walked about now, sampling the air, browsing the shops. More and more of them flowed into being, and so the world solidified. Yet there were still others left behind. "It" was left behind, now that it understood such things. But there was nothing one could do, until the observer-

The observer sat down.

And closed his eyes.

No! The world wavered. Too soon, too sudden. Light faded. The shoppers grew misty. Smell remained, as did sound. But the others, the left behind...the chance was slipping away.

It couldn't. So close. Just a glimpse...

The observer opened his eyes.

The world returned. Confirmation, acceptance. Nothing else remained.

The others faded away. There was nothing left to observe, and so, nothing remained.

And yet, in the corner of his eye, a tiny glance; a young girl, also sitting on the bench, quietly sipping her bottle of tea.

It was enough.

The observer- no, the boy yawned, got up, stretched his limbs. He kept glancing at his watch, occasionally smoothing his hand over what little hair remained on his head. A recruit perhaps, fresh out of camp.

She watched the boy walk away, old potentials fading while the real ones remained. A strange joy filled her, one she could find no explanation for. How strange.

A brief shrug of the shoulders, a small sip of the tea. Life went on, as it always had.

It felt wonderful.

Snippets

2011-06-25T19:48:00.002+08:00

A large dog, its fur the color of finely ground coffee, trotting merrily across a zebra crossing and then along a sidewalk, disappearing as the bus turns into the next junction.

Two teenagers sitting side by side upon the swings under the moonless sky, their long dark hair tinted orange by the dull glow of an aging streetlamps. I jog past.

In an MRT, a pair of girls communicate silently in rapid sign language while the world chatters noisily past. My stop arrives.

These are the snippets of life, the stories yet untold.

Always, I wonder: what if? What if I had?

Drugssss

2011-05-21T08:01:00.004+08:00

Magic, Magicka, Dungeons and Dragons
Cheesecake, Yogurt, Ice Cream
Dissidia, Torchlight, Left 4 Dead
Anime, Manga
Online Webfiction, Webcomics

Reality keeps trying to distract me from my imagination.

And...in other news:

Magic(TM) Rapture Procedure Guide

Effective May 21, 2011

Purpose of this document

As some of you may be aware, Harold Camping of Family Radio Worldwide
has, through intense study of the Scriptures, determined that May 21,
2011 will be the date of the Rapture, as foretold in 1 Thessalonians
4:17, when Christians will be "gathered together in the clouds" to
meet Christ. As this date coincides with a number of sanctioned events
around the world, including Grand Prix Prague, and is potentially
disruptive to those events, the DCI has developed the Magic Rapture
Procedure Guide (RPG) to outline policies and procedures for
minimizing the impact of the Rapture on the integrity of sanctioned
tournaments.

1. Player responsibilities

1.1 Should the Rapture occur between rounds, players who find
themselves ascending bodily toward the heavens must notify the
Scorekeeper of their intention to drop from the
tournament. Players who fail to do so will incur the appropriate
penalties for Tardiness in the following round.

1.2 If the Rapture occurs during a round, however, players who rise
heavenward without first seeking the permission of a judge should
be issued Slow Play infractions, just as they would for getting up
from the table for any other purpose. Note that players may
concede as they begin rising toward the clouds, in which case no
penalty should be issued. If possible, ask such players to sign
the match result slip and place a check mark in the "Drop" column
before they leave.

1.3 If both players in a match are called heavenward, treat this as a
loop of mandatory actions (players cannot choose to disregared the
summons of the Lord); the result is a draw.

1.4 Treat all other infractions during the Rapture normally; though
unusual, this circumstance is not considered exceptional enough to
justify further deviation from the IPG.

2. Judge responsibilities

2.1 Judges who find themselves caught up in the Rapture should ask
permission of their team lead to go on break. Failure to do so may
result in loss of comp for the portion of the event worked thus
far.

2.2 Per the DCI uniform policy, judges who are called up by the Lord
must either remove or cover up the black DCI shirt when leaving
the tournament floor.

2.3 Should the Head Judge be taken in the Rapture, he or she should,
per MTR 1.7, transfer his or her duties to a judge who is not
visibly rising toward the skies.

2.4 If the Rapture results in no judges remaining on the tournament
floor, again refer to MTR 1.7: the Tournament Organizer may assume
the duties of the Head Judge and continue the tournament normally.

2.5 If the Rapture results in no tournament officials remaining, the
event cannot continue, and should be reported to the DCI as
"Cancelled".

3. Scorekeeper responsibilities

3.1 Due to the proficiency in dark arts required to effectively
scorekeep large events, the DCI considers it extremely unlikely
that any Scorekeeper will be unable to continue his or her normal
duties due to being caught up in the Rapture.

3.2 Do note, however, the following addition to the DCI's currently
suspended player list; the following player should not be
permitted to enroll in DCI-sanctioned events:

First Name Last Name DCI Number City Country Start Date End Date Reason

MYSTERY BABYLON THE GREAT, 6666666666 Pandemonium Sheol -4004-10-23 9999-12-31 Unsporting Conduct
THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS
AND ABOMINATIONS OF
THE EARTH

4. Handling abandoned property

4.1 It is possible that, in the confusion of mass ascension, some
players will leave their belongings in the tournament venue. Lost
or abandoned personal property should be handed in to the event's
Lost and Found desk. Players who engage in looting or theft shall
be disqualified without prize. Spectators who engage in such
behavior, but are not enrolled in the tournament, should be asked
to leave the venue by the Tournament Organizer.

5. Changes from previous versions

May 16, 2011
Removed Dark Confidant example because it was confusing.

Taken from: http://forums.mtgsalvation.com/showthread.php?t=325169

Fear

2011-05-06T16:07:00.003+08:00

A little boy stands under a field of stars.

They're all so far away, except for one. It glimmers against a faded sky, a jewel:

The little boy stares,

And reaches-

His hand stretches out, further...further; the tips of his fingers close around the edges of the light-

And then the dream ends. For I dare not look any further.

Starlight, starbright

2011-04-09T07:52:00.000+08:00

Alone in the lab an old man worked, surrounded by instruments and stacks of paper. Only the outline of his faded lab-coat could be seen, illuminated by the light of the stars falling through a gap in the dome where a massive telescope peeked at the heavens above. Eyes wrinkled with age tiredly scanned the reports before him, endlessly checking the calculations for the slightest mistake. One hand grasped a large porcelain mug, it's surface worn and scratched from time. Just barely, one could make out letters, words, a tiny heart;

"..est...sband. Wi..t....lov..ife."

An alarm sounded, piercing the silence for a number of seconds as the old man stood up. The gap in the dome widened, the celestial glow of the night spilling in. More reports could be seen, red block letters spelling out various titles:

GENETIC RECONSTR-
CRYOGENETICS: STATIS AND REVI-
HUMAN DIGITALIZATION: A RE-

All these had been strewn all over the floor, gathering dust and footprints.

The old man hobbled over to the telescope, ignoring the shuffling of papers underneath his feet. The necessary data had already been collected. The calculations: perfect. The starlight illuminated some of the more recent reports, pieces of them also scattered on the ground. Many contained graphs and tables, collected from countless people from all over the world for this project.

Briefly a second alarm sounded, one the old man swiftly quashed. He ignored the dozens of messages asking the CEO if he could show up for one pointless meeting after the other. Meetings that became pointless fifteen years ago.

Enquires on his health, investigations into his projects...he couldn't afford such distractions now. The computers indicated the prime moment was but ten minutes away. He had to focus.

The stars above him seemed to form an endless sheet of light. Bathed in thier glow, he could only gaze in wonder, fear and hope. A foolish hope- but if it brought them together back then, perhaps it could work once more. There was an old rhyme...how did it go again?

Starlight, starbright, fir-

A third alarm. Three more minutes.

He waited.

A brief flicker of doubt. He quashed it.

Statistically, this was the best chance he had.

It was the only chance he had.

Especially when all the other routes had failed.

The final alarm. He closed his eyes.

Above, the shooting star streaked through the night sky vanishing into the horizon-

"Did it work?" asked a voice he hadn't heard in fifteen years.

Yes, he thought as he turned around to hug her,

Yes it did.

Euthanasia

2011-02-27T19:37:00.006+08:00

Morning.

Beeps stop. Throw off the sheets. Hands over head, legs over left of the bed. Get up.

Fifteen steps to the washroom. Brush, clean, freshen up. Bit of makeup, nothing too striking, sensible highlights. The wardrobe has a choice of six different suits, and a dress. Quick decisions, quickly decide...

That one.

Her heart rate speeds up. Not good. Gotta keep vital signs undercontrol. Already toeing the line, what with the increasing bills and lousy pay. One more deficiency and that'll be it. But today she has a chance. Clinch this deal, and a promotion along the way. She'd be able to wear that dress this Sunday, entertainment night. Like everyone else, have a good time...

The walkway teams with people. Tiles glow occasionally with arrows or directions, pointing the way. Phones with built in maps, easy to follow, managing human traffic for maximum efficiency and a minimum of clogging. She steps into her own walkway of arrowed tiles. Five hundred and thirty-six steps to the workplace..
Her shoes clip off the chrome floors. The sound is echoed all around, by hundreds of other identical units. Punctuating this, a series of scutters. Tiny claws, pattering over metal sheets, hidden in the shadows between the smooth layered buildings and walls.

Her breath grows heavy. Irrational fear. They can't touch you, not yet. Just need this contract-

Stress. Fear.

Paranoia builds. The scuttering seems louder. She increases her pace for about sixty-two steps, then forces herself to slow down. No, they might intepret that as a sign of distress. True as it was, she couldn't show it.

Calm nerves. Calm breathing. The scuttering grows louder. No, softer. Softer the scuttering, louder the clip of her shoes. Focus on that, focus on the contract. Dress on Sunday. Rooms with drips and green glowing lights. Focus.

One hundred and twenty-four steps to go.

Twenty-three,

Twenty-two

Twent-

She trips.

Pain. Pain explodes around her eyes. It hurts. Twisted ankle. Teeth clenched. She cannot scream. Not even a whimper. She can't, she mustn't, she-

She does.

A slight sound is all it takes. Then they were here, here with their scuttering. Profile pictures scanning through their tiny processors, high-tech vision cams examining the injury, evaluating the pain.

Doesn't hurt. Doesn't hurt. There is no pain. Stand up. Stand up! She was too close, too close to either side. Dress on Sunday...

A red light blinks. The evaluation was done. Subject found struggling to support herself. Signs indicate mental and physical distress. No next-of-kin. No husband. Previous evaluations have indicated possibly need for Relief. Weighing current input...

Panic flood. Muscles tensed, seized. Crawling, crawl...

Crawl away!

Stress levels exceeding safety boundaries...

Too late, too late. Failure, guilty, condemned. So close, and yet...

Additional factors considered. Subject cleared for relief.

Red light...red light...green. Green. Oh God. Oh Go-

A single claw pierces her skin. And then...nothing. Whiteness. Peace.

Subject is at rest. Proceeding with cleanup. HRM (Human Relief Maintenence) report #213-413A complete.

Dress on Sunday...

Special

2011-01-15T11:06:00.000+08:00

High on stage the newly elected president smiled at the cheering crowd with tears in his eyes. All those months of hard campaigning, of late night meetings and careful palm greasing had paid off. Not bad for a small town kid who first arrived at the Big Apple with nothing but a straw hat on his head. Not bad for an open homosexual.

As Derick West, the country's first gay president, took the mic among the flashes of dozens of cameras to begin his speech, a small part of him recalled that single quiet night when his old pa had sat next to his bed, still partly in shock at the revealation, repeating over and over that they would always love him, no matter what he did with his life. Because he was their son.

Because he was special.

Half a street and ten stories away, Gerald Nicole downed another glass of 1910, glaring through the tinted windows at the parade below as his rival achieved everything he had dreamed of. Since childhood he had aced every test, excelled through every sport, had specialized tutors and expensive courses, all to groom him for the inevitable day when he would lead his nation to glory. But now? All the fund raisers, expert panels, midnight consultations, all for naught. He had a tested IQ of 250 and an equally strong EQ. Nothing could have gone wrong.

Except now here he stood watching some under-qualified country boy bag the presidency. Gerald finished the bottle and slammed it onto the rosewood desk. It just wasnt fair. He deserved that position more than anybody. Because all the tests told him he did. Because he did not have to rely on some cheap campaigning trick to win.

Because he was special.

Patterson watched from within the throngs of the media ad the new president walked on stage. The cheers of the ignorant masses around him were sickening, but Patterson endured as he always did. In his childhood he had watched as these perfect machine-line boys and girls walked on stage to receive thier prizes. He had endured the beatings and scoldings for refusing to follow the flock. Even as an adult his employers were biased against him, his projects were shut down without reason, his voice censored over the web. He was doomed by society to remain forever mediocre for not being one of the sheep. The irony was not lost on him. For years he thought himself alone. But someone had spoke to him, found in him a kindred spirit, showed what he had to do to break the chains of his fellow man.

The president began his speech. Patterson smiled and opened his coat, revealing a single detonator. He laughed as his body blazed in simultaneous detonation, his heart without a single regret. In a single instant, the entire parade was consumed in a destructive, bright light. Patterson now knew why he had endured all that pressure, all that humiliation, all that pain. Because someone had recognized him for his worth. Because he had fulfilled a purpose far above that of his fellow sheep.

Because he was special.

Empty

2011-01-09T19:10:00.004+08:00

Bit by bit the life seeps out
Despite the lies and marching shouts
My hand is empty, my heart in doubt
Have I laid the cards right or thrown each bout?

Six Words

2010-11-21T18:58:00.001+08:00

That'll do my son
That'll do.

Hello World...?

2010-11-14T19:00:00.003+08:00

Imagine how a baby feels when its first born. When all its senses, cushioned for nine months in the warmth of the mother's womb, the only sounds the beat of her heart and the gentle mumur's drifting in from outside. No light, no taste, no smells. And then, birth;

The harsh glares of an operating room, the sterilized smells of the tools and beds, the beeps and flashes of the various machines, the taste of blood and the chill of the air...

All at once.

So it is for each stage of life, being born anew, from a different womb into a different theatre, sometimes with surgeons all a-clamor, sometimes with barely a soul around.

And with it, new rules, new feelings, new thoughts, new horomones, new processes, new information, new journeys and new mountains to climb...

I think know now why a baby cries.

------------------------------------------------------------

Blessed I am, for the friends I've made,
Blessed I am, for the parents I have
Blessed I am, for this body and mind;

Alas Lord, my soul is Weak,
Undeserving,
Naive.
And yet...
Blessed I am;

But why?

Background Noise

2010-06-13T19:54:00.002+08:00

In the darkness of the room, Jean fingered a tiny remote.

He had been careful, so careful with his project. Months and months of preperation, hundreds of dollars in equipment, survillence, bribes to make sure that no information was leaked out, that no one took offense at his work.

The city wasn't large, and thankfully, not that developed. Not enough for the latest in anti-bugging technology, or sweeping tools.

Around him loomed the chromed metal frames of half a dozen instruments. Black wires snaked from each of them, connecting the essential bits of hardware and software together. Above his house sat a massive satellite dish, one he had installed just under an hour ago. It would take a while for the privacy agents to notice. Until then, he would enjoy the fruits of his labor.

He pressed the remote.

Control panels lit up, blinking like stars in the clear night sky. The whirling of a thousand processors and their respective cooling units filled the room, but thankfully, was unable to penetrate the soundproof padding of the massive headphones he wore around his head. The dish hummed and beeped, as the first of the many, many signals came it.

Patter. Patter.

It was the sound of rain.

Somewhere in the city, a storm had formed.

This was joined in by the rustling of leaves in the park, the tap tap of footsteps down the tiled office floors, the whisper of sheets in a clothes maker's shop, the gurgling of coffee at the cafe next door...

The cries of babies in the hospital wards. The sweeping of brooms down the dusty allyways. The screeching of cars, the honking of a band, the slamming of classroom doors and the thunk-thud of falling cans.

They all joined together, melded together, the computers calculating and adjusting, blending the noises and melodies of the city into a single, perfect symphony.

In the background, the chatter rose. Voices of office workers, of artists in their homes, of students in their canteen, of sweepers down the streets. Of shoppers at the mall, of sportsmen in their gyms...all of the chatter rose and fell, their meaning and exact words lost and screened as the formed one crowd, the heartbeat of civilization.

Months of work. Months spent placing those tiny recievers on every broom. On the odd door, office corner, water-cooler, toilet. On plates and tyres, on flowers even. Just for this.

This was the music of the city. Of people, of their creations, of the things they did. Yet no one paid attention, trapped in their tiny bubbles of music, pumped into their ears from an even tinier music player.

Jean sighed a sigh of contentment, and heard it echoed back to him a hundredfold, mixed with the sighs of a hundred people. And then he smiled, listening to the symphony of the world.

Not Much

2010-03-06T20:32:00.003+08:00

As an average person, my life and call
is said to be well, not much at all

Not much the pleasure of one's first kiss
Not much small moments of simple bliss
Not much the regret of saying goodbye
Not much a mother's tears
Or a father's sigh.

Not much the goals, big or small
Not much the struggle to achieve them all
Not much the stress in moments of strife
Not much the friends you make through life

Not much the nerves on a wedding day
Not much the secrets we never say
Not much the shouting and bills not paid
Not much the sickness or words last said

An average person, from rise to fall
a life well lived- not much at all

The Hunter's Recruit

2010-02-21T17:32:00.004+08:00

I began my journey by writing how it all began:

Uncle Lee had these magic forms which he passed to me; neither were yellow or green, mostly red and white. The moment I touched them I knew what fate had in store for me. Within weeks I was transported into this strange place, filled with many poo- companies. Some were dying, some were still full, while others seemed to be small, but deep with possibilities.

We explored the strange worlds, looked upon the halls of old, and spoke the Pledgeful Words. With that, our fate was sealed, and we were brought before by the great Lion Officer to the new company, where he roared life into the recruits gathered there. And from the trucks and loading bays erupted a multitude of equipment and field packs, enough for everyone.

And between the recruits he divided them into platoons, and each platoon he divided into sections. And some of the recruits he appointed as ICs, that they may govern over the other recruits.

Many days later the recruits were taken upon to the sacred garden, where a mighty apple was presented to them. Powerful was this apple, and only with the right words and training could one possess it so, for the guardians of the garden were vigilant in their watching, and nary an unsqueezed apple would bring doom upon the entire platoon. Tempting it was, to sleep or simply steal the apple, but the recruits knew their Officer would not be pleased, and bore it weight all the way back to their company, rightfully and honorably.

And the recruits took back the apples and buried them in their lockers, to keep them safe from the prying hands of the sergeants. And though the recruits did return amidst a shower of fireworks and red packets, they knew that in four days they would return once more to the company. And though the apple was returned to the garden, in the times to come they would pick it up and march through the jungles with them.

And the leaves of the apple, which were green like the greenest grass, splotched with pixels of black and brown, were worn by the recruits both forward and back, that they may journey to each adventure in the days ahead.

Still in my possession do I have a green card, and the leaves of the apple tree made into a shirt. Today I return to Orien to chronicle my adventures there once more.

Egoist

2010-02-04T00:53:00.002+08:00

I would say that by nature I am a proud man, in that I am often too proud to lie.

It is very difficult for me to say something I do not mean. False praise for example.

It is disgusting to praise someone and then demand they do the same to you. Disgusting, and pathetic.

Yes I am a proud person in this regard. My opinions of people, my respect for people. I will respect those I want to respect, and praise those I want to praise. And if you or anyone tries making me write or say what my heart and mind do not mean then God forgive me for what I shall say or do to you.

Pride is a great sin, but in this regard I would say it is a sin only in the face of sin. For the humble would never ask to be lauded in attention. Perhaps there might be a fall I am not aware of for this notion, but if there is it is one I would gladly learn from.

You, and sometimes the censor inside me can control my actions, disguise my words or restrict my impulses.

But my opinions shall forever remain mine and mine alone. Beyond all mortal power. For only God may change the hearts of man. And you, my friend, are most definitely not He.

Head in the Clouds

2010-02-03T12:15:00.004+08:00

Elaynor Green stood silently before the massive canvas, staring at its clean, white surface as if by doing so the images in his mind could be projected onto the wall. Three more minutes before he could access the Cloud. Until then, there was nothing, nothing comparable at least, that he could do.

It was such an obvious innovation he was surprised they had not thought of it sooner. The average human uses less than ten percent of his brainpower each day. This number fluctuates constantly throughout the day, depending on what the said person is doing. Extrapolating the results of an experiment using calculus took much more brain power than lets say, having lunch. And since every brain was connected directly to the internet these days…well, the rest was obvious.

Two more minutes.

The Cloud allowed those who needed just that little bit more mental processing power to access it. It optimized thinking. It made it efficient. Of course, there were problems at first, ethical issues, teething troubles- Hacking, order of priority, waste data clogging up the neruo-streams…things like that. Powerful controls were put into place, a set of very, very strict laws established and a rationing system created. Your average gardener certainly did not need access to five hundred gigabytes of neuro-space every hour, did he?

As an artist he was allowed a much higher amount of Cloud Access, though this fluctuated depending on who he was working for and what they wanted him to paint. Creativity was the most data-heavy of the many types of thought processes. Which was why he had accepted this offer in the first place: it was a political piece. Propaganda.

One more minute.

The current mayor had decided, using (quite literally) the minds of fifty-three different sociologists and psychologists from around the world, that the current “anti-cloud” sentiments that certain writers and activists were championing could be curbed through precise application of various propaganda tools. In his case, it was a depiction of the power, potential and beauty the Cloud could offer. To excite the minds of the populace, to capture their imagination!

Well, the amount imagination was allocated to them at least.

Thirty more seconds…

If he was successful, the anti-cloud activists would lose public support, and hence, processing power. Less processing power meant less dangerous speeches and words.

Elaynor didn’t really care. The chance to use virtually unlimited brainpower to create anything…anything he wanted…that alone was worth the risk. He imagined himself dancing through the sky, his mind soaring high and above, expanding across the heavens, capturing just a brief glimpse of perfection...

Three…two…one…

At last, he was fre-

Outside the museum, in the gardens filled with trees, a lone gardener stood sweeping the leaves. He thought not of beauty or splendor, nor of ethics or words. Indeed, all he could think about was the sweep-sweep motion of his hands and the color of leaves in fall.

Sickness

2010-01-31T08:49:00.003+08:00

"I've tried everything,” sighed the man, leaning back in his plump, blue armchair in exhaustion. Tired, brown eyes stared out from under a mop of disheveled black hair, gazing blank space as if trying to focus on a point in it which did not exist. His clothes were also a mess, one end of his shirt un-tucked while the other was stained with coffee. Both his socks matched, whether by chance or some actual remnant of orderliness. The two left boots, one brown and the other black however, suggested otherwise.

“I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. My stomach feels like ten thousand camels spontaneously decided to take a piss in it. Reading gives me a headache. Music hurts my teeth. Even sitting down to well…relax makes my body dance in seven different directions. I’ve gone to three doctors, four psychologists, a medium, a priest and a gynecologist. Yes, I know they’re for women only. That’s how bad it is.”

The other man simply regarded him with an odd expression, a cross between bemusement and utter exhaustion. The former because it was his current state of mind. The latter because it was his common state of health.

“And your…er, symptoms?” he ventured, making sweeping motions in the air with his pen.

The sick patient closed his eyes and spoke, as if performing some internal bodily scan;

“My head feels like it is about to explode. I cannot sit still. My sleep is filled with dreams that burn like hot flashes in the middle of the night, enough that I cannot rest. It’s like trying to breathe underwater. Incidentally, that’s how my lungs feel like. And my hands ache. I…they want to grab something…anything and…and…I don’t dare think what they want to do. Doing anything…relaxing…just living, feels like a bloody waste of time! I- I…”

“Ah.”

“Ah?”

“Yes. Ah. An expression of understanding and realization. I believe I have a cure. Here’s your prescription.”

The other man got up and exited the room. The patient, alone in the small, quiet office, picked up the piece of paper he had left behind.

It was blank.

He stared at it in confusion, trying to make sense of it all. Some sort of puzzle? Was he supposed to see something in the paper? Maybe this was a psychological test…or cure even. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. The sick man placed the paper on the desk and stared at its white, empty surface in despair.

Images swam before his eyes.

“NO!”

He could feel it again! A relapse! The same burning sensation, the same anxiety, pressure, focus of thought! His hands twitched. His stomach lurched. All around his body parts of him felt both weak and strong at the same time. The desire welled up in him, a passion he could not control. It needed release. It needed an outlet. His gaze swiveled around the room, looking for a means to an end-

The pencil gleamed on the doctor’s desk, like a comet on a moonless sky.

The frenzy that took hold of him was frightening to behold. He grasped the pencil with all the strength and desperation of a starving man on a pair of worn but edible boots. The tip blazed across the paper like the fire blazing across his mind, the two arcs matching each other streak for streak, flame for flame as the man whirled and spun the innocent piece of wood across the table. It scored across the white, tainting the purity of the sheet with its dark, black marks. His wrists and arms hurt with the strain, yet the blade remained miraculously unbroken, faithfully serving its purpose like a hunting dog chasing down its master’s slaves.

For what seemed to be eternity, the only sounds were that of the pencil tearing across the surface of the paper, and the man’s deep, ragged pants.

When the other man came back in, the sick one was lying back in his armchair, a small smile on his face. He was fast asleep.

He picked up the prescription. Written across it were sketches and diagrams, notes and symbols whose meaning he could not comprehend. Not at this moment, at least. Designs, plot points, twists, conflicts, a beginning and an end.

The other man sighed. All those ideas, crammed into one head. Years and years they must have waited. How many times had he shoved aside a thought to tackle a matter at hand? For people like him, it must have been too much. Men can fast but even the most devout had to eat sometime.

He tucked the piece of paper into the man’s shirt pocket, then opened up a Notepad on his computer’s screen. A few typed lines, a notation or two...there. Safely preserved.

You had to let them out in moderation. Small thoughts, one at a time. It didn’t matter how and where you did it. But sooner or later, you had to let them out.

The other man sighed and looked over at the sleeping patient, a gaze that was both knowing and sympathetic, that showed a level of understanding achievable only by those who had walked the same path through hell together;

“Inspiration’s a bitch eh?”

Perhaps someday, they'll find a cure.

2010-01-16T22:16:00.003+08:00

I sit in front of the monitor watching the screen. Behind it various streams of wires and rubber snake around the table, forming bushes and foliage akin to that of a forest. The room is dark, all curtains and windows closed, the door barred shut with a lock and an old musty chair.

Inside the monitor I stand before a boardroom filled with men in smart, black business suits, striped ties ironed neatly upon their well-starched vests. A small projector shows a series of elaborately colored slides, each covered in archaic numbers and symbols, charts and diagrams. The men are nodding, some are smiling, while I dribble on, apparently more nerves and delight at their approval than actual confidence.

Next.

The screen fizzes and the readjusts. Wires hum with redirected power, stolen from the mains and the ‘faulty’ lamp-post across the street. With a few clicks and switches an image appears, stabilizes, fills with color and…there! It appears to be a park, one with many, many flowers and trees, each lush with life. A lake, with ducks or swans and a few odd reeds sticking along the side…

Adjust…zoom…there I am! The wide-brimmed sun hat and old grey shirt makes it difficult to differentiate me from the background, but I recognize that chin and stubble anywhere! The portable vacuum pack looks heavy, and for all the thriving of the plants around, there sure were a lot of dead leaves.

How depressing. Next.

Another jump. Readjust…focus…scanning, searching and…there!

A beautiful gallery greets me, paintings of nature and people, of lakes and sky and trees. Once more I wear the wide-brimmed hat, though the shirt is considerably newer and stained with paint, the vacuum nowhere in sight. A grin adorns my face as visitors flock into the queue, gasping at the vivid use of colors, at the soft palettes and powerful brush strokes. Better, much better;

Nex- oh…

A young girl is sitting on a bed with her child, both characters smiling happily despite the filthy state of their home. The gray walls are covered in cracks and cockroaches that skitter in and out of the fading wallpaper. A knock sounds on the termite eaten door, and in enters a familiar face. Weary, tired, wearing the same suit and tie as the man two jumps ago, but much less well-cared for. Yet there are laughter lines that weren’t there before, and though strands of gray dot his hair his eyes are filled with joy and warmth.

My eyes.

I remember how she had smiled back then, back when neither of us was aware of the consequences of our actions. We had been seeing each other for years. Known each other for even longer, long before we knew the meaning of the word ‘romance’. It seemed so natural that day. So…right.

And so the choice had been made and the consequences had been brought forth for us to face. And I-

I made my second choice.

Next…next…

I flick through the channels, jumping from life to life, from moment to moment, through every possibility and every trouser leg of time. If we never had met. If nothing had happened that very first time. If it had been someone else, not her…if I had focused on my work more…if I had not missed that bus…

Next! Next!

The machine is a result of all these. Of combined regrets from possibilities that did not exist, of yearnings for things not yet occurred...some of the wires fade off into thin air, but that does not bother me. I didn’t want to make choices anymore, not without knowing the consequences, and so here I am, watching and waiting, thinking and evaluating.

Nextnextnextnext-

The screen is blurry again but it is no fault of the equipment. My cheeks feel wet. She’s called me three times so far yet I dare not answer in event I trigger a path yet seen. The other paths comfort me, telling me of things I could do, of the potential that exists to be tapped. Yet though I know the consequence, I know not which choice to make. Which path to the businessman? To the scholar? To the unmarried merchant, artist, poet? Or to the happy spouse?

Next……next………Return.

Oh.

No matter how many possibilities I flick past the screen always comes back to this. As if the machine itself was reminding me. Punishing (?) me. Of the consequences of unseen consequences, of choosing not to choose.

N-

The two embrace, and I feel a brief pang of regret before flicking the channel once more;

-ext.

End.

Thax

2009-12-15T20:04:00.001+08:00

I've seen wizards like him before. Magi fascinated by even the simplest spell, the most minor cantrip. Who only truly started living upon discovering magic. For them, it matters not that they are not talented, or quick, or prosperous. What matters is that centuries down the road,or even sooner in fact, many greater magi would have become worn with the ages or grown cocky with power. These few however, retain that essential combination of drive, curiosity and humility that forces them, in whatever limited capacity they have, to continue pushing the boundaries of magic. To innovate.

And it is of such innovations that true breakthroughs are made.

Most of them fail, forgotten in the dust and shadows of some slum in a corner of society. Of the rest, many also die, consumed by knowledge too dire, by power they cannot control. But the ones that do succeed...

Watch him, my friend. Watch the path he takes, the roads he dares to walk. Shall he slip into the chasms below, or ascend to the highest peak?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Perhaps its reflective on me that I conceive character concepts and ideas by imagining what people observe, think and say about them. That I find the most powerful moments being in the recognition of some essential quality of a character, either by other characters or the reader himself.

Above is one such statement about a character I recently thought of. One that seems to be merging and growing into this strange tanglepatch of ideas that have been recently forming in my head.

Granted, its nothing too original. But it sure is fun.

And so It Ends

2009-11-19T23:00:00.005+08:00

I wish I could express properly the exact feeling of having finished IB. The odd mix of feelings, thoughts, the words of friends, the memories playing by...

I cannot.

But nonetheless, I will try.

It was only recently, though rather late, that it dawned upon me that this wasn't simply an ending of 2 years of IB. It was an end of 6 years of ACS. Of perhaps, one of the most life-shaping six years I've been through.

Just the other day, we went to renew my passport. I looked at the picture taken six years ago, and wonder at how much I've changed. More knowledgeable, maybe more mature, and hopefully, a little more wise.

Same shirt though. Somehow, even after six years God still has a sense of humor with my life. How the heck I still have and actually wore the same shirt I did six years ago for the same passport amazes me. (Or was it three years ago? Hm...)

But the point is, despite all that I've been through, despite what people may say about the education of Singapore, of IB, of the world even, there's no denying that its something all of us have gone through. So even as I look and sigh at the ideals of a perfect school, of the possibilities creative teaching and the irony of teaching creativity...in the end, as I walked out of the school and looked back at the clock-tower, I suppose there is still only one thing I can truly say:

That I'm proud and blessed to have lived six years of ACS. Because what defines a school, learning, development, is not the knowledge you've gained, the grades you received, the projects you complete.

It is the life you have lived. Because learning and living are one and the same.

And turning away from the clock-tower, I see my friends, all smiling and waving and laughing at the end of the exams, walking down the ramp together. And I know that in many ways, in the trials I've taken and the people I've seen, in the teachers that blessed me and the mistakes I made; that these six years were a life well lived, and a lesson well received.

So to the IB Cohort of 2008-2009, this is all I can say. To take heart and soar on, on Wings like Eagles, with the Lord as our Anchor. To be the Salt of the Earth, a Scholar, Officer and Global Citizen.

And though the first path is over, may we always remember-

-the Best is yet to Be.

Last Walk

2009-11-18T11:18:00.001+08:00

Well then people...

Lets go.

Parasyte

2009-11-02T11:58:00.002+08:00

Common concept of a creature living in another creature, absorbing their nutrients and abilities without given anything in return.

I don't need to elaborate I think.

Interesting how interesting some parasytes first appear to be. Many a colorful fungus or worm has a curious shape. Its almost as if a brightly colored or interesting looking exterior facilitates the infestation.

So the parasyte mimics the behavior of the host, and discerns what the hosts find "interesting". Thus the host picks up the parasyte, and gives nurtients of its own free will.

I wonder how the parasyte feels, needing others to survive?

Parasyte, parasite.

The worst sort of potential a person can have is wasted potential.

Sloth is a potent sin indeed.

Styles

2009-10-31T16:26:00.003+08:00

Look ma! I can toss words around like them weird juggly people in the circus!

Ma? MA! MAAAA!!!!

In today's news a woman was found dead when a hyperbole crushed her organs to death. Massive internal bleeding and cranial overload were cited as reasons for death.

The orphan is now at a school for disabled youths, learning the perils of over-using flowery language.

This News 3.14 tonight. I am David Craws- I mean David Steve. Have a nice day.

525600 minutes

2009-10-23T16:03:00.003+08:00

The power of Art lies in understanding, that we may feel what others do feel, and grow closer because of it.

Even with all the complexities, subtleties, genres and styles- the ultimate aim is simply for mankind to know itself better.

Creative Engineering

2009-10-06T00:00:00.004+08:00

I sit at my desk at 12 midnight, having just finished supper and a good read on the net. My bag lies next to me, packed with schedules and worksheets, books and papers. On my desktop are several folders, or which two stand out to me:

One labeled "EXAMS", the other, "IDEAS"

Oh, and a little document with lots of lines of text and numbers, a nice little DnD character I made with exactly 2.1 million gold in equipment. I feel quite proud of that.

...sad isn't it?

It used to be that I would write poetry and stories like a man breathes air. Bus rides home, evening walks down the street; ideas would come and flow into me, an endless river of inspiration I thought would never cease.

But such rivers run the risk of floods, endangering the village. And thus a dam was set up, to curb the tide, to control the flow, to channel its fury and raw majesty into tame, useful energy.

Examinations. Studying. Revision.

All goals I should be achieving. Am achieving, to an extent.

Yet how many geologists have looked at once mighty Nile and sigh at the small stream that trickles its way across the sand?

Nowadays, the MOE, government, people of this generation. Leaders, if you will, have realized the importance of creative talent. Of dreams, of lateral thinking, of uniqueness. And so they sought to harness it.

Yet I suppose, like a butterfly in captivity it doesn't really work out, does it?

After the river passes through the dam, drained its roar, what's left for the crops, the land, the sea?

One folder has not be updated in months. The other is being constantly filled every other week, with documents I barely read. I feel like a traitor, as though not reading them, not exercising my so-called fullest ability is a crime.

It is a crime, I guess.

I wish this post would have some massive insight. Some message I could impart. But I find I cannot do that now without sounding hollow. To preach, hah, to preach is to feed the masses what they wish to hear. To say what's already been said, that's preaching.

To teach, my friend, is a different story altogether.

So what am I, if not a writer? If not an engineer of words, a researcher of society? I look and think and watch it all seems so...easy. A giant stage, a giant act. So easy to just drift along, follow the ladder, take the golden hand.

I can tell myself anything, and I'll believe it. I am the greatest hypnotist and the most gullible fool. Self-delusion is a weapon, a potent tool one uses to fit in with society, to achieve things we would otherwise never do.

I ask myself, am I teaching or preaching? Are these ideas or exams? Am I truly exploring, or simply testing the market, the readers, the people of their conscience? Testing their lives?

It can be either way. I can choose. I can choose so much its frightening. And thus I become afraid to choose. There is understanding and there is understanding, the true understanding, where the implications and consequences of a certain action or property dawns upon you. Its so easy for the modern generation now to complain about dreams, about death, about hypocrisy and disillusionment and war. But do we understand it? I doubt I do.

There is a feeling that comes with understanding. An emotional weight, if you will. One of potency and heaviness. Like the feeling of a good racket in your hands, or a nice, heavy apple. A sensation of the rightness of it all.

Back to the dams. When power is harnessed, it can be controlled. And somehow, that takes away its power. Certainly, the Nile possesses its great physical power, its rushing waters, potential energy, kinetic energy...yadada...

But what happened to the other sort of powers? The gods, the worship. The power to inspire, to intimidate. To frighten, to awe. These are powers too, in their own right. But unlike the waters it is people they move. And in doing so, move the world.

It feels like creativity ought to be something more. Ceremony might be pointless in the view of efficiency, but it serves a purpose of its own as well. Sometimes, the existence of something is the effect unto itself. There is no cause, not root, simply the existence of that process that causes an effect.

And engineer solves problems. And a writer is simply an engineer of imagination. His bricks are the dreams of man, and his lightning is their drive. He builds a machine from the whispers and sighs of each generation, gathering the cast-off shells of their lives, the tiny after-image we leave where ever we go, welding our thoughts together, oiling the gears of passion.

And so, forge a new world? If only it were that simple.

Teaching or Preaching? So hard to say. It depends on the audience, like how the strength of a river depends on the land. One shapes the other, as the other shapes it back. And it is this dance that is renewal, is creativity, is the joining of ideals, new and old.

You cannot compartmentalize it. You cannot say: these are our writers, they will dream for us. You cannot hush an engineer's secret desire to fly, a lawyer's love of fruit pies, a simple worker's talent for humming. All of them dream, all of them dance. But it is the writer who looks from the balcony above, to chronograph it.

To understand something means it must be understood by you. By you. Not by the writers of the textbooks, not by the teachers in their classes. By you and you alone. Your understanding.

And then the writers can too look upon your dance and see it not as a shadow of a lesser dancer, but as a pattern of glory in its own right, sending ripples through the surface of the lake behind the dam.

I have Fallen...

2009-10-02T10:20:00.000+08:00

Zomg RO2 died to a poring stupid melee enchanter build doesn't do shit (curse swear mutter)...

My life is slowly draining away in a shower of pixels and cutesy 3D graphiks;

Self Perception

2009-09-13T16:32:00.001+08:00

Just a thought, from an alter ego of sorts. Most people know about the quote: "All that's needed for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing"

First reaction:

Good thing I'm not a good man right?

----------------------------------------------------------------

The day we fail to label ourselves as "good" is the day we stop being so.

I keep thinking "I'm not hardworking" and lo and behold...so easy to fall, but well-

Now its hard to climb back up.

Foolish

2009-08-28T06:17:00.000+08:00

"You know but you do not understand"

I once thought I knew this statement, but it seems only now that I understand it. And yet...how do I know I understand it properly? :P

Sometimes, in our attempts to teach ourselves wisdom we focus so much on knowledge of it that we forget the meaning behind it. To say "I know!" whenever someone gives you advice, or to silently nod yet ignore, to walk around not wanting help, not putting in effort to ask people for help, not putting in effort towards putting the help of others to use...

All these things are pride as well.

I just never understood.

Weary

2009-08-24T06:14:00.005+08:00

Of most things, I believe
no strength, inertia is great
Momentum of an endless
lack of movement
Dragging things
on and down with me
through the windows, the doors
the tables and chairs
the tiny cracks in the woodwork
where deep within my conscience
sleeps
weary of world and sin.

----------------------------------------------

I wouldn't call this much of a poem, twas something I mashed together in less than a minute.

More of a (somewhat) literary rant, I suppose.

To Sleep Perchance to Dream

2009-08-19T08:54:00.006+08:00

The machine bleeps, a sharp note accompanied by a gentle vibration of my cot. A soft hiss echoes through my ears as the cover of lifts up, letting in a breeze of fresh, cool air. The chance is all I need. Eyes snapping awake my body practically leaps out of the cot, grasping the handlebars along the side of the sleep chamber. Cycle two, time for my regular exercise.

My apartment is bare, a small black room about five hundred feet underground, with air supplied through the public ventilation systems. Still, it beat heck out of the stale, recycled air inside the sleep chamber. No broadcaster, no net chip, nothing save for a small box and a few exercise tools. I couldn’t afford to have distractions, especially given my recent medical condition.

My body performs the routine with mechanical efficiency, twenty crunches followed by a series of simple aerobatics to get the blood flowing. It feels good to be able to move my body after hours of being cramped in the machine. That done I sit myself down at the corner of the room, where a dusty-old typewriter waits.

The keyboard punches out the text on an old plastic card, a relic of past times. Of course, if my superiors found out about this they’d confiscate the machine…I had only manage to acquire it under the pretense of doing “finger exercises”. Now where was I? There was this poem...

Fifteen minutes of exercises, followed by five minutes of quick scans and general questions to ensure my brain was still healthy. That done, I reach over to the tiny cabinet in the corner of my apartment, removing from within a small bottle and a tiny, tiny syringe.

When I first purchased the drug the doctor had warned me that the side effects could be dangerous for me in the long run. But I couldn’t help it. Too many things were at stake here.

See, I’m what they call a professional Sleeper. Twenty years ago me and a bunch of other guys currently holed up in this underground complex failed the General Productivity Test. From what I hear it was designed to evaluate an individual’s capacity for creativity, self-motivation and work-efficiency. Those who passed well, who knows what they do up there? Building new machines like the sleep chamber perhaps? Not my place to wonder. Still, whatever they do, it requires a lot of work. So much work that well, many of them don’t have time to sleep. And that’s where we, the bottom layer of the GPT come in.

I don’t know how the RES helmet works, or how they transmit the signals and such. Something about synchronized brain patterns and computers, tech-talk like that. Nine hours of me snoozing away in the chambers is automatically translated into nine hours of rest for them. Ding! Instant sleep.

The job isn’t without its perks of course. Regular pay, my own apartment, food and drink fed directly you’re your bloodstream…the only danger lies in a single word: Insomnia, the dreaded disease all members of my profession feared. If the higher-ups found out, if they knew I had trouble sleeping…

I press the syringe and wince as the ice-cold drug flows into my bloodstream. Already, my head feels heavy, my movements sluggish. I leave the plastic card on the floor, with all the other plastic cards I made over the years. The sleep chamber feels all comfy and cozy, warmed to my exact body temperature. Soft music plays as I drift closer and closer to oblivion, an old tune that I heard long, long ago…in another cot with all the other babies, under the same gentle light in the same hospital ward…

And though my eyes are closed my sleep is empty of dreams, while those above chase after theirs underneath the sunlit sky.

Saturday Night Out

2009-08-16T11:23:00.000+08:00

So I went to Band FOA last night and while it was very, very good (rofl Godzilla zomgwtfbbq) I find the best part of yesterday was not the 2 hours spent in the Audi getting my inner ear ruptured but spending 1.5 hours outside at the astroturf with Levin, Klow and Justin.

Cause Ernest was busy having his time wasted by Yip (according to him), so the four of us decided to go do random "Improv acts" aka Whose's Line random !@#$. Me and Klow were the main actors while Justin and Levin came up with random scenes and the ever-popular inappropriate one-liners.

Or should I say, highly appropriate? Just...not for the pure-hearted xD

Long story short? It was bloody awesome. Really gotta do this kinda thing again. (THE WEREWOLVES ARE COMING)

Then the four of us and Chermaine, Elvira, Jun Siong, Ernest (and one more guy whose name I can't remember. I'm such a horrible person) went to a 24 hour swensens at Holland V where we ordered two earthquakes and ate coffee ice-cream at freakin' 1am.

Then I got home at about 2, slept at about 3, and woke up at 9am to the sounds of my dad printing page after page of reports (side note: the bigger the printer, the more bells and whistles they can fit inside)

Altogether, a brilliantly eccentric and fun Saturday Night Out.

Weak hearts make for very loose sleeves

2009-08-12T22:04:00.000+08:00

but a fake vase still makes a real mess when broken

.ORG.SG

2009-08-11T08:05:00.000+08:00

It has
many chambers,
like we do of commerce
of education, health, the rigors of life
through which our people flow.

It is
the smaller organ
yet it feeds the rest;
larger lands with oxygenated aid
through and from our hands.

It draws
both nutrients,
wisdom of the east and west;
pumping fresh blood to stagnant cells
uniting old thoughts anew.

It beats
to the tempo of the globe-
an international hub or rather
international heart of the world.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Submitted for the inter-class poem thing. It didn't show up though, guess there wasn't enough keywords like "unity" "progress" "Singapore" "forefathers" and such.

Reports

2009-07-24T17:16:00.003+08:00

"Hui Jun...is not afraid of hardwork, and should be able to perform well as long as he keeps up the momentum."

Ha.

Hahaha...

HahahHAHAHAhahaaa...

<35 points>, with HLs at 6, 5, 5.

I'm not sure if it hurts more that people expect me to do well, or don't know me well enough to make assumptions like that.

Well, onward I guess.

Oh...! How The Mind Doth Dance...

2009-07-22T19:22:00.014+08:00

Two of them, a man cloaked in shadows and silver, and a lady with golden-yellow hair, streaked with red.

A small figure, slim, dressed in white. Face a literal mask of neutrality, no expression, no features...just two slits, eyes, or what passes for them. Yet how much more they see.

Both of them stare, the third in the middle like a judge, words unspoken, thoughts unbidden, emotions unsuppressed. All it, bottled out, flowing out in a river of color and song, clashing where the white man stood. A white man that was there no more.

Below, the ground shakes, and the same two, opalescent slits open. The face of the white man watches from below, as after-images of the earlier clash linger. Dark claws grappling with bright sun-beam sparkles...neither side giving...then a flare of immense light, drowning out the shadows!

The white man closes his eyes, a burst of yellow flashing across their clear, crystal-like surface. The shadows retreat, under the trees and clouds, into the libraries and books. And for a moment it seems, the sun does shine.

But a single tendril, festering beneath the rocks emerges. A crooked finger, half-wisp not yet formed, growing slowly more solid arises. Deeper it becomes, forming an arrow of mist and reason, of worries and fear. Of calm, steady acceptance of the darker side of life.

An arrow that pierces the sun.

All light disappears. The shadows stretch out, shrouding the word once more. Crystal pools, once like golden honey, now swirl with fog and depths like the deepest black. The white man closes his eyes once more.

Seeds, once sown slowly sprout in the protection of the shade. Cooled in the soft breeze, in the still air they gleam with a light of their own. The roots grow, digging into the soft ground, no longer hardened nor blinded by the glare of the sun. Leaves, half-formed in mockery of the darkness that shackles the sun, creep up from above, ready and waiting.

From the sky, a rain of stars.

Shatter! The darkness cracks. Earth splits, pain fills the world. A blaze of fireworks, joyous yet stinging, dangerous yet mesmerizing. The shackles break, the sun bursts forth, rays spilling over the land, banishing the shadows once more.

Touching the leaves with almost tender warmth, watching them unfurl, feeding their grey-green surfaces strength.

The roots, so well formed in darkness, send their stores to the factories above. Powered by the same fire that fuels the sun, the leaves unfold. Stems, fresh shoots, networks! Drinking in the sunlight, the afterglow of the fireworks, storing their power and mixing it with the minerals cultivated deep within the soil. Fire and light, Darkness and shadow. Boiling water, more potent together than the two apart. A reaction, reaching forth, chaotic energies guided towards the tip. Logic and emotion, white and black horses, pulling the chariot in the same direction...

A whisper across the wind:

Bloom, my flower, bloom.

On 90% of the Internet

2009-07-11T22:07:00.004+08:00

From a conversation with a friend:

"...its like miners going after diamonds getting frustrated from having to drill through all those layers of granite and useless dirt to get to the few precious gems, without realizing that without those layers of rock, the diamonds would never have formed."

Did the internet really create all the horrible, disgusting, perverted and depraved content that we see online everyday?

Did the internet also create all the wonderful, inspiring, beautiful, supportive, informative and helpful things as well?

Or did it simply bring whatever was already in human society: all our flaws, our dreams, our strengths and weaknesses, and display them for the world to see?

Just a dreamer after all

2009-07-07T19:57:00.001+08:00

The only foundations you shake are the ones in your head;

But then again, they're the only ones that matter after all.

Microthoughts, Mini-reflections

2009-07-01T22:05:00.005+08:00

Aid volunteers really have it tough I find.

To want to cure and help all those people, yet being unable to fully accomplish that.

To be blamed for not noticing enough, because it is they who choose to make themselves responsible, and yet must answer to those who don't.

To keep pushing, prodding, trying...meandering through life's many obstacles, following that little internal compass along a road paved with lode-stones...

Sometimes, all you can do is hope you're doing the right thing.

And that their replies of "thank you" won't become a last farewell.

To Mug or not to Mug...

2009-06-30T21:16:00.003+08:00

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
-Ernest Hemingway

I guess, as the exams pick up and the mugging gets heavy, this shall be my only respite.

Kinda like taking shelter from the storm by begging your ingrate daughter for shelter.

Between the storm of ideas in my mind, and the impending invasion of test papers, my mind and soul remain in conflict. Passion and need, reason it not, for in reasoning it I find my heart does ache, and my thoughts clash like thunder.

A dozen ideas I have, none of which seem to work; half a dozen textbooks I have, none of which seem to make sense.

Oh Fool! I shall go mad...

An old Wave of presenters

2009-06-28T20:49:00.006+08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v_UyVmITiYQ

Awesome video, awesome tool, but that's not really the point I'm thinking about.

I'm more thinking about how the presenters here are well, obviously not presenters. They're engineers, the people who made the system, built the system, and tested from the time they designed its roots.

In business we learnt about this thing called Product Based Marketing and Consumer Based Marketing. One markets a product based on what the product has. The other does it based on what the customers have.

The latter is the route favored by more and more corporations these days, including a certain company with fruit for its logo. What makes me sad is that increasingly, people seem to favor style over substance. And that it has become the norm.

I suppose the part I liked about this presentation was that it wasn't some smiling salesman with a mask of friendly words, amusing jokes and sharp wit talking. It was just three (four?) honest engineers, presenting the fruits of their efforts over the course of two years. Somehow, it just added this extra element of...I dunno, Honesty? Tangibility? Credibility? To their speech.

There is show. There is flair. There is hype. And in the middle of it all, a little coffee-stained, greasy-hand, slightly myopic man with a paunch. Just going along his own way, building things that last.

Perhaps that was Google's intention. If that's the case then well, all I can say is that they're doing it right.

For me at least. *sigh*...

In My Day, In My Sky

2009-06-21T09:05:00.005+08:00

*old geezer voice*

In my day, we dinna haf all dis fhancy smhancy 'graphiks' no we didn't! We had books, and our brains w're dee displays screens, and if yer couldn't lookinta da clouds and see a elephatmougous you'ere in big truble me boy! Now if yer want to look at a creature wita thousan'flayi tentacles and a hundre'eyes you jus needa go to the neares'viddy shop and searh'up them japanese dirty-stuff! Nonsense! Why, back then'if we wants to hav disturbing and twisted fantaschees lik tat we hadz to PAY them gud money ta get drunk as an old-foxina chicken pen. An alcoholic chicken pen. And we hadz BOOKS too! Now'ish all abouts World of Whorecraft and havin's a gud's fling with a flat-piture onyer deskhtops...

*cough...wheeze*

Scuze'me. Now, as I was shayins, it all be with them pretty pichures nowadays, alls shiny and drawings. Last'times we made them piktures, madez'em wif our own two'ands, soaked the blood'f paints and the flesh of crayons. Oh how we toilsed in those days! A flower'ana three'ana 'ouse covered in reddish tiles, wif them smoke that lookit lika cloud with them loohks lika elephatmougous...but nowsish all about lookin for the best'sm piks on shes winternet thingy, and prints them and sticks them on the walls.

*Gargle-SPIT*

And da stories, oh da stories. Me papa used'ta tuck me inna bed each night, as me mama poured a glass'o' them warm beer, none of that pussy milk stuff you drink now. Took me out lika light it did! Course, I wash'seven back then and it-be a 1-pint jug but ey? Hoosh complain? But anyways me paps would tells me a story everynights, filled ith all the proper gory bits and violence, with Mr Bear knocking the stuffing outta the evil Fluffy Octopuss! Oh...I couldn't sleeps with the excitments sumtimes, but then beers would knock me out soon after tats...but now all youz peoples can do be talk abouts them old stories and 'ow theys be horrible, or wondibibble, wif all them lit-tit-ture and bandwagons and stuff. Ands you has all these knew stories, whicha some freshed old stories with sparkles and fancy graphiks ontops! I sawhs the Little Red Riding Hood! Little kids made me watchits with them while the other shoved pastry inna me ears. Egads, a girl that thin wolda fallen ova the basket, the way she swings it like that! And those eyes! Me thinks da wolf o'eats her would gets swollen from all them bacteria in there, they been swollen liks that.

And da teenagers all payin their Whorecraft cause them too prissy ta go downtown with ten bucks for a proper job. I asks them 'ose the bad guy, o'se them good guys, and who the butler killed this time. They shays there be no baddies or goodies, only lotsa monsters ta kill! I then I goes: oh, so them monsters must be baddies and you be good guys, yes? And then theys stares at me (cause I think me pants fell off then) and says that there dont be any goods or bads, jus them slades of Grey. The only shades of grey I know be the greys on me head. And me armpits. Them goes on aboits hows their favourtie characters be this demon-bat-wizard-robot thing with a gazzlion wings and teeth and claws and everyone thinks he be a monsters except that he ain't cause well, he helps little kids cross the street. Oh wait he doesn't. He just smashes other monsters, so he's good. Except those monsters be helping little kids crossing the street, so their good too! Or bad, cause they breath fire. They all breathe fire. With horns, Good..bads...ugly...Ack, me brain be hurting, time for the pills...Seesh whats I means?

*hack...cough...GLARH*

But the point! The points of this ere speech be well...I dunno, what was the points again? Everyone be jus lookin for them points these days. Aesop hads lotsa points, but you dinna listen ta him cause he hadz poinst! No, the bloody bird hadz good story-yelling thats wut. He could shout them tales so loud all the folk would ere him in the mountains over, and thats how them stories spread. But thats not the point, cause there ain't any, shees? Sumtimes ya just gotta tell them stories, but all peoples these days be doin is hitting things, and calculatins numbers, and even with all them pretty graphiks and colors and shows all I ere' them do be talking about the next quarter of experience needs to "lever up" or something, though why them be playin wif see-saws at their age I wouldn't know.

And in the end wells, when we're all done with this and all, its like there be so much colors and lights and good grapiks that show you everything you need, that do all them thinking and imagining for you that well, you dinna need ta do anything no more.

Long times ago we'd look up ina sky and sees the elephatmougous; but now there be no space left for dreaming no more.

Passing On

2009-06-15T23:58:00.005+08:00

All things like candles fade away in time;
but like candles, and torches,
the Flame passes on-
through Reason,
in Word
by Rhyme.

-------------------------------------------------------

Just a short verse I wrote. Couldn't figure what else to add onto it =/

Weird Dream

2009-06-07T10:18:00.003+08:00

I had this really odd dream last night.

I can't remember how it started, only that it was strangely twisted. But I do remember the back bit, which I think some part of my mind was subconciously controlling or something:

What happened was, I dreamt that I was in this writing contest of sorts. There were people all around me, and I think an assassin or two. I was supposed to write 3 stories from a list of 5 possible questions. Seemed simple enough.

Until I read the questions.

I can't recall all of them, but one of them stuck out:

1) Write a story about a statue in love, with a hole in its ass that contains an interdimensional portal to another area of your choice.

Title of the story? Arse.

Its dreams like this that make me very worried about myself sometimes...

Delivery

2009-06-01T00:07:00.013+08:00

Rustle…rustle…

The landscape flowed past as Nmir climbed and leapt her way up the hillside, one hand clenched tightly around her haversack. Inside it the empty medicine bottles jingled, as if urging her to hurry. Nmir doubled her pace, scrambling from rock to branch to the occasional piece of flat-land, until she burst into the clearing, still soaring through the air.

Thud.

Quickly checking that none of the bottles had been broken, Nmir sighed, looking at the small thatched hut before her. Beside it lay a small well, and a large garden filled with all many of herbs and plants. She recognized a few of those flowers from her classes back at the village. Most of them grew only on elevated ground like this, where the temperature and wind made conditions ideal for their flowering.

She walked slowly down the worn dirt-path, savoring the atmosphere, the tranquility, the sheer isolation of the place. Over the years she had come to enjoy these quiet moments of being alone, away from the noise, from the suspicious glances and curious looks…

At least illusions can be seen through-
It’s not like she belonged to the village…
How can you trust something like that?

The mission was simple. Deliver a small bag of food to the old herbalist in the hills in return for the medicines he grew. Twice a month the village would send someone up here. Twice a month, they chose her. The trip took at least two days on foot, as the hill was quite a distance away. For more than a year she had done so, to the point where Elder Dunzon could recognize her approach without even turning to look at her. He’ll be just behind the door again, waiting with a pile of dried herbs and a big mug of tea…

Nmir reached the door at last, a faint smile of anticipation on her face. Without hesitating she slid the wooden panel to the side, the sound of Elder Dunzon’s cheerful, creaky voice already on her ears-

Nmir! What a surprise. Come, have a seat-

Silence.

Nmir blinked, looking around the tiny living room. The simple wooden table was where it always was, yet there was no one sitting there. No wrinkled old man smiling atop the rattan mat, a mug of tea in his hands.

Silence. The room was empty, eerily so. Even the sounds of the forest seemed muffled inside. Something was wrong…

“Elder?” she called, wincing at how loud her voice seemed, “Elder Dunzon?”

Silence was all that answered.

“Elder Dunzon! Hello? Anyone?! I’ve come for the usual delivery! Elder Dunz-”

There! An answering cough, coming from the bedroom. Nmir approached cautiously, carefully sliding the separator that divided the living room and the old man’s sleeping quarters. What she saw made her gasp.

“Nmir…” wheezed the old man from upon his bed, his skin as pale as snow, “tis good to see you…”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nmir poured the last of the soft blue flowers into the jar, sealing the lid tight. The herbs had been all prepared, laid out just for her in the shed at the back. She had left the bag of ingredients and soup-stock on the table in the living room. For all purposes, she was done.

And yet…

Elder Dunzon was dying.

Dunzon. The old man with whom she had spent several afternoons twice a month talking to, drinking tea, listening to his stories. Elder Dunzon, whom didn’t know of what she could do, who knew only the nice girl that visited him each time, unaware, unprejudiced...

Dying.

A sudden, wracking cough from behind made her cringe. The sickness was getting worse. According to the Elder, it was simply age, nothing more. The inescapable disease, that all men shared, that could never be cured.

For a while Nmir simply drifted, walking from the living room to the shed and back, not quite knowing what to do. Finally she sat down; her green eyes dull, staring at the tiny portrait of a young woman dressed in blue, her smile eternally frozen upon the wall.

Anami. The old man’s wife. Elder Dunzon used to go on and on about her, on the afternoons they shared. About her smile, how she would always cook for him, and how she passed away fifty years ago. He moved up to the hills soon after, away from the village. Some wounds never quite heal.

…while others simply continue to grow. Just because I wasn’t born there…

The mat felt oddly uncomfortable, as though there was a something underneath it. She checked: yes, a small bump, just next to where Elder Dunzon used to sit. Curious, she reached under the rattan, fingers closing around something rectangular and hard…

“A diary…”

The book was old but well-preserved, pages yellowed with age. The cover was the common brown of the village record books, the ones commonly used in administration. Yet scrawled in faded black ink in the bottom right-hand corner, was a single, curled signature.

ANAMI

Realization dawned. An idea of what she could do. Nmir looked at the diary, then the portrait, and then the diary again. For a brief moment she seemed to hesitate, as if wrestling with some inner voice...but then the moment passed, and with sudden force Nmir wrenched upon the cover page, glancing at the opening words of the book:

To chronicle our time together, from the night of our marriage to the day we part, I keep this diary. That in the years to come we may look back upon these pages, and recall the wonderful times we had…

In the light of the noonday sun, Nmir began to read…

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dunzon..." whispered a voice, "Dunzon..."

The old man's eyes creaked open at the sound of her voice. So familiar...filled with warmth...

"Anami?" he croaked, old withered eyes squinting in the evening's soft light. Thousands of wrinkles, like crevices on his forehead, bunched up as he frowned, trying to lift his skeletal-body off the bed. She shouldn’t be here…couldn’t be here. And yet…and yet…

"Shh..." the voice whispered, soft hands easing him back into bad, "you must rest. Rest..."

…here she was.

A small, warm bowl was pressed against his lips. Dunzon swallowed, drinking the simple herbal soup. The taste was bitter, as memories flashed past, memories of times spent with his wife in the forest. Every mission without fail, she would make a bowl for him. She was always a talented cook…

"Heh..." chuckled Anami, that light, airy chuckle that he loved "sixty-five years and you still can't stand my soups. And after all the trouble I went through to prepare it too! You could at least pretend to like it."

The words were exactly what she would have said. Exactly what she used to say.

Dunzon smiled, looking up. A pair of bright blue eyes -Anami's eyes- gazed back at him, filled with concern. Long red locks of her spilled messily from her head, framing her long, oval face. She smiled too, thick red lips pursed in the exact way she used to smile, all those years ago. The vision wore the same blue dress that he had gave her, every thread identical in pattern and texture. Exactly the same...

"Anami..."

"Now don't you go apologizing now," she sniffed, getting up, "Focus on recovering. And at least use thicker sheets! You're going to catch a cold at this rate. Sheesh, men these days..."

She walked swiftly towards the door, taking the bowl with her, careful not to make any noise. "Anami" had barely gotten five feet away before Elder Dunzon spoke up;

"You're not her, are you?"

She froze, simply standing there, not knowing how to react.

"You're not Anami, though a better imitation I have never seen..."

"How-"

"You look the same. Sound the same. Even your behavior...mannerisms. An exact duplicate. But you're not her, are you? There's still something different..."

Nmir turned around, dropping the disguise. Long red hair faded to a dark blue, while the face became more youthful, more immature. She sighed, lowering her head, whispering;

"My deepest apologies for the deception Elder. It was…rude of me to assume the form of your wife without permission. I shall-I shall take my leave at once."

"No. Stay." croaked the old man, one withered finger signaling for her to come closer. Nmir complied, not knowing how to react.

"I knew you were not her, but still..." he chocked, eyes glistening, "but still...for a while...I could pretend she was here again. I wanted her to be here. I knew it was just a disguise, and yet...would you, could you..."

Nmir didn't need him to elaborate. Anami returned, hands gently grasping the old man's wrist, stroking his forehead tenderly.

"Hah. Don't...have much time...left" wheezed Dunzon.

"Idiot. Stop saying that," she chided softly, tightening her grip on his wrist. His limbs felt felt so weak and brittle, pale even under the setting sun's light...

"Ha!" grinned Dunzon, "even on my death bed you use the same old insults. Ever since we first met, eh? Its been *cough* eighty years and you still...can't come up with anything better than that..."

"Idiot..." whispered Anami,

"I always loved to see you in that dress, y'know," he rambled, "always thought you looked...beautiful in it. My dancing flower, blue petals under the moonlit sky..."

Anami was shaking now, her eyes wet as well. She was gripping his wrist so tight now that her fingers had turned white.

"I'll be...meeting you soon. Hold my hand, Anami. Hold..." whispered Dunzon, his voice barely audible, "Everything feels so cold now. So dark and cold..."

Slowly, quietly, Elder Dunzon closed his eyes, never to open them again.

For a while, she sat there unmoving, eyes closed as well. Then, with a choked sigh, Anami got up, leaving the bowl by bedside. As she stood her body shimmered, leaving Nmir standing there, face bowed in respect. With an almost ritual-like stiffness she pulled from her cloak two articles: a diary and a small drawing of a red-haired woman, placing them upon the old man's chest.

Her head kept low, Nmir exited the room, picking up her haversack as she did. The bag felt unusually heavy, as though it was filled with more than the herbs she had been sent to collect. High above, the full-moon gleamed brightly in the darkness of the night.

Only then did she realize that she couldn't stop shaking.

A cool wind blew, rustling the trees. In the old man's garden, where the herbs he planted grew, a small blue flower broke from its branch. Caught in the breeze, it scattered into the air- A series of small blue petals, dancing under the moonlit sky.

No rest for the Wicked...

2009-05-26T16:41:00.006+08:00

"...“a book of mine where sound heart and deformed conscience come into collision, and conscience suffers defeat” - Mark Twain on The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

I don't get it.

Picture this scenario:

A young boy, trying to finish off the last of his assignments. Unable to keep up, tired of work and wanting some sleep, he decides to call it a day and go to bed. The next day he wakes up after a good night's rest, spending the rest of the day finishing off his IA and paperwork rather than stoning on a chair in an air conditioned room.

And in a room not two meters away, his sister is also trying to finish off the last of her assignments, unable to keep up, tired of work and wanting some sleep. Instead she chooses to push herself on, to the wee hours of the night, finishing the portfolio and waking up the next morning coughing and wheezing, eyes barely open from the lack of sleep. And still goes to school.

Who is the good student here?

Why does he feel so much guilt?

Follow your heart they say. In this age Men are engineers of artificial hearts. There comes a point where what is natural is no longer so, and what is created is the "right" thing to do.

Connoisseur

2009-05-22T22:24:00.006+08:00

The place was bustling, filled with all manner of people from social positions high and low. An old lady, face sagging with age and skin sagging with jewels, trotted her way across to the nearest table, seating herself upon the synthetic mink-fur chair.

A middle-aged man, dressed in a suit of black and white glided slowly up to her, a small pamphlet in his hands. With a wave the lady dismissed the piece of paper, instead signaling for the waiter to come close; those looking closely would notice a small metal card being pressed into the waiter’s hand.

The waiter smiled, flowing back over the rich, neo-silk carpets to pass through the syn-oak double doors at the back. Moments later, he returned, bringing upon a platter a small, silver orb.

“Your order, madam,” he intoned, lowering the dish, “Master Devon has taken great care with his latest masterpiece. Hopefully you will find the balance of sensations tweaked exactly to your liking…”

With a look of almost feral hunger the woman brought the orb slowly to her forehead, where the neuro-interface jack could interface with the data inside.

The world went white-

Howl.

All around her, the winds were howling. Air currents powerful enough to tear entire tech-homes into scrap metal battered against her body, threatening to toss her to her doom. Thankfully, her power-suit absorbed most of the shock, enough that she could continue surfing along the currents without any serve injuries. Bits of rocks, leaves and the occasional tree flew past, caught in the endless wind-spiral within the tornado. Only she alone remained untouched, guided by the flight regulators in her harness and suit.

Readying her airboard, the Glider shot a brief glance at the monitor’s sensor suite, checking for the predicated paths of all nearby debris.

Soon…almost…

The scanners on her visor glowed green. With a muffled whoop the Glider released the harness, throwing herself to the mercy of the winds.

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAAAAA~

The sudden burst of air that caught her nearly caused her to lose control. She grappled with the wind, forcing it down, channeling its fury at being caught into the waiting grooves on her airboard. Almost immediately, the turbulence ceased, as her board shot forward like a bullet into the heart of the storm.

Lightning crackled. A boulder the size of a small dog flew past her, barely missing her head. Still she dived, cutting through the swirling clouds of dust and dirt, going closer…closer…

A flash of brown. Up! UP! In a sudden burst of adrenalin she caught the tip of her airboard, turning its nose towards the sky. Her fall seemed to stretch, slowing as it fell towards the ground, reaching ever so close…

Wooosh.

The board soared, rising higher and higher, weaving complex patterns and elaborate routes that always had her barely missing a random piece of debris. Rocks, bricks and metal bars hurled past her head in a single, heart-stopping thrill. Like an arrow she pierced through the swirl of the tornado, streaking through walls of dirt and debris; sticks, stones and tiny leaves battered against her protective suit in a hail of noise, mixed with the screams of the storm in a symphony that brought both terror and wonder to her heart. Layer after layer she passed through, as the sky became brighter, clearer, more colorful-

Sunlight.

Behind her, the tornado moved on, continuing its rampage through the artificial turf. Above, the sweet sun sparkled like a diamond in an ocean of blue, the bluest blue she had ever seen, or will ever get to see. She was clear.

The computer took over at this point, activating the gliding rockets, lowering her gently towards the soft, green earth. The sun was growing brighter and brighter as she went down, forcing her to squint. The glow consumed her vision, washing everything in white-

The old lady lowered the jack, releasing a deep sigh of satisfaction. Ah…to be young again…

The waiter was still there, smiling expectantly. With a touch of reluctance she returned the program to him, a second card already on its way to his pocket;

“The mix of anticipation and unease, combined with the use of danger in middle contrasted wonderfully with the sense of relief and freedom towards the end,” she breathed, part of her mind still lost in the after-shocks of her trip “a most excellent experience. Do pass my compliments to the programmers.”

The waiter simply nodded, helping the old lady leave the establishment. Above the exit, the large digital tag-board gleamed in the evening sun’s light:

“Vicarious Living.Inc – Building dreams, One dish at a time”

Big brother is watching you!

2009-05-21T05:46:00.002+08:00

We just love our freedom of speech, don't we?

Ironic, isn't it?

On Wings like Eagles

2009-05-16T13:51:00.008+08:00

...but those who hope in the LORD
will renew their strength.

They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.

Isaiah 40:28-31

In a moment of self reflection I look towards my future and ask: what do I wish to be?

The future Me answers, without hesitation: A Writer.

And then I ask: Why?

As a teenager I am sure many of us know how malleable our identities are at this age. To have such a strong conviction is rare. Who we are, who we want to be, between the ages of twelve to sixteen, is largely formed by the people around us: our families, friends and teachers.

And it is the third of the three that I wish to write about now.

I look back and wonder: why do I love writing so much? I recall a time in primary school where English was my third weakest subject, the strongest being Maths and Science (Chinese being my one and only bane to a perfect 90+ score) I remember at that time, how much I loved the science textbooks, almost as much as I loved the various Magic School-Bus and Horrible Science books shelved in the family collection.

But as I grew, to secondary school, to Junior College, to now – something changed. I look at Physics and Chemistry, and feel an odd sense of disdain. Where did it come from? Why is it there?

I look at some of my friends: back then in Secondary 1 and 2, where my passion for science burned strong, I was considered an oddball. Many people I knew then had an open hatred for the sciences. Perhaps it was them? But that can’t be right either. Many people then had an open hatred for English as well.

Then, looking at my term reports, my past classes, the people I knew, it dawned upon me: it wasn’t the subject, or the friends I had.

It was the teachers.

Since secondary school I’ve had a series of wonderful English teachers, men and women of character and intellect, whose influence continues with me even today. Grace Lim, my form teacher and English teacher in Year 1, who was the first teacher to give me a leadership position, to encourage me in class, whose mantra: quantity not quality, we may not finish first, but we never give up the race, sticks with me to this day. Mr. Andrew Wong, with his powerful use of language and patient explanations, who showed me how a single passage could possess so much depth within a few mere lines of text. And now Mr Ferdinand Quek, whose quirky behavior, creativity and viewpoints continue to amaze and stretch my imagination to this day.

Compare this to the types of Physics teachers I have had. Without naming names, or pointing fingers, let me just say this: one of whom did not teach, asking questions but confirming no answers, whose unapproachable attitude made him difficult to understand. Another who treated the class like children, and me like a disabled child, who refused to challenge our intellect our spark our interest, whose seeming lack of knowledge lost us all confidence we had in her. And now a teacher who refuses to let us learn from our mistakes, who insists that the subject is mere memory and copying, who thinks that teaching a class of intellectually bright students is an excuse for not putting in effort to teach well. All of them, as far as I recall, have only shown me a lack of interest in the subject, a lack of interest in the student, and a lack of motivation beyond their own paycheck.

Yes I am offering a rather disparate view of the two. But somehow I cannot really put it any other way. True, I have had good Physics teachers. True, some of my English teachers were hardly inspiring. Yet when I look back now and think about my impressions, the overall outcome is as above.

Let us look at the successful men and women of the past. Great writers, famous scientists, geniuses (or is it genii?), whose passion and creativity changed the world. One common element amongst many of them, when recounting tales of their past, was a teacher or parent, a single person, or even a group of people, whose passion and drive inspired them at first.

That’s the world. Inspire.

It’s a moot point that I’m sure everyone agrees with. Today in education, teaching is more than simply imparting knowledge, more than just exams and tests. Today, a teacher must be able to inspire their students, to encourage them to learn, to seek for themselves.

What my English teachers have taught me that the science teachers have not was the importance of self-study. While a certain…Buddha was harping on about how this and that was "unnecessary knowledge", it not being in the rubrics, another was sending me emails regarding writing competitions and groups with suggestions for me to join.

If you need further proof, I only have to point to a science subject in which my passion, indeed, my entire class’s passion, interest and confidence has not died. Certainly, in teaching this subject our teacher constantly emphasizes the importance of the rubrics, the requirements, the learning outcomes. But equally important, he emphasizes the need for understanding, for creativity, for independent thinking The questions he gives us have no answer that can be copied from within the book - their secret lies in the careful application of previously learned concepts, after which understanding only requires a single, creative step. Each time he does this, he reminds us not to take it too seriously, that it is not relevant to the exams. And yet he continues to give them to us, so that we can (as quoted) "appreciate the subject better", "appreciate the mechanisms involved", so that even as I memorize three pages of complex chemical formula, I can see the beauty and relevance within every single one of them.

He prints notes for us. Constantly asks if we need more time, if he should slow down. All his knowledge, his experience, his time goes into teaching. His standards are so high that the guidebook he wrote for our level, that masterpiece of teaching, became one of the most sought-after study books that students across Singapore are fighting to photocopy and use.

How can one see such passion and not feel inspired to learn?

The issue here is that many teachers simply see teaching as that: simply imparting the knowledge, the skills, and then marking the exam papers. Perhaps I am being an immature child for thinking that teachers own it to the students to teach well. Perhaps I’m not. But that is not the point.

Teaching, learning, it goes both ways. What teachers have to teach now, what students have to learn, is not the mere knowledge of a subject. What all of us have to understand, is that education today is not just about imparting facts and doing quizzes.

It is about teaching students to teach themselves.

And that is what I learnt today.

The Writer's Smile

2009-05-12T20:55:00.009+08:00

The Child looks round for toys and light,
But sees only darkness within her sight;
Fearful cries echo through the night,
While the Guardian comes, to set things right.

The Child knows well, that all things Dark
are not mere shadows that leave no mark,
that joys and beauty are but a lark-
sheltered dogs, no bite save bark.

Yet the Guardian and Child do agree
that the Child must live, happily;
thus the Dark, lock and key
for Life to flourish, pure and free.

But as they say, the Truth shall out;
no matter the way, no matter the route.
Thus with this pen I fight my bout
with the World to whom my words do shout.

Filial Piety

2009-05-10T21:46:00.003+08:00

Darkness…just darkness. Yet something was changing, tiny cracks appeared in the ai-

PAIN! Burning…agonizing...PAIN! Searing, flashing, crawling through her nerves, tearing at her soul! A thousand knives, a hundred bee stings, nothing could compare to this. Every fiber of her body was aflame, every sense in turmoil, every thought consumed in chaos. Her memories swirled, like broken wrecks in the storm, occasionally flashing out at her, dragging her into their midst…

Flash

--------------------------------------------------------------
“Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…”

The song stopped, as the gathered people erupted into cheers. There upon the marble table was an enormous chocolate cake, crowned with candles, cream and strawberries spilling over the sides. A little girl sat behind the massive wall of confectionary, her face partially obscured by the sheer size of the cake.

“Smile dear!”

Flash

--------------------------------------------------------------

The pain was back, stabbing through the fog in her mind. It wasn’t as intense, thankfully, but her entire body still felt like it had went through a very blunt blending machine. She could feel her limbs now, and judging from the dull aches she was receiving most of her body was still intact. Yet she couldn’t move. Her muscles wouldn’t respond. Neither would her eyes, or her face. Her whole body was numb, numb from the pain.

Yet this meant one thing: she was alive. She couldn’t move, but she was still alive. She could wait. She could think. Yet…yet the question remained;

Who was she?

--------------------------------------------------------------

The same little girl again, except that her soft young face seemed somewhat older and paler, while beads of sweat encrusted her brow. The girl’s eyes fluttered open at the sounds of her approach, accompanied by a barely audible groan.

“Still sick?”

“Mrmmhm”

“Poor dear. Here, have some chicken soup,” a hand…her hand(?) reached out with the bowl. In the memory, she was speaking:

“Keeps the body healthy and strong”

“Mrmmf…*sslurp*”

“Feeling better?”

“Mmm…*slurp*” a tiny nod and a smile.

“That’s good. Still have the lucky bracelet I gave you?”

“Mhm…*slurp*” a small silver chain flashed in the fading evening’s light. The string of letters gleamed: To Kim, <3 from Mom

“Then you’d be fine. Sleep well dear,” she made to close the door…

“Mm..mom?”

Pause.

“D’ya think that some day, if you’re ill I could *cough* look after you too?”

Miranda smiled. Kids these days…

“Heh, why not? But you still need to get well first. Goodnight sweetie.”

“G’night”

Flash

--------------------------------------------------------------

Miranda. She remembered her name now. Miranda. And her daughter…

Kim…it was her birthday three days ago. Just three days ago. The bracelet was a gift…or had it been more than three days? How long had she been out?

Explosions. Screams. A blinding light…

The panic rose in her, like an ugly tide threatening to overrun the shore, yet she had no way of showing it. Her body was still paralyzed, unmoving, and unresponsive to her mental commands to scream, to shake, to simply break down and cry. The shelter had been ready but they had been too slow…

She could feel now though. Her sense of touch had returned, bringing with it full awareness of the pain and aches that wracked her body, and the occasional hallucination: the feeling of another person’s soft touch, a sense of contact that she barely felt, somewhere at the edge of consciousness, the feeling of someone holding her up…

Flash

--------------------------------------------------------------

The Air Sirens blared, though their screams arrived too late. Miranda was the first to react, grabbing the nearest two boxes of provisions and running into the basement shelter where they would be protected, surrounded by its blast-proof walls.

“KIM!” she screamed, throwing the last of the water into the corner, “forget the rest of the food! Get into the shelter NOW!”

There was a series of loud thunks as her daughter dropped what she was carrying and hurdled down the stairs. The pattering of her feet echoed off the wooden steps, only to be drowned out by the sudden hum of airplanes overhead...

“KIM!” she cried, her voice masked by the soft whistling sound in the background, growing louder…louder…

Miranda screamed, as the world exploded in a flurry of noise and light.

--------------------------------------------------------------

“...AAAAAAAAAH-”

Pain. Too much pain. Before, she had been like a disconnected server, detached and removed. Now it was like someone had reconnected a cable, sending a flood of information through her senses, overloading her fragile mind.

The explosion. Bricks flying apart. Fire, smoke and light. Brilliant, blazing light. Cries. Destruction. Light, then darkness. And her daughter, still halfway down the stairway, still trying to make it to safety...fading away…

She felt herself being lifted, felt a cool hand sooth her back, holding her tight. Her screaming stopped as her lungs ran out of air. Almost immediately a warm bowl was pressed against her lips before Miranda could gather air for another round. Her emotions raged against the interruption, roaring to get free.

Gradually, her breathing slowed. The bowl still remained, held steady by an unseen hand.

Miranda relaxed.

The bowl shifted slightly, causing a thick, hot liquid to seep through her teeth. Only then was Miranda made aware of how hungry she was. Swallowing was painful, but somehow, she managed it. One gulp. Two gulps. She could feel the warmth spreading through her limbs, breathing life into their cells.

It was soup. Chicken soup in fact. Half-cooked with lumps of preservatives still floating in the broth, but soup nonetheless. Miranda felt her being slowly laid down onto what seemed to be a mattress of sorts, as she gradually drifted back to sleep…

Flash

--------------------------------------------------------------

No one was sure about how the war had started. Some say it was the economy, having finally fallen apart after years of patches and billion-dollar injection funds. Others say it was the terrorists, or North Korea, or even Armageddon. Either way, the outcome was the same. Biotechnology, nuclear power…forces once used for production and protection, turned into weapons of mass destruction.

The sirens had come too late. By the time the two of them had reached the base the bombers were already overhead. She had been deep inside, shielded by the stacks of food and water, wrapped in a bio-hazard blanket. But her daughter…

Her mind retreated, pulling away from the memory like a frightened dog, instinctively trying to avoid the pain and sorrow she felt. Instead, Miranda distracted herself with the outside world, focusing on the texture of the mattress, the coolness of the air, the warmth of someone’s body…

Someone was next to her. Someone small. Dimly she knew that this was the same someone who had been feeding her. The same someone who had been watching over her all this while.

Someone was shaking. Crying. Whispering words she could not hear.

Something hot ran down her waist and onto the cold, hard floor.

Miranda didn’t need to think. Her body simply reacted. Despite the pain, despite the effort it took to lift just one little finger, Miranda slowly lifted her arm, bringing it over Someone’s back, her fingers brushing against it, soothingly, lovingly…

The shaking stopped. The whisperings ceased, to be replaced by a soft, shallow breathing. Hair, said her fingers. No, too long for hair. Almost like fur…

Comforted and comforting, Miranda let herself go, drifting slowly back to sleep...

--------------------------------------------------------------

“Hey,” the voice was rough, authoritative, “Hey! You still alive?”

Miranda awoke, to a blinding light. The events of the past few…days…weeks (?) flowed through her mind, pieces fitting together like a simple puzzle being put together at last.

Gradually, as the glow faded to tolerable levels, Miranda looked franctically around, trying to figure where she was. Before her were three men in bio-warfare suits, masks and all. Two of them were carrying guns, while the third was unarmed with one hand grasped on her shoulder, trying to shake her awake.

“Wha-” her voice cracked, as she swallowed and tried again. “What happened?”

She was in the shelter, or so it seemed. The entire front wall where the door was had been blasted to pieces. Piles of twisted metal, mortar and blackened stone framed the entrance, blocking it completely, save for a single small hole by the side. What once had been her basement…was now a smoking mixture of steel and rubble.

“Yer town got a double-whammy the other day,” continued the Suit, tapping on its wrist screen, “First a Rubblemaker to clear out the buildings, then sort sorta bio-weapon. Good thing you were in the basement when the first one hit. I reckon the debris protected ya from the second strike. Really nasty stuff that turned people into friggin mutants, would y’believe it? Bloody things caused even more damage…”

Her eyes were drawn to where two other men in bio-hazard suits were standing around a large mass of fur. Looking closely, it seemed vaguely humanoid in shape…

“…found yer half-buried in this house here, funny thing is that it seemed part of the wall’ere had collapsed see, only that that creature over there somehow managed to dig through with only its claws. Tis lucky that we got to you then, no telling what them mutants might have been trying to do, with their…”

Miranda would have continued listening, if the words had mattered, but somehow they didn’t. Nothing seemed to matter at that point. The voice faded. The background faded. The numbness returned, with doubled intensity, all dams now broken, all currents thoroughly released. Some part of her was aware that she was crying now, that the paramedic was trying to console her, but Miranda did not care…

One by one the walls and debris fell away, consumed by darkness, as the scene drew her in, filling her entire view. The world consisted of only two things: Herself…

…and the small silver bracelet on the furred creature’s hand.

--------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes when I sleep these scenes tear through my mind, like some sort of drug-fueled emotional high, leaving me breathless and numb in the middle of the night.

Was there any point to this? I don't know. I guess I just wanted to share.

Seeding Compassion

2009-05-05T21:43:00.007+08:00

The cold air greets me like an arctic gale,
hurriedly I pull on my sweater,
smirking at the cyclists outside
sweltering in the tropical heat.
Community service
is hard work;
To think we spent two whole hours
planting nothing but trees.

As I snuggle into the soft bus chairs,
the small black box flickers
importing scenes from overseas:
a news reports, monotone,
about the hundreds of seeds sown via air
in an attempt reforest the jungles-

NEWSFLASH
Disaster strikes!
Sudden flood claims the lives of two hundred people!

Shock.
I pull out my labtop, and in a manner of minutes
type out a post on my blog
lamenting their deaths:
Such a horrible thing
isn't it? We'd send aid of course, seeing as
it didn't happen here;
Perhaps we could plant some trees?

Newsflash over, the screen resumes
the constant complaints of a hundred environmentalists:
"For every hundred trees they chop
a thousand seeds are sown
yet less than ten of those survive..."
Yada, yada, never satisfied.

The stop arrives, and in stepping off-
A sudden stench!
I back away
at the smell from the old woman's rags
as she potters along
her shopping bag filled
with half-eaten discards from the nearby bin.
God, doesn't she ever take a bath?

Once Cracked Vase

2009-05-03T01:04:00.010+08:00

Beautiful, beautiful
the once cracked vase, the
once-had perfection, its surface
now a dichotomy of patterns against the other;
Contrast.
Ordered flowers against spider-web chaos,
painfully beautiful, painstakingly precise.

I made it once, back
when I was what I was, still unsure,
painting over cracks
in my own flesh and bone. Small wonder
that it broke
its materials being the same, the bad tool
blames the workman.

A net to catch water, a glass to catch light;
So what if function it does not serve?
Shattered into fragments, yet still I shall
piece it together
with a Creator's love.

The need to be AWARE

2009-04-18T20:11:00.003+08:00

Since the whole online community's talking about this, I might as well join the herd.

***WARNING: RANT :WARNING****

What bothers me the most is not that the new leadership seems rather...unstable, or that Singapore's civil society is shifting. What bothers me the most is that this was a coup...in a non-profit organisation.

I'm an idealist at times, and this is one of them. A charity. Granted, there'll be office politics and organisational strife anyway, but still, a freaking coup?

What ever happened to the whole idea of joining a charity because you believe in its cause?

And don't give me that bull about how they believed in its cause so much that they decided to TAKE OVER THE WHOLE THING. You know. To keep it safe.

Kinda like how Japan was keeping Singapore safe for those evil British colonist bastards, eh?

I can understand a coup in some MNO. Or a uber-large company. Or in politics. Politics is all about coups after all. And quality home video entertaining (teh scandals! teh scandals!)

But a coup in a charity organisation dedicated to advocating women's rights? Why do I get the impression that the spirit of the organisation has died?

*whisper*

Oh right. Thanks invisible-ninja-on-my-shoulder. Because reading the wonderfully concise reply by the organisation, it seems they couped because they were "ready for it".

Any particularly strong views? Something that they felt really needed to be changed or done? Problems with the old management? Nope. Just stuff about their qualifications, and speculation about whether the old guard had any inner motives.

Qualifications!? The most important qualification needed for a charity organisation is the heart. And if you want to qualify for the heart, show it to me through dedicated service. Work for the company for ten years, prove yourself a dedicated member and if you still believe in your cause, then by all means, you have earned the right to implement it. Because you have shown heart.

But if you somehow lost it along the way, or are too scared to let your views be known even after taking over the organisation then well, your belief probably was never really that strong in the first place, was it?

RANT ENDS HERE

Just a last note to summarise: All in all, it is when the people running a charity organisation dedicated to helping others displaces the top management simply for their own selfish desires that I begin to get worried.

Scrapbook

2009-04-17T23:18:00.010+08:00

I saw an old man in the Park with a pair of shears. His worn brown cloak seemed to billow in the wind, even as he carefully and tenderly cut the stem of a beautiful, fully bloomed sunflower.

*snip*

A little girl, barely three years of age ran past, giggling as a large, furry brown dog (a labrador?) chased after her. The two of them ran, round and round the park benches, until at last the young child collasped onto the grass in exhaustion, laughing with joy as her dog slobbered slimy drool all over her soft, young face.

Nearby, a family was having a picnic; father, mother and their two sons eating heartily out of a woven thatch basket. Next to them sat grandfather, watched over by a nurse, his bloodstream was fed carefully from an IV drip hanging by his side. Then the youngest son, a toddler of five, waddled over to his grandda: chubby arms outstretched with a small sandwich grasped inbetween. With a slow shake and a smile, the grandfather declined the offer, patting his grandson on the cheek.

*snip*

A sudden gust nearly caught me off guard, sending rolls of old newspaper tumbling across the pavement. The old man grasped his hat, straining against the wind. Far beyond in the open fields a young boy suddenly lost control of his kite; its green and yellow striped form crashing into the trees. An old lady, bent over with a walking stick, hobbled over to the crying boy with a napkin in her hands, and kind words upon her lips.

Five kids dashing from tree to tree in a myriad pattern of their own devising, giggling, laughing and cheering as they raced. Round and round the park they went, so reckless in their play that one of them tripped, slamming face down into the soft mud of the earth. Sitting up, the young boy smiled, even as the remaining four of his friends turned around to help him up.

*snip*

The wind had stopped now, as the old man resumed his collecting. A fresh pink flower fell from its branch, only to be caught gently by a pair of pale, wrinkled hands, its petals carefully gathered and pressed into a small black scrapbook hanging by the old man's side. So far he has collected nearly a hundred different petals - some similiar, some different, some belonging to different species, some from the same plant. All of them breathtakingly beautiful, in their own special way.

He sighs, brushing the cover of his scrapbook with a glitter in his eye. With loving care he places the book and its precious contents into a dirty green haversack, smiling in delight at a good day's work.

I too, close my book, pencil and pen returning to the case with a slight snap. The tiny leather-bound tome is slotted into the left pocket of my backpack, while the stationary case enters the right.

Wrapping his cloak around him, the old man leaves, exiting through the wrough-iron gates by the side. I make to do the same, as we both turn back in perfect synchrony for one final glance at the Park. Taking in all its beauty, one last time.

The old man leaves through the wrought iron gates, returning back to the smokey streets and grey-soaked landscapes of society. I watch him as he does so, unwilling to leave so soon, yet fully aware that the Park will close in time. Each step takes him further away, dimmer and dimmer, till all that could be seen was the outline of his brown tattered cloak flapping in the dust-laden breeze.

Yet I know, no matter gloom or pain, no matter or shadow or fog; for as long as he carries that scrapbook a piece of the Park shall always remain with him.

A beacon throughout the storms of life.

*snip*

Death and Taxes

2009-04-14T18:10:00.003+08:00

I suppose it was all good really, during the first sixty-eight years or so. Stable job, good pay and a comfortable working space - so what if I was bonded to the government? The economy was poor, I wasn’t ambitious and the country was safe. A golden offer it seemed, back then.

It was mostly paperwork during the early years. Got promoted to Senior File Manager where I was fifty-one, along with a few extra feet to my cubicle. Boring work, long hours, but hey, it was all for the retirement plan, yes? Save up; buy a yacht, a house by the sea...

Then came the plane crash.

It was a business flight. My first in thirty years. Go figure, huh? The government dragged what was left of my charred remains and put my brain on life support. They re-grew about half my vital organs, fixed a couple of bones and liver problems, and overall had me coming out of the Re-Vita-Tank fitter, healthier and definitely much better than I was before. I had been so amazed, so grateful to be alive again...

Until I found out that they paid for it using my retirement scheme.

Apparently there exists some sort of clause in my bond that basically amounts to a highly formalized and technical version of “till death do us part”. Except that today, what with all the breakthroughs in genetic and nanotechnology, it is they who decide when one can....pass on. And they get to use our money to do so as well. Apparently it’s considered one of the duties of a responsible employee to keep himself in good, working condition. It said so on the contract.

So I got stuck there in my cubicle for another twenty-three years, at least until I earn enough to repay the cost of my medical treatments. Somewhere around the age of a ninety, my heart gave out. So they replaced it with a metal one, along with the full set of annual screenings and charged it straight to my account.

Five years for the heart, five months each year for the screenings. I’ve been working day and night, overtime and off-time, and still my numbers are in the negatives. And the funny thing? The more I worked, the more help I actually needed. Too much stress caused high blood pressure, lack of sleep caused all sorts of mental imbalances in my brain. There came a point where the government paramedics had to tranquilize me in my cubicle just to get me down to the psychiatrist. Therapy sessions on stress and self control. All sorts of fancy drugs and tiny monitors to keep in check my mental aptitude. I woke up each day feeling absolutely great; happy and enthusiastic for work.

Good working condition, all the time.

It reached a point where I contemplated suicide. The minute the monitors picked up the sudden spike in my brain they immediately flooded my system with all manner of happy drugs. I spent the next five minutes staring at the wall, smiling. Ever since then I’ve kept careful track of my thoughts. I couldn’t lose another five minutes like that again. It lost me 0.0147% of my Medi-Monitor Fund in opportunity cost.

The last strategy I tried almost worked. By that time I had spent about one hundred and fifty (or was it sixty?) years in the Filing department. I'd had enough. Of course, I didn’t let that thought stay. I played with it, let it slip through my mind, little moments that flitted away before the monitor could pick up any major irrational spike. In those moments, over the course of the years, I put together a plan. Little things, like a laser-powered Auto-cutter, placed next to my deck for the really tough papers. Careful and discrete noting of the various schedules, and observations of the various “checks” they made on the cubicles that I ingrained into muscle memory.

Then the day came. A small window of opportunity, barely five seconds long. More than enough to lift the laser-cutter to my brain and slice through the neurons. There were still parts of the brain they couldn’t quite fix yet. If I managed to get a good clean shot through the prefrontal cortex I’ll be effectively dead. But then I had to go and do something stupid.

I hesitated. And in that brief two seconds of contemplation the monitors sounded the alarm. Neurotoxins paralyzed my limbs and motor functions, while a fine mist of sleeping gas filled my cubicle. By the time I came to, it was far too late. They demoted me, added the cost of the sleeping gas, and packed me straight back to work.

Good working condition. All. The. Time.

It’s been nearly two hundred years now. I’m still working there, still trying to pay my debts. So long as I owe them money, they’d never let me go. It’s in the contract. I heard that nowadays, if anyone tried what I did fifty years ago they’d be Deboded – their brains extracted yet kept alive to be used as temporary processing space for the organic computers. And memory is just so cheap nowadays...

I write this account mostly because it helps me keep track of things. It also helps prevent me from going insane. I’m afraid if they ever detect another hormonal imbalance in my brain they’d Debod me and stick my head in a jar. So I write, just a few words at a time. Just short enough to escape notice.

I’ve not left my cubicle in what...twenty? Thirty years? I’ve not seen the sky, or the stars, or what passes for the soil these days. Food, drink and drugs are fed directly into my bloodstream. Sleep is a memory, something frivolous that only the rich could buy. Back when times were tough, my dad used to say that he could never afford to rest. But I-

I can never afford to die.

Seeds of Thought

2009-04-01T18:37:00.006+08:00

Where do I stand in this world?

A friend once commented that I'm easily distracted. My response was that the world had much to be distracted by. It was a retort made without thinking, yet sometimes it is the heart that answers best.

So many times we try to define where we are. Define who we are. At our age, at our currnet minds, it is a dangerous, fragile phrase. Everyone knows that these 5 years will be the ones that shape us the most. It is when we as people are most malleable, most unsure, most open to learning and teaching, and daring to tread new waters.

The world has much to be distracted by. So many influences, so many things. Perhaps it is the influence of too much literature, or stories, or just TOK, but I see meaning in almost everything. Patterns upon patterns, symbols within symbols, each repeating, folding, dancing together in the light.

So many influences, and the greatest tragedy is how we must shut ourselves to most of them. I think our greatest depression, my greatest depression at least, is the inability to reach. There is so much out there, so much beauty and power and strength, and we humans in our limited, flawed capacity cannot hope to reach it. It is the tragedy that causes us to turn into ourselves. To blame ourselves for not being as high as the stars, as perfect as the angels, as wonderous as the concepts that our minds and souls can dream and create, yet never reach.

It is the closing of the mind that pains me. That we must all do so, for sanity, for efficiency, for function. To open our minds to the universe and all its glory would leave us wallowing in our insignificance, our own weakness and fragility. We are forced, by neccessity, to pick only what is relevant.

And thus we begin to judge.

Because we are forced to judge, to contemplate the idea of importance, of priority, things are no longer pure. Life is fluid, changing, wonderfully changing, the same way a waterfall is mesmerising, the same way the falling stars and singing wind are beautiful. Moving, eternally moving and changing, always different yet somehow, remaining the same.

Siddhartha? Yea. Go ahead and feel put off by it.

All my pain, my suffering comes from the imposing of structure. We are needed to read these books, to score these marks, to reach these goals. And thus it is no longer growth, no longer flow, but a pressure, a suction - a dragging of chains bound around our souls as they struggle in other directions.

It is faster, safer, and more productive. And because of this humankind feels the eternal angst of not knowing their purpose, not knowing what they need.

I thought I broke out of the system. Of the competitive rubrics and judgments and endless targets. Now I see that all I did was impose a different set of rubrics, one based around originality, around creativity, a measurement of how immeasurable something was.

Heh.

Its so funny, yet so depressing at same time.

No more goals. No more schedules. Let me try that. Let me try to feel life. Feel its wave and motion, its tides and currents, its song, its surf, and all the fish in its depth.

Somepart I suppose, would need to remain an anchor. But no more judgement. No more competition. Just growth, growth for the sake of growth, for the delight of it. For the joy of the sky, the morning sun, the new seeds, the blooming flowers that fade away yet are renewed each dawn, as their petals are mourned and remembered each dusk.

Everyone says to live life for its own sake. That's incorrect. Life for its own sake never changes, never moves. Why do we keep insisting in living our lives and pace?

Let Life live you instead.

On Slack and Portfolios

2009-03-21T21:30:00.005+08:00

In the midsts of math port, TOK, and general rushing of EE World Lit and all that is sacred and holy (in the context of IB, of course), I offer a nice little piece of blasphemy;

"Dude. Relax."

Odd? I think all of us have had this thought. Perhaps it was the influence of this article

http://www.straitstimes.com/ST%2BForum/Online%2BStory/STIStory_352662.html

but well, me is beginning to think some of us have lost track of life.

Oh scratch that. Me is beginning it sense that most of us think that we have lost track of life. Its following the herd sort of thing, only that I try to pay attention to where we're going.

I spent the holidays doing the following: Helping my parents move (new house!). Going out for lunch with an old friend, who was visiting Singapore after migrating overseas. Spending a few hours in the library, reading up on the SG Education system (It was for TOK, but I enjoyed it. Yes, I'm weird that way.) All these were good, normal and above all human things that I should have been enjoying and feeling proud of.

Yet why is it all I felt was guilt for spending the 1-2 hours eating lunch with my friends when I (think I) should have been doing my IAs instead?

Why is it the first question any of my friends ask is "Have you done Math Port yet?"

It shows a very strange mix of priorities that many of us, I myself included, have been guilty of. We're putting work before family, efficiency over emotion, destination over the journey.

But is there anything wrong to it?

We wish to succeed after all. 45 points is a noble aim, and as a student, it is our responsibility to finish our work to the best of our ability.

I am aware that to an extent, I am justifying my own slouchiness but to heck with that. I'd rather say I had a real Holiday and not to feel guilty about it, than spend the rest of Term 2 moaning over the three days spent sleeping and talking to mates on MSN.

Siddhartha...Siddartha. Thank Hesse for your comforting advice on enjoying life. Now I can be a wastard and hippie in peace.

Perhaps someday, I may succeed in changing my mindset to view work as a joyous and stimulating activity. Till then...I'll stick with my sugar and caffine.

Now, off to do TOK.

Annoyingly Apathetic Arguments Again

2009-03-03T05:36:00.002+08:00

Been meaning to post reflections, or thoughts, or some snappy/witty article about shoes, life and babies.

But somehow, apathy has taken over me. Apathy at well, everything.

Perhaps its because of Physics and English tests, bad marks = disencouragement = quitter?

I don't like it, but its somehow so nice to just live in your head.

ImaUniversityProfessor

Iliveinmaheads

At least while in my head I have the option of waking up.

Reading

2009-02-23T06:18:00.002+08:00

Little seed, amongst the pages
Under the glow of the bed-lamp's light;
Growing, shaping, sending shoots
To the skies and lands
of worlds beyond
And into our minds, enclosing roots
Drinking off the well-spring of imagination
That flows within our souls.
Basked in sunlight, shaded in troubles
of our lives, the highs and lows
nourish the soil between the covers-
soil turned by hands, anticiptation
A pot overflowing;
Still shaping, still growing
Vines and leaves, twist and turn
until a petal, tender inspiration
pink with fragility, what all we learn
Bloom.

The fruit of ideas, pollinated with thought
from a thousand other seeds,
from a thousand other pages,
Grow, blossom-

pop

A gentle breeze scatters
the pages full of lore;
new seeds, like dandelions
sift through my dreams
searching for a blank page,
fresh soil
to take root once more.

-----------------------------------------------

Been a while since I wrote one eh?

Fan-tasy

2009-02-08T23:36:00.005+08:00

A few posts back, and a couple of months ago, a friend asked me a question that eventually led to a question of my own. In many ways, it was an immense loss of faith for myself;

The question was: What's the point of fantasy?

Let it be known now that I then and still and hopefully shall always be a Fantasy Fan. High magic, dragons, wizards. Then there's Sci-fi, which purists say is a Genre in its own right, but which I lump together into this great big category I name "stuff which does not exist but should".

I mean, come on; who wouldn't want to ride on the back of a giant mechanical alien dragon-wizard...thing?

Personal fantasies aside, at that point of time, I couldn't answer the question. Which led to a immense disillusionment in reading all of these so-called "mind-suckers". The idea is that they take up valuable memory space, by shoving random trivia about non-existant realities into your brain.

For a while, I actually agreed with that statement. Some part of me still agrees with it, to a point.

But then I kinda realised it. The point of all these works. Today. An hour ago. Upon which I sat down and wrote a CW essay in 45minutes, cause ephanies are awesome like that.

The very thing I was fearing about fantasy. Its drug-like, hypontic effect to weave its way into your mind, and feed upon your brain power. This parasitic ability, some would say, was the very thing that made it valuable.

Think, why is it that fantasy is so effective a drug? Why do the tales of Mordor and Gandalf stick in our heads far better than the chemical reaction between NaOH and CH3COOH?

Because Fantasy, unlike chemistry, is an integral part of the human society. No matter what your chem teacher says about the chemistry between your mom and dad, Fantasy is the reason society exists.

The thing that differentiates humans from animals - the capacity to dream.

Since the dawn of time knowledge has been passed down through stories. And the oldest stories, the ones that stuck around the longest, what were they? Were they texts on the number of twigs needed to achieve maximum heat in a dinosaur's cave?

No, they were the legends, the Epics. The lost tales of Heroes, Dragons, Monsters and Gods.

Alot of people try to take Fantasy seriously. That is...the biggest mistake anyone can make, that I've made. Fantasy is not serious. Fantasy is about life, and if life got serious we'll all have died, cause we'll lose. Fantasy takes the seriousness of life, the pain, the trials, and combines it side by side with the good things, the light-hearted bits; the joy, laughter and friendship, showing them side by side, in opposition or in harmony.

Fantasy isn't Reality, because it doesn't need to be. People can see reality for themselves. Heck, they need drugs not to see it properly. So we crave fantasy, the idea of escape, the other worlds, the freshness of the idea. New things, new concepts, other worlds and dimensions - the ultimate question, always on our tongues, encompassing Hope, Fear, Worry and Faith;

"But WHAT IF-"

Fantasy permeates our minds, because Fantasy reflects the ability to dream. And those without the ability to dream live in the full light of reality, and are blinded by it. And because it reflects the dream, it can alter it, shape it, mold it towards the future.

See where I'm going with this?

The point of Fantasy, the aim and its power - is that it can change people. It can teach them things that hard facts and cold logic can never hope to reach. Those speak to the mind, but the imagination speaks directly to the soul. The Mind is merely a router, and a lousy one at that.

So a writer, us writers if I dare call myself one, hold great power in our hands. With fantasy, one can shape the dreams of the future.

And what is our future, if not made of dreams?

As they say, with great power, comes great responsibility. I can only hope the writers of our generation will recognise this truth.

Cosmic Dice

2009-01-23T18:48:00.005+08:00

The sleek form of the alien spaceship shimmered as it passed through the atmosphere. The creatures were deceptive, surprisingly so. Cloaking devices, low-energy orbital engines…thank goodness the Satellite warning systems had managed to pick them up. Their point of entry though, meant that Agent Jones found himself in a hovercraft somewhere near the top of the Himalayas, wrapped in blankets against the cold.

Two could play the stealth game, and Earth’s tech was hardly obsolete compared to the Sh’ka. By the time the aliens noticed the cloaked hovercraft it was too late. Agent Jones pressed the communications button, sending a signal straight to the Captain of the silver vessel.

The insectoid face of a Sh’ka Ship Captain appeared on the view screen, green bulbulous eyes glowing slightly with barely suppressed emotion. The prominent symbols carved onto its carpace marked it as one Captain Kh'r, of the Sh'ka vessel Swzlt.

“This is Earth Territory, Captain. You know the Rules. Land your ship and we can talk this over peacefully.”

The Captain made a odd set of chitterling noises, which the onboard computer translated. “Curse you Earthlings! Very well, we will land on the flat planes and begin the exchange”

Moments later Agent Jones found himself inside a small makeshift tent with Captain Kh’r, both parties wearing their respective Bio-Adapter Suits. Normally, Agents didn’t need to wear a BAS for such exchanges. Then again, normally aliens did not try to land on the Himalayas.

The Agent grinned, holding out the Transfer Box. A series of chitters emitted from the translator embedded on his suit’s chest. “The Sh’ka Government trying to cheat again, Captain?”

“No, no,” answered Captain Kh'r, eyes glowing faintly through the visor, “it’s not our fault if Earth’s too busy expanding to catch one little craft. Anyway, we landed, didn’t we?”

The Sh'ka punched in the keycode into its own Transfer Box. There was a minor display of tiny lights and beeping, indicating that the transfer had started.

“1600 credits, correct?”

“3200 actually. We have the whole System now, so the number goes up a bit”

“You race never stops expanding, does it?” grumbled the Captain as he punched in more buttons.

“Nope,” answered Jones, “In fact, we should be somewhere near the Prime sector by n-”

ALERT! ALERT!

His suit’s visor flashed as a series of bright red letters marched across the screen. A Universal Message?! The Captain was probably receiving it as well. What could possible be so important that it would warrant a Universal Message directly to-

“Ah…rats” exclaimed the Agent. Captain Kh’r was grinning, or at least what the Sh’ka did for grinning. Its eyes were flashing in an odd pattern of bright and dim lights that Jones recognized as the Sh’ka equivalent of laughter.

“You saw that too, eh?””

“Yes.” The Sh’ka was already deactivating the Box;

“So I guess this means this transaction is void?”

“Apparently. We would need to check the Rules to be certain.”

The Captain left. Soldiers escorted Agent Jones back to the relative comfort of the hovercraft, where he watched the Swzlt slowly rise into the air, the flare from its engines reflecting off the snow, illuminating the entire mountain top.

Moments later, they were gone.

“Damn,” cursed Agent Jones, watching the rapidly fading star in the sky. A tiny point of light zipping through space, dancing from planet to planet – just another one of the many representatives of a hundred different races, from a thousand different planets. He glanced at the omnious message displayed upon his visor and sighed. The Government would not be pleased when Jones got back to base;

“…I repeat, the Earth Flagship The Wheel has landed in the Dark Warp. The ship and all its men will now be teleported straight to the Holding Dimension. Do not pass Sirius. Do not collect 20000 Credits…”

They are Bonuses

2009-01-18T09:53:00.005+08:00

Is there a point? Of course there is, some would say. 3 points. 3 valuable points that everyone looks for and desires.

In trying to keep with the rubrics I lost the interest. In trying to match with what was wanted I lost what I was looking for.

Ultimately, its a manner of character. And the ones that benefit the most are those whom live beyond the system, upon wings of their own devising.

I have lost myself, lost my mind, lost the time and delight in doing things I loved. I looked into fields - work hard, play hard, never lose the spark. I think at some point in life, we all lost our sparks, save for those precious few that inspire me so.

Some people have argued that it doesn't matter why you do it, only that you do it. Such a filthy lie that is. Why do I call it a lie?

That alone, answers the question.

Why do we do all this? Search relentlessly...I know what was missing now. I do not love what I write, I cannot present to the world something I do not love as my own, for love is possessive, and it hurts to tell a filthy lie. But still I endure this pain and plough on, though ever cell in my body screams against the bastard child of my own imagining, against the foul words created in a moment of desperate copulation between joyous imagination and harsh requirements.

All this for the sake of 3 points.

Shallow

2009-01-17T18:43:00.005+08:00

FOREWORD: This is a STORY. Not a post about my life. Though one can assume so if you wish. The first person is an attempt at something different from my usual third person narratives.

-------------------------------------------------
Today at school the teacher was teaching us about history again. It was a play, sort of. Some girl had gotten interested in her servant and decided to flirt with him. Said teacher had this huge PowerPoint presentation, nearly fifty slides long, filled with stuff about themes and relationships and literary devices. All this was to be poured via lecture into our minds and hopefully onto our reports when we handed them up next week. It was hard staying awake, all that droning did was put my brain to sleep, but I pinched myself a few times throughout the lecture to keep awake. It didn’t work.

By the time my friend prodded me awake a good third of the slides were over. Five minutes to dismissal.

Along the way back I met with Paul and Simon to check the pools. It was a competition we had, four times a year. Every boy would have their own pool, dug out of a hole in the yard, which the rain was supposed to fill and the sun dry out. Then when some time had passed we would take turns to measure it, see how deep the pool was. The ones with the deepest pools won a prize.

Paul’s pool was really good – a star shaped one (he liked standing out) in concrete, dug using an automatic drill. His father had been rich enough to afford one, the lucky bastard. As if that wasn’t enough, his uncle had just bought him a rain catcher for his “little project” so that he could fill the pool up faster. I wanted to stay and watch the rain catcher work, but the missed slides from the lecture had left this big empty gap of worry in my heart.

I spent the rest of the night reading the first three chapters, and another two chapters in advance, just in case.

Morning came and with it came Pool Inspection. Some of the kids didn’t bother but personally speaking, a little paranoia never hurt. I had dug my pool in the soil and lined it with plastic to keep the water from seeping; it wasn’t very good plastic though, and the ground was hard. The pool was very wide, but not very deep – each time I tried to go lower the spade would clang off hard rock or soil, sending little shocks of impact through my arm.

We got our grades from the previous assignments back. A literature essay, on a play about some girl who got raped by her father. Or was it her boyfriend? Anyway I had written all the usual stuff that the teacher had taught us in class, some weird nonsense about the flowers being all girly and the characters being “out of place”. I wasn’t sure how much of it was true, but the teacher said it was correct, so I just wrote it all down.

I got a D. “Not deep enough” wrote the teacher. I decided to go look at Simon’s essay, which got an A. Maybe it was something I forgot to write.

It rained a lot on my side, so my pool filled up quite quickly. But each time there was so much water that it overflowed from the pool and into the ground, wasted. Then the sun would come up and dry the whole thing out again, leaving something like a puddle in the ground. That always made me worried. Sometimes after it rained in the morning I liked to go sit at the window and look at all the small little puddles on the road, glistening with potential. Then I had to go to school, and by the time I came back the puddles were gone, all dried up.

I didn’t want my pool to dry up. If it did I wouldn’t get the prize.

During our welfare class the teacher thought it would be interesting to try out an interview session with each one of us. He said it will help us with our future, though how it did I couldn’t really tell. It didn’t really matter to me though, because all that meant was that the rest of us were free to do whatever we wanted. Like my math homework.

John got called by the teacher. He stood up proudly, stacking his papers up in a nice neat bundle before going out of the door. John always had a lot of papers – I think it’s because he kept winning the competitions. The prize was usually this great big piece of paper that all the guys signed and drew smiley faces on, to show that you had the deepest pool for that term. John had nearly eight of those now, thanks to the rain catcher.

I had tried using a hose to fill the pool with water, but every time I did the pool overflowed and most of the water went to waste. It didn’t make a difference no matter how many times I refilled the pool. The sun just came up again and the ground remained hard no matter what. Still, I keep digging, because I really want that prize. Everyone does, except for Simon.

The math homework lay finished, a minor obstacle now overcome. I had to check some of the methods with the guidebooks I borrowed from John, but overall I think I understood the questions. I just needed to make sure I knew which method to use with which question…

Simon came back to the class, still smiling. He was always smiling, that Simon. Even though his pool wasn’t very good and didn’t have any fancy rain catchers it still was pretty deep. When I asked him how he did it he just shrugged and said that it seemed obvious. I’m not sure what he meant by that, though I suspect he uses a hose from time to time. When I asked him about it he just laughed and said the prize wasn’t worth cheating for. Simon was weird, in that way.

I was about to re-read the textbook again when the teacher called me out. It wasn’t like I had a choice, so I went outside. The teacher sat across, his spectacles gleaming in the corridor light. I didn’t know what to say, so I told him my name and class and date of birth - and all he did was nod. I tried talking about all the things I knew, like how many eggs a platypus laid, and what methods were best used to solve a quadratic equation. I tried quoting all the good things the other teachers had said about me, about how hardworking I was despite all the trouble I seemed to have. By the time I ran out of things to say the teacher was looking at me with a bored expression on his face, twirling his pen in the air;

“Alright, that’s good. So…what hobbies do you like?”

What?

I tried to answer, but nothing came. What hobbies? What kind of question was that? The textbooks said nothing about “hobbies”. I never bothered, never had time! I was too busy trying to keep up, trying not to let my pool disappear…

I wanted to answer, but all I could do was stare blankly at his face - poised and expectant - as my pool finally ran out and dried, like puddles under the hot afternoon sun.

----------------------------------------------------

In a moment of twisted inspiration I decided to write this story instead of my World Lit Essay. Behold the wonders of reading too much Paddy Clarke!

It felt interesting trying a different style of writing though. In doing so I was aiming for some sort of overall message that was bothering me for a while, which (if my writing skillz are l337 enuf) you would have gotten. If you didn't, feel free to tell me the level of fail I have reached by posting this crap onto the internet.

IB really makes me wonder sometimes. In both senses of the word.

The Great Vomiting

2009-01-12T20:06:00.004+08:00

Siddhartha much? Perhaps I have been reading too much lit. Well, reading too much at least.

Over the hols I have discovered of all things, an slew of online story sites. Some good, some bad, some that just turned my brain to sludge. But in all that crap something stood out - a strange sort of mismashed impression, that these were all story sites, all on the internet, and all (sadly?) probably written by teenagers between the age of 13-19.

But all together, they became a voice. A small voice amongst the tide of the internet, with its great waves crashing all over the place, facts and wikipedia overloading our minds with every hyperlink. But a voice nonetheless.

They spoke of all things, change. They spoke of futures, of possibilities. Of what could have been, has been and will be soon. This is the age, THE age, where all the knowledge of a million people, their thoughts, their feelings - their sorrows, joys and regets, their successes and failures, their hopes and dreams - all of this, each a drink of innumerable flavors, float around the internet; a sight akin to seeing a slew of wine bottles floating through the gutter. Thing is, you never know which one might be the cheap alcohol, and which the 1787 Chateau d'Yquem.

In an age where all of this is available, what happens? Where we can look and see, from the comfort of our doorstep, the multitude of links and chains that web the world together? We see the patterns, I see the patterns, and they are ever-shifting, ever changing, a product and cause of the past, the present and the future.

We act on the present based on our past, and hence affect the future. That's the common line of thought. But then there is looking to the future to affect the present - this is called foresight. And then there's looking at how the past affects the future as well - this is called history. So what is there to say that the future did not affect the past? Somewhere, in the ancient times of the Egyptians, a king saw the future and made monuments to outlast the grinding hands of time.

And all these voices, they too speak of when has been. I read them and look at life, look at people and the world around, and I see patterns, connections - strange rifts and waves. Life has a rhythm, a flow to it. A song, but more than just music. A story, but more than mere words. A play, but across an infinite stage, with an unlimited cast. And in the heart of this, in the soul and centre, lie the voices of each generation, in black and white type across the screen.

A teacher told me at the start of the year, that the gift of the writer, the power they hold, is the ability to turn life into words, such that when a reader sees them, reads the scenario presented as in drawn into, he or she can say, "It resonates with me. It reminds me so much of my life". Except that its not only one life. Its an ocean, a million, billion droplets connected together in a massive body of water, flowing, churning, sparkling in the flame of life.

And so I drink from this ocean, with shaking hands and thirsty lips, until I can drink no more, am filled to the brim. Until these ideas, swimming and clashing in my brain like stars, burst out of my lips and hands and onto the page. To join the rest of the streams, flowing towards the sea.

I met my friends today, and was reminded of the endless potential displayed in upstart new heroes, eager to take on the world. I saw my EE Mentor, and felt the doom and fear of a minion before his absolute master, Demon of the Abyss. I cheered my sister's wonderful results, saw her tired smile, and heard the cheers of fellow family and friends cheering their champion's return. In life I see stories, and in stories I see life. And God is the Author, playwright and poet, of the greatest play of all.

Someday, I hope to write.

There is but a single line's difference, between a word and the world.

Progress

2009-01-01T16:33:00.003+08:00

John Wickerson rose to the cheering ovation of the crowds. With one fine, manicured hand he silenced the masses, with the other he adjusted his sleek, black tie. Upon his smooth, angular face lay a pair of NewTech glasses, calibrated to shield the eyes from maximum glare. As the great man stepped out into the morning sun his freshly tailored smart suit readjusted itself to the heat of the sun, nano-fibres tightening to release the many small pockets of heat-trapping air, cooling and ventilating his body.

The podium was made of sleek, black synthesized oak, the original great trees having went extinct over centuries of woodcutting. A small laser-mic rested upon its smooth surface, transmitting his voice directly into the head-jacks of the populace around the world.

“I am John Wickerson," said the figure, his young voice bright and rich, "the new leader of the Fifty-first state. As I promised then, so do I promise now: Change!”

“Change!” echoed the crowd, fists held high the in air,

“For ten years our country had languished in the pits of tradition, slaving our way through the ecosystem. For ten years we were bound by the environment, blinded by religion, shackled by practice, condemned to remain stagnant forever! For ten years I watched as good men and women, with healthy minds and souls were forced by the boundaries of our once-barbaric society to work, toil and sweat for their lives!”

“We thought things were so for a reason. We believed so firmly in our roots to show us the way. But little did we know that the roots had rotted, the tree was dying, and the fruit - and seeds of our future – were slowly being poisoned by the sickness of ages past.”

A brief cloud passed over the stadium, obscuring the morning sun. Moments later a low hum could be heard echoing over the sky, as the cloud was dispersed into water vapor and air. Nothing would disrupt the perfect, sunny mood of John Wickerson’s speech.

“But then, salvation came! The light of Progress came to our aid! With its caring arms it sheltered the seeds, with its mighty hands it rebuilt the tree, and with its loving heart it opened to way for more Progress to come, that all seeds may grow and not die, without pain, worry or struggle.”

“Progress!” screamed the crowd,

“They brought us technology, showed us the light. Our crippled were healed, our men and women restored. Our industries are automated, that no man be oppressed for the benefit of others. All our previous systems: our failing economies, our flawed beliefs, our outdated practices – were abolished and remade anew! Now we need not worry about finance with the abundance of produce, and no child need waste precious time on painful things like education or work. With Progress all things shall be met!”

Throughout the state men and women cried and screamed in joy, as their mood calibrators pumped dose after dose of serotonin into their minds.

“Once I was but one of the down trodden, a worker in a factory producing cars. But ten years later, I stand here today. With Progress, everything has changed!”

“Change!”

“And so, in the name of Progress I bring to the Fifty-first state the latest development of Progress: the EarthNet! Now all citizens of the Fifty-first state may join the wondrous Dreamscape, where all your imaginations and dreams may soar. No more would we have to toil to see our dreams come through, no more would the poor inventor have to trudge his way through the hurdles of our so-called society, wasting years of precious genius and creativity. Now we can be satisfied! Now we can be Changed!”

And as the cheers of the crowd burst into ovation John Wickerson returned to his seat, and pressed a single button underneath the armrest. For a brief moment the world flickered, as the stadium, the cheering, and the sky went dim. John blinked, taking a moment to re-orientate himself, before removing the head-jack that linked him to the Net. Quickly, he erased all records of his recent imaginings. The Automated political system of Progress did not take kindly to those who dwelled in past victories.

Outside the glass panels of his house what remained of the Stadium slowly crumbled, pulled apart by giant hovering claws and wrecking balls the size of a bus. A single camera floated, a mere fly amongst the rest of the machines, monitoring the Progress of the Stadium. Once more John Wickerson was left with nothing to do.

John simply sighed, throwing his head back on the armchair. The red velvet piece of furniture had been passed in his generation for centuries, one of the last reminders of the old world. He ran his fingers over the armrest, recalling the precious moments he spent with his grandmother in the very same chair. At times like these, the relic gave him comfort.

Outside the weather continued bright and sunny, maintained by the technology of Progress. Forever it would remain that way, until the time for the next Change came once again.

------------------------------------------------

The New Year has come, but have things truely Changed? Which leads to the next question: Should they?

"What's the use of Steering?"

2008-12-06T20:00:00.004+08:00

A strange question that some might not understand. Steering is the so-called 'leadership committee' in the Boy's Brigade Primers. But in a way this question is relevant to us all - just change the words 'Steering' to 'Manager', 'President', 'CEO'.

Many of us nowadays, me included, seem to walk around with the concept that all the work in the company is done by the managers. By the IT Experts, by the salesmen, by the custodians and maintanance men. So what the, are the point of the big bosses? If the organs run won't the business grow?

What if the heart still functions while the brain is dead?

It is a redundant topic I suppose. All of us know this. Yet how many of us truely act on it? I once thought that the world had too many leaders. I now know this is false. The world has too many sheep thinking to be leaders. The shepherds are now all lost.

Humans have always been creatures of habit. Patterns, logic and order. We establish rules and fixed methods for accomplishing things, for the sake of efficiency, for the sake of economy. And now I believe, for the sake of our sanity.

How many of us can truely, truely say we live spontaneously, through our lives? Even while the greatest of comedians and stage actors laugh with the audience on stage back home they have a favourite chair or sofa that they sit in every evening to relax, worn out from a good day's work. Perhaps its only my mentality, but when I analyze it, when I plumb the depths of my brain, and then compare it with the actions and behavior of the world around me I find the only conclusions I can make is this:

We are all followers.

Some of us claim to have vision. When asked about it they say: Oh, I want to make my first million by the time I'm 25. Others look to becoming CEOs, scientists, great writers. Yet how many of us have a concrete plan, a long-term step process - a path as to the goal?

Its useless saying you want to get to the port if you do not even have a map.

Back to the original question. Steering Committee is supposed to be the unifying committee of the Boys Brigade 12th(I) Company. It is supposed to be the Seer, the old Soothsayer that sits in its hut recieving visions of the future from the Officers and sometimes CE Committee. Then we find the Heroes (i.e. chairmen of the respective committees) and send them on a Quest.

But are we really doing something like that?

Steering now, simply organises and plans. We sort out a schedule, and say "on friday this is the time table". Which, while being a definate duty and neccessity, seems rather...lacking. It is like the soothsayer from earlier suddenly overseeing the runnings of the village. We have village elders and matrons for that. So what can the Soothsayer do?

Believe. That's what.

The role of Leaders, of Kings and Generals, has never been to carry out the tasks. They can do so to inspire, they can do so to push - but these are the facilitators, the sub-leaders, the link between the future and the present. For the leaders, they are the future, they have to be. The sub-leaders cannot concentrate on the men and their orders at the same time (though there exist a precious few who can). No, it is the leaders who must be the "lazy bastard" that gives the order to charge. Because if he doesn't, then who will?

Who is willing to take responsibility for the lives of a hundred men? A hundred employees, soliders, farmers, villagers.

A hundred BB Boys?

Administrators are what we are now. What most of us believe to be leadership. Create a plan, carry it out. That is simply processing. It is stupid, its idealistic, but thats what them leaders are for. A central nerve, someone to whom all the orders go, all the information is fed, so that the whole system can function as a whole. And because of this, there is the risk, the horrible risk of losing sight of the source of all this information, and forgetting, just for a moment, just who you are responsible for. Throwing away, sometimes for good, responsibility altogether. And that's what makes a good leader fall.

We live in fear of this. We keep saying: we must not forget the little guy, the commoner on the street. And this is true. We cannot ignore them. But we cannot glorify them either. AS leaders, as someone appointed to the position, we cannot simply look at the day-by-day processes and crack our skulls over it. We have to...create. We have to explore. And we have to take the risks, and absorb the responsibility when we do explore. And by exploring, we find success - but at what cost? This Dilenma, this situation, is the painful question I believe many leaders, true leaders, are often forced to ask: what is the price for our success?

The key word here is 'our'. And the moment the leader forgets that, he is a shepherd no more.

Always remember that Butchers keep sheep and goats as well.

Seasons of Fluff

2008-11-16T21:48:00.010+08:00

It was with a heavy heart and sad eyes that the poet Jonathan Ematon left the train station by the fields. Long hours at work each day, banging upon typewriters and listening to the chidings of his editor left him in need of a good, long break. And so by cashing on what little leave he had, Jonathan managed to procure for himself five days by the countryside, in a old farm shack owned by his grandfather.

Old boots crunched on the frosted gravel as the man made his way towards the farm. Worn eyes gazed over the vast green fields, populated by woolen, fluffy sheep. The time of the year was when the lambs began growing their coats, such that every animal upon the grasslands looked like a small white cloud, come to earth after spending too much time in the sky.

People often talked about him having his head in the clouds, but this time the clouds had come to him. It was funny, in a way. Jonathan smiled.

His grandfather was waiting for him, old bones and all, upon the same old rocking chair. He remembered that rocking chair - his grandfather had used it long before he was even born. The wood on its legs bore scratches and markings from decades ago, testaments of a time long past. Back when Jonathan was five, his grandpa would take him onto his leg, smiling and smoking that putrid, ivory pipe of his, one hand tracing the scars on the chair - and there he would speak.

"Heh, my boy, I see you found me chair's little markings. Now, there's a story behind that - a real good story. See, when I was younger, about your father's age now, all tall and strong and smart, this place here wasn't quite a peaceful as it was. Oh no, it had much more. Wolves for one. Great snarling beasts, with teeth a hundred feet long, and claws ten inches wide. They-"

And then he would continue, about how a wolf had pounced upon him when he was sleeping, minding the flock, and how he had taken the chair and blocked its swipes, then hit it with the back so hard the creature collapsed onto the porch. And then he would turn over the chair, and show him the little scars and single large dent on the back of the chair, and Jonathan, eyes wide with wonder and excitement, would stare at it in shock. His grandpa told him the first time he heard the story, his mouth had hung open for the rest of the day.

Just like Grandpa to exaggerate, then laugh about it all the way.

The sharp smell of smoke brought Jonathan back to the present. Was Grandfather still smoking that pipe? He was, judging from the dead flies around the ledge. Grandpa had noticed him now, his eyes bright with mirth.

"John, me boy! How have you been" cried Grandpa, arms outstretched. For a moment Jonathan considered running over to embrace him, hugging his grandfather with all the drama of a Saturday Night soap opera. Thinking it over, he decided he'd rather not. No, he'll rather settle for shaking hands instead.

"Grandfather" he answered, returning the smile with a cool one of his own. Old his grandfather may be, but his grip was as strong as ever.

"Your old rooms all cleaned'up and ready son," said his grandfather, "just put your stuff there and we can go fer a walk - you and me, just like old times"

"Maybe" sighed Jonathan "I feel really tired right now. Perhaps in thirty five minutes...?"

"Ha, take an hour! You need the rest son, isn't that what you came 'ere for in the first place? Go getcha sleep, we'll wake you up in a while."

Precisly three hours and twenty-two minutes later, Jonathan awoke. He fumbled about the darkness of his room, reaching for the light switch that wasn't there. Then he remembered, and laughed to himself softly, just under his breath. Without looking he grabbed his spectacles from the small dresser near the window still and maneuvered around the beam post in the middle of the room. He even managed to remember to avoid the springy little floorboard that sunk into the ground. All these things he recalled, and Grandpa was waiting for him-

Thirty seconds later Jonathan stumbled out to the front porch, gasping for breath. His grandfather was still there, asleep and unmoving, the air long clear of the smoke emitting from the now-dead embers of his ivory pipe. At the sudden commotion though, one wrinkled eyelid creaked open.

"Mrm...ah Jonathan. Sorry about that, the weather's really fine today...kinda dozed off. And the cuckoo clock's all broken, never could fix it properly...you know how things disappear if you don't keep track of them? Time's a thing too."

The afternoon air was still fresh and cool, even after being heated by the noonday sun. Across the porch the sheep grazed, a cluster of small white cotton balls on a sea of bright green grass. The sky was blue, bluer than the sky in the city, which was grey and tarnished from all the pollution there. Even Grandpa, with all his foul smoking and occasional swearing, could do little to stain the sky here. Emerging from the darkness of the cabin, everything around Jonathan just seemed so...pristine.

He sat down on the ledge next to his Grandfather, being careful to avoid crushing the flies. For the moment, everything is still. Then his Grandfather sighed;

"You know John, we used to sit here a lot too, back then."

"Yea."

"Even when you grew up you liked to come here and sit to look at the sky. I remember you would like to lean on that spot, right there, next to the beams, where you could see the fields and the little dirt road across them, and Grandma would be there with the sheep, and she would be smiling and-" he choked.

"I know."

"That was before you went to the city, of course. To write stories, was it? I remember you used to love listening to stories."

"It was...what made me want to write"

"And do you still do that?"

"...I'm not sure anymore" whispered Jonathan, and hung his head. It was such a immature gesture, such a childish reaction that he felt ashamed. Almost immediately he raised his head and looked away instead,

"What I meant was, I don't think I want to anymore."

"And why is that?" asked his grandfather, one eyebrow raised. Somewhere in their conversation he had lit his pipe, which now smoked with all the ash of a minature volcano.

Why is that indeed. What can I say? About the reviews from the magazines? About all the books and talks and seminars I've been to? What was it Mrs. Know-it-all Editor had said...

..."I know you Jonathan, and I know you can write better than this"

"I can, and I have. This is what I feel is best!"

"What you feel isn't enough John, its what the reader's feel. They want more drama...more complexity. A story like this just won't sell John, its too...idealistic."

"What do you mean?"

"Its too perfect. Too nicely wrapped up. No plot-hooks, no cliff-hangers, just one great big happy ending."

"And what's wrong with that?"

"Listen to yourself John. You're an adult writer for God's sake! Happy endings and joyful tidings are for children and mentally deranged teenagers! Adults need something a touch more...realistic."

"Things are realistic enough! The characters-"

"The characters are fine John. Your plot, isn't. I suggest you go and rewrite this. Go look around the world a bit more. Open those eyes of yours, or get some better glasses. Things aren't so bright and happy and people know it. Don't lie to them Jonathan."

And that was that.

His grandfather listened, quietly at first, then when John paused to check if he was listening, started inserting various grunts and nods just to show he was listening. At the end of the whole thing his grandpa just sat there smoking his piped, leaning back against his chair. Then he got up and spoke:

"My question would be, why write about it?"

"Huh?" said John, who was feeling rather relieved at the moment. It felt so good to just rant on about your problems, like some internal pressure value had been released...

"'Cause well, she says they already know it, yes? So why bother telling them? The worlds a bleak place and any idiot can see that. We don't need writers reminding us about it in words when we can just sees for ourselves, right?"

"Er, I don't think she quite meant it that way. You see, it was the fluff?"

"Fluff? Isn't that like the wool you get on sheep?" his grandfather was sitting upright now, but the expression upon his face was still one of confusion.

"Yes er, no. Fluff's what the writers call...excess packaging. Its what makes a reader feel good. Its sort of like...seasoning. But you don't need it."

"Why not?"

"Because...er, it's kind of obvious, isn't it? When you eat, you eat to nourish yourself, to feed your body. Writers can be...writers should be writing stories with more...substance. What's the point of people reading your works if it don't teach them anything about life?"

"That's true, that" muttered his grandfather, nodding. Without looking he reached into his pocket to pull out a pile of strange, dead leaves, half of which ended up in his pipe. The other half ended up somewhere stuck between the floorboards, rotting slowly away.

"And so the reverse applies to fluff. You don't really need it, per say, its just...extra fittings. But-"

"But it doesn't feel right, does it?" What was that a faint sparkle he saw in Grandpa's eye...?

"...no, not really", Jonathan replied, looking away. Now he found himself staring at the field again, "but it should! A good writer, a respectable writer, should be able to shape society, to teach mankind! And if my works don't make the cut then I don't really have the right to-"

"Right to what?" piqued Grandpa, his eyes flashing and fixed directly on his, "To inspire? To create? Content's all good and all, but at the end of the day you still need fluff."

"I don't...quite...get it."

"Well, you could look at sheep - they've got fluff too, piles of it. Farmers shear it off during summer cause its so useless then, surrounded by all them heat and light, but in the middle of winter, ah, that's when them wool is in use"

"We're talking about writing, not sheep" said Jonathan, trying to steer the conversation back on track, but to no avail. Grandpa just continued on and on...

"Wool is mostly air, you know. Just like clouds. All of them is air and water vapor, or thin strands of white so fine you slice through them with a leaf, but that don't matter, cause its these tiny little fibers that trap the air, that keep the warmth and heat in, and stops it from being lost to the cold, cold rain outside"

"I can see what you mean, but-"

"Cause you see, fluff it may be, but that's what keeps them warm at night," finished Grandpa with a great big smile on his face. And upon that face was the weathering of years, the marks from a thousand battles with the wind, with the world, with himself - every wrinkle was a hundred different tales, every line a new story to tell. And in the middle of it his smile, and his eyes, sparkling with a joy and light that seemed at the moment to radiate from him and him alone, a lamp in the gloom of the day.

"And that be what keeps all of us warm too, in all our darks and nights."

Dx -Commentary- xD

2008-11-14T16:07:00.002+08:00

Alright! My computer's alive again. Need to remind myself not to mistreat my beautiful little mechanical devices. Ahhh...you precious thing...

*Ahem* Going to attempt to write another Short, not sure how people felt about the one below. Its pretty much a rewrite of the other idea I had, but from a different POV...so to speak. I'll shove it in this Space once I'm done with it on Notepad...

ZZZZZ

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Forever

2008-11-10T00:40:00.004+08:00

It was a Tuesday morning at about 8 or so when I visited the Curator at the local museum. Now the Curator himself was a rather strange fellow, don't get me wrong - he's a wonderful person so long as you don't touch the statues - but occasionally it seemed to me that the man had far too much to drink; after all, only a drunk man would smile the way he smiled, a lopsided, twisted grin that had all his teeth showing. I had met the Curator somewhere in the past year, when the story I was writing required me to investigate a particularly ancient and valuable Egyptian vase. I still remember his first words spoken to me that day:

"It's all fine, all fine, perfectly preserved, the tablet. Looking is fine I suppose…just no pictures and whatever you do, do not touch.”

And so it was with a pair of gloves and a bottle of "Dr Husby's Hangover Cure" that I approached the museum. Recently there had been quite a big hoo-hah about the town I was living in, what with the government plans for upgrading and all that, and the editor of the magazine I work for had requested that my latest article include a short write-up about the current "cultural preservation riots" that were taking place in the town.

Well, at that time I thought: if it be anything cultural, old Mr. Gregory would have quite a bit to say! So here I am, standing outside the museum at 8am, while the rest of the town sleeps, banging on the iron gates and waiting to be allowed in. Of course I had booked an appointment with the man the week before, but in general it was considered polite to announce your presence when one comes to "visit".

It took a while of course, but soon the Curator hears my shouting and hobbles over to the gates with the key. Large, brass keys like something out of a castle, the locks on the gates reminding me of some giant dungeon. Somehow the museum, with its grey, stone-worked walls and Victorian architecture, did little to assay this image. All in all, it looked like a scene out of Dracula, with the manservant Igor coming to invite the unsuspecting guests inside for, as the Count himself would say, "A bite to drink."

"Morning Greg!" I called, waving at the man. The Curator merely stared a bit before smiling his trademarked "Drunken Sailor" grin, thin, claw-like hands struggling to pick the correct brass key from its heavy chain. There seemed to me an assortment of keys, large and small, simple and strangely ornamental. Like the man needed that many keys to run a museum! Still, there were always countless doors about the place...

As the Curator led me through the wooden floor of the Museum I caught out of a corner of my eye of the many strange doors marked "Staff Only" alongside the passageway. What had caught my eye was not so much the sturdy, iron frame as the flickering blue light that emitted from the cracks underneath. In the shadows of the half-lit, un-opened museum it seemed rather eerie. Before I could comment about this to the Curator though we arrived at his office, a small oak door with the words "Curator" carved upon them in cursive script.

"So, what is it you wished to see me about?" spoke the Curator. His voice had an oily, smooth quality to it, a quality ruined somewhat by the constant grin upon his face. "I believe it had something to do with the recent attempts to culturally reform this village?"

"Somewhat" I replied, pulling a series of papers from my pack "a large number of people feel that the government's attempts to...revitalize the tourist situation here will ah...destroy the 'spirit' of the place."

"Indeed, and this is because...?"

"A large number of protests, some going on this moment, say that the government renovation of their homes and shop-houses will destroy the culture here. They insist that the ethnicity of the place has already been, to quote, 'poisoned' by the introduction of other cultural places, such as Indian Curry Restaurants...or Russian Dance Centers-"

A brief flash caught my eye. From under the wooden door came the same blue glow I had seen outside.

"Indeed that is true," replied the Curator, his smile disappearing for a minute, wrinkled arms coming up to rest upon his desk, "many a time in history a civilization has lost its culture due to the interference of governments...the Chinese Revolution for instance, where billions of books and cultural knowledge were destroyed in the span of days...the Spanish, whom leveled the Aztec temples and built what is now known as America to the rest of the world...all this due to war, due to people, due to governments. Such incidents are common occurrences in history."

"And what do you, as Curator of this museum, think of it?"

"What do I think? What am I supposed to think?" he answered, the grin slowly re-emerging, "that we can resist the all-consuming tide that is Progress? Man has tried, over the millennia, to build markers and structures that would last forever. Only the Egyptians have succeeded, and even now their eternal pyramids sacred tombs are raided by explorers and crumbled by industries today."

"I for one, would like to see this stop, but there isn't much I can do, can I?" smiled the Curator, “progress eats at our heritage and eats at our past. Soon even the museum may be washed away…”

The blue glow intensified, and a faint hammering drifted in from the outside. Things were getting stranger by the minute, though the Curator looked curiously unaffected.

“…though some may say it is important to be forward looking, I for one, believe in reflecting on the past…”

There was a faint thud, and the blue glow suddenly grew impossibly bright, so much so it seemed like a searing beam of light was outlining the frame of the door. I blinked, eyes watering, trying to point out this strange phenomenon to the Curator.

“…so they said there is a high chance the Museum itself would be closed. Excuse me” added the Curator, rising from his seat. In a few strides he walked over to the door and opened it. For a moment, the world went white. Pain seared through my eyeballs as though someone had shone the beam of a flood lamp directly into my irises. It was bright, so bright that even my other senses seemed to be affected…there seemed to be screaming…

Then the light faded as the Curator came back in, closing the door. The blue glow was gone.

Shaken, I stumbled about the room trying to stand up, one hand massaging my eyeballs, the other steadying the rest of my body against the table. Briefly, I managed to gasp,

“What in the name of God was that?”

“Nothing much really…though I suppose…yes” the Curator begin to look thoughtful, his grin growing wider with each passing second, “yes…I could show it to you…an excellent example of the 20th century…I do believe…yes…” he continued, simply staring at the ceiling. Then all of a sudden, he looked down at me, straight at my eyes, which were still half-blinded by the light, and smiled his favorite little smile.

“Well, come along with me, and you can see. Don’t touch though, don’t touch!” he added, rising from the chair. Was it me, or did his last sentence had a slight pitch to it?

When the Curator opened the door once more I cringed and covered my eyes, as any fool would when he had been blinded by what was behind that big block of wood. But this there was no light, save for the orange radiance of the morning sun, and the dark shadows that ringed the hallway.

“Come,” he said, the sound of keys echoing about the corridor.

Like a frightened dog I followed, though I hesitate to use such a term to describe myself, there was no other phrase that was more accurate at that time. It was terrifying, somehow, the light that had blinded me. It was as if my entire body knew, at that moment, that the beam of light was more than just a mere scattering of color. It was as if the glow had – and how my editor would hit me if he saw this – a sense of dread to it; horrifying, blinding, all-consuming dread.

Before long we passed once again in front of the metal-framed door. But this time the Curator stopped before it, holding up in his hand one of the more elaborate keys in his possession. There was a click as he slid the metal piece into the keyhole, all the while muttering, “Just don’t touch anything! Don’t touch!” It was at this point that I noticed that the faint glow from earlier had disappeared.

By this point I was ready to bolt and everything, to run down to the bar and drown my throat in alcohol. Maybe if I ran far enough I could somehow forget this incident, convince myself that Old Gregory here was just playing around, that being cooped up in this old museum was screwing with his mind, and maybe we could call some doctors and psychiatrists down for the poor old man.

The Curator reached for the brass handle and pulled-

Only to reveal what seemed to me to be, for all purposes and intents, and overly large and highly stuffed janitor’s closet. As anti-climatic as it was I nonetheless decided to wander inside the closet, waving my hands about while poking at the odd mop handle in a bid to find whatever it was the Curator felt was so interesting.

“What was it you wanted to sho-” I started, only to feel the impact of something large and heavy upon my skull. The world went dark-

-and brightened up again, almost immediately after. When I opened my eyes again the whole world around me seemed so blurry. Strange images and echoes haunted my senses and I gazed about the place trying to orientate myself. And then I realized;

I was at my desk. In my office. Five hundred miles from where I was.

Could it be a dream? What was going on? Wasn’t I having an appointment with Mr. Grego-

I froze. Looking at me though the office window was the silently grinning face of the Curator. This would not have been such a horrifying sight if not for the fact that my office happened to be located on the seventh floor.

A giant floating head-

“Hello” said the Curator.

-that spoke as well was not doing wonders for my already confused psyche.

“I suppose you’re wondering what you’re doing here? Don’t worry, don’t worry. You’re perfectly safe in there. Just make sure to behave normally, would you? It wouldn’t do good to spoil the exhibit”

By now I had rushed over to the window and pulled down the curtains. I had also taken a few large wads of tissue to stuff into my eardrums. No good, the voice was still coming through;

“Really, it was rather strange coincidence that you would happen to visit me today, even more that you would wish to discuss, of all things, my favorite topic. See, all my life as a museum curator I had wondered: what happened if all those books could be preserved? Everything changes, you cannot fight change. You know about the theory of entropy? About how all things must degrade, in time? What if there was a way to stop that? A way to preserve our heritage…forever?”

His grin grew wider, more macabre. All around his head was the same eerie blue glow I had seen from under the door.

“See, I can stop people from touching. I can corner off walls and build gates all around. But sooner or later the government will come in. Time will come in. All things will fade, there’s no fighting progress. But progress needs time, and there I have the weed by its roots!”

Here the face stopped, as if for dramatic effect. The Curator’s eyes sparkled as a phantom finger raised itself into the air.

“Stopping time - A ridiculous task, an impossible one. But what if it could be done? What if there was someway to preserve something…preserve it as it was, people and all, without ever losing the moment?”

“You’ve seen motion pictures. Seen how they can be played back, then forward again? I heard some of the larger museums have those. Giant exhibits designed to show simulations of life back then. A poor imitation, if I ever was a judge.”

By now the Curator seemed to be rambling, his eyes were bulging, his grin was definitely crazed, and blue glowing spittle seemed to be flying from out of his mouth.

“The Egyptians had the right idea. And now I can have my exhibits, and even if one or two escape occasionally it wouldn’t matter, because they’ll always find themselves back here again…”

“Just behave naturally, and things would seem much better, less confusing. I would forget, if I were you. Good bye, and remember not to touch!”

The voice faded away. For a brief moment I stood there, stunned, not believing what I heard, what I saw. Then I tried dashing over to the door and opening it, but the moment I touched the knob-

-I found myself back the desk again. Any attempt to do anything short of sitting at the desk typing causes the whole thing to reset itself. And each time it happens I remember less and less, like my memories are slowly being sucked away, becoming less permanent, less reliable…

So I sit here at this desk, typing for all its worth. It’s been thirty minutes since I started typing, and nothing’s reset itself so far. I can only pray that the information within the computer can be kept, at the very least it can help my enforce my mem-

It was Tuesday morning at about 8 or so…

This moment seems oddly familiar. Perhaps the head had already-

It was Tuesday morning…

I think I typed this bef-

It was Tues-

No! No! Everything is-

It wa-

It-

…

Outside, surrounded by mechanical vats of glowing blue light, the Curator grinned as he admired his latest exhibit. With tender, almost loving care the old man reached into his pocket and brought out a small brass sign, hanging it carefully from a hook protruding from the machine:

“Do Not Touch”

The public did not know, but their culture would be preserved. He had seen to that.

Food for Thought

2008-10-28T12:02:00.002+08:00

“Here at Finargo we serve only the best of meats and wines. Our steaks for instance, are cut only from the underbelly of a grain-fed cow imported from Greenland, where the slightly chilled climate there is supposed to enhance the refreshing taste of the meat”

“Greenland you say? But isn’t Greenland filled with…ice? How do the cows survive?”

“Oh, that’s simple. Our suppliers have heat houses for the cows to sleep in if they ever get cold. Every morning they are pushed out into the ice, where special bags of grain feed and littered across the fields. This encourages them to look for food – toughens the muscle and flavors the beef. Wondrous combination, don’t you think?”

“Indeed, I can see where the exquisite flavor comes from…if you don’t mind, what happens to the rest of the cow?”

“What?”

“The rest of the cow. The other parts of it. The thighs, for instance. Or the flesh on its back perhaps. All the well…other pieces of meat.”

“Ah. I see. You won’t happen to be a member of the Food Conservationists, Mr. Wight?”

“No, just curious”

“Well, in the case which you may happen to meet one, they can be reassured that here we are most err…Conserving” he continues, “to answer your question, Mr. Wight, the excess meat is recycled and put to excellent use.”

“Recycled? Are you telling me that Finargo, the finest dining restaurant in the pacific ocean uses recycled-”

“No no, nothing of that sort sir, merely reusing of parts in other areas, and most definitely not food. The human palate is a most precious thing, we cannot soil it with meat like that! No, you see the hundreds of candles about the floor? Each wick is a carefully crafted slice of meat, soaked in oils and wax. When burned, they give of this most wonderful aroma…”

“Ah…I see. That explains the strong smell of roast that so many customers adore.”

“Yes! Though of course, most meats don’t burn too well, so they must first be treated with spices and herbs obtained from one of the last jungles in the Asian continent.”

“Expensive”

“Without a doubt, Mr. Wight. But all this is worth it in the end, don’t you agree? The restaurant spends much on its customers, for the customers. People do not eat here to be filled after all, they eat for the experience. Now I’m sure you would like to sample our most exotic dish yet - elephant’s trunk boiled with 52 rare herbs for three weeks until tender and soft…”

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Just a musing from my mind. Perhaps a story undeveloped in time.

The Centre of Gravitas

2008-10-21T21:59:00.006+08:00

So here I am at the end of physics olympiad, looking at it with a strange mixture of relief, thankfulness and somehow, regret.

All the sessions spent together in the labs...I would say were some of the most fun lessons I ever had. All my life, from primary school to secondary, I always wanted a teacher and a teaching environment like that. Granted, I could barely keep up, and was mostly just listening to others and following. But the dynamics of the classroom, the...atmosphere. It was, how should I put it, alive. The knowledge was alive. The learning was alive. I felt alive.

Regret, because in all the time spent with them I did not give it my all. Granted, I tried. But it was not my all. Me thinks a person can never give his all. But a person can try. I didn't try hard enough, thats for sure. My base and understanding of physics are good at best, average at worst. Sometimes, hopelessly narrow. I admit no shame in saying that of all the people in the "Group A" category of the oly I'm probably the weakest. Perhaps in the Group B category as well. Well maybe, just a bit of shame...a man can have some pride after all...

I feel so tired, and stare before me a mountain to climb. Several mountains to slimb. Small mountains perhaps, but mountains nontheless. Sometimes its easier to scale a single cliff than to tackle a few short hills in a row. Is this one of those times? I hope not. Because I cannot afford to burn out now.

EE, CAS, TOK, IA, BB, CC...the hardest things all use abbrevations, as if people were afraid to say the name itself. And I look at my results, a 37, with a qualification for Physics Dean's list. Acceptable, I would say. But I can do more.

I must do more.

And all I can do to push myself on, is to pray. For the battle now for me is more spiritual, more in terms of character, than in academics. For of all the mountains to climb I would say it is the mountain within my own heart that I fear the most. For it is the one that grows as I grow, that changes as I change, and forever remains, in appearance at least, unbeatable. At least by my own strength. So all I can do now is pray. Pray for strength and guidance, for fortitude, for spirit.

For temperance. I remember that word to this day. As I will remember it always.

----------------------------------------------------------

One part of my playing style I notice is that I love "fifth wheel" characters. Jack of all trades types. Knowledge monkeys, if you will. The type who can, feasibily "fill in" any role to suit the need, and virtually "do anything", and fill out the gaps.

Part of it would stem from the human desire to be good at everything. Its a sort of in-built paranoid security measure - an answer for every situation. It eliminates the fear that something will screw up your life that you cannot deal with.

Part of it would stem from the fickleness of my own character. I find everything interesting, but nothing particularly interesting. Its like I have some sort of minor ADD. Oh look, a sparrow! Isn't it cute? Fluffy little yellow sparrow...

Ahem. The third reason, perhaps the only "logical" one to me, is actual the desire to serve. A born follower, if you will. I'm the sort of person who has an ability to notice patterns. Most people can, anyway. Its just that the patterns I look at all seem to lack something. And I'm the sort who believes that problems are best solved if you do it yourself.

Add them all up and what do you get?

Someone who sees all sorts of problems with a given situation and tries to, on his own, solve all of the problems, at least partially. And usually ends up failing at all of them in the end. Sad case...haiz.

Is it me, or does the world have too many leaders and specialists? Are we pushing our generation so much in one direction that they cannot navigate any others? When all men are drivers, who will stay behind to grease the wheels?

The people I admire...they are the ones with the charm and wit. They can slide into any situation and draw from it success. They can make sad people smile, bring logic to chaos, hope to despair, courage to fear. Despite not being good at maths, science, sports, arts...they are good at the one thing that, in the end, truely counts.

As Terry Pratchett wrote in his book, its all about the "soul...and the centre". It doesn't matter if you can do all sorts of magic, fancy tricks, elaborate words or phrases, if you do not base them around the central axis of your beliefs. Of all our beliefs. In the end, what are all our actions for?

What is the soul and the centre of society?

Is it the men with the fancy certificates and passionate speeches?

Or the one who rides on next to you, night and day?

The Records of Life

2008-10-12T09:42:00.003+08:00

Somewhat written in response to a post by my friend;

Each and every person a story.

Indeed, the writers were the first to notice.

Stories are like living things, I think Terry Pratchett was the first to make the allusion. And it is through us humans, that stories breed and come. Humans are stories, and stories, at least the very best of them, are always then and before, beautifully, incredibly, unchangelebly human.

And somewhere, out there, I heard a story. A fictional story perhaps. But nontheless one that rings in my heart.

It was set within the world of fantasy. Of dragons, knights, heroes and demons. Of great exploits and champions that all the bards would sing of for years and centuries to come.

All bards but one.

To quote from the writer, to quote from this bard - "As always I must travel, as always, I must remember. When the fallen warrior breathes his last breath, where the farmer protects his beaten horse, where the child cries out for a mother's arms, I will be there and not, and as always, it is my duty to remember.

For I am the Bard of Forgotten Tales, and Lost Stories never told. It is my duty to remember the quests never seen, the fights never heard, and the treasures never sought. In a land of champions, of men whose names are sung forever in song, the thousands, no millions, of names I shall remember.

For I am the Keeper of Forgotten Tales, and forever it remains my duty to remember."

Romanticised somewhat, I would say. But in a way, it parallels what we have.

Who said these books are not being read? How many actual books are really read?

The average person reads less than 5% of all the books published. Some much less.

Yet everytime to talk to these people, to your friends, your family, your teacher, student, college, boss. Your soulmate, neighbour, pastor, priest. Your pen pal, classmate and many more beside. Each time you talk to them, you remember.

You remember that chapter of their life.

And if one were to take all the people that man has met, all his acquaintences and friends, his family and the people he bumped into the street, take all of them and extract their memories with but him in it, they will find a picture, overlaping sometimes, stretching sometimes, but always a full picture, a description - a story; of his life and the people around him as well.

And in that way, I would suppose, all of us are Bards of Remembering, Keepers of the Forgotten Lore.

For us, ourselves, and the people as well.

As a Lie

2008-10-08T12:44:00.002+08:00

As a lie, there are many things I'm afraid of.

Being found out, for instance. When someone realises you're just a lie, not exactly there, the mask you display - a happy shell of false talent in a bid to draw talent. As the saying goes, glass sparkles more than diamond because it has much more to prove.

Lies have everything to prove and nothing to show.

Another fear of being a lie is meeting the truth. You know what I mean. Them people who are really good. Not really good, really good. They know what they do, and they do what they do, and that be the truth, for the truth need not shine; and a well used sword is often dull and scratched - yet these markings are but proof of its ability.

A lie has no scratches or markings for a single one who certainly shatter its glass facade.

Then there is the opposite of the lie, the hidden truth. A lie's greatest fear and one all lies seek to quash. Hidden talent, humble worksmiths, great but reclusive geniuses, all of them the lies seek to destroy - for they are the antithesis of their very philosophy and existance. To a lie, hidden truths are like the mold that grows underneath the wallpaper - ignored unless the risk of them being seen by visitors is too great. And then the lies move in swift and deadly, to remove the talent lest it threatens the lie's hard earned position of pseudo-talent.

But once in a while, a piece of truth leaks out. As it goes, the truth will out, and mold tends to grow everywhere, no matter how much plant-killer you use. And when that happens, all the glass lie can do is hide its mask in shame, as the hidden talents and true truths grow beyond its ability to overshadow, and its light no longer attributed to any inner fire of its own.

The moon was thought a mystical object till scientists realised it merely reflected the light from the sun.

As a lie, I am capable of weaving words. Painting pictures that aren't there. Hiding in shadows so dark they can't be seen at all.

Yet even amongst lies, there is talent. The talent of deception, of charisma, of making glass look like diamonds, and confidence in all things false.

So what about a lie of a lie? What talents does he have?

Since when did a doppelganger need to impersonate itself?

On the Issue of Trust and other Immaterial Things

2008-10-06T14:29:00.004+08:00

A good question that we should never have to ask ourselves is: Who do I trust? 'Cause usually by the time you're asking that, paranoia, the great black bird, already has its icy-clawed grip upon your chest, and is peeking over your shoulders each time you turn around.

Yet, there always comes a time when a man must ask: who do I trust?

Is it the government? Them whom live in their great big towers, far from my home, who pass the laws, hire the sweepers, and tend to the lives of bigger men far taller than I'll ever be? They has my respect, that I give, but trust?

Many a common man trusts more his dog than the official at his door.

Is it your workplace? Colleges and bosses, from the sweepers whom clean your cubicles to the inspectors with their clipboards and thick, reflective spectacles, staring through the mush of paperwork and into your very soul. Left and right you find both angels and demons, willing to help yee up on your ascent to Heaven or stab and weigh you down to Hell, their daggers cutting through your back and sometimes, the heart.

How many times have I heard my dad sigh a great sigh of relief upon reaching home?

Home then. Family. That, I suppose, we can trust. Your littlest sister, who rats you out when you buy that computer game your parents forbib all access to. The same little sister, whom finds you half-dead from studying and glomps you with her soft toys in a bid to cheer you up. Your parents, whom shout and scold and forbid all manner of things, from socks to shoes to computers to television at 1am. And the same parents, whom on the rainy day you find standing outside thier car with an umbrella half soaked 'cause of the wind waiting for you to come home.

All exaggerations perhaps. But nontheless, a good spectrum covered.

Your friends of course. Who can't trust their friends? Truely, anyone can trust their friends, to be there when you need them, to support and tease you about all your aims in life; to help you with your homework, to ask your help with their homework, to hit you on the head (not too hard of course) whenever you start falling asleep in the middle of a lecture - of course we can trust our friends.

Problem is, you can trust your enemies too. And you never know which is which.

So whom do I trust? Its an interesting scene. People would rather let pass their neighbour of fifteen years than an official of the Ministry.

Does that make the whole point of a government pointless?

Or does it just mean people are often very shortsighted?

I don't exactly know who I trust. But I definately know one person I don't.

Me.

Soon...

2008-09-29T18:27:00.002+08:00

So tired...

I think the quality of this blog is dropping

Maybe the quality of my thoughts are too

Or perhaps they never were of much quality in the first place...

Adios

Nemu? (Or: Not a Political Viewpoint)

2008-09-25T19:41:00.005+08:00

Politics seems funny sometimes

Its like bureacracy on steroids.

Apparently, if we want to protest, we need to Appeal to get a permit to "riot", and even then only within a certain area. I'm not too sure about how accurate I am, so take it with a pinch of salt. Still, my guess is that it won't be long (hey, we have an Official forum for complaints now!)

Its almost Megatokyo-ish; Zombie Horde invasion next thurs, 'Zillas stomp and destroy areas 13 and 52 of Japan, all Magical Girls are to be liscenced and registered, those found summoning sparkles and pink laser beams without the appropiate permits will have their "love magic" transformative devices confiscated for 24 hours... (possibly less, given the nature of said devices to somehow bust free in an explosive attempt to return to its rightful owner)...etc...etc...etc

So basically you send your "protest application" in, the gov reads it, and assuming he is of the right qualifications, grants it and you have your little march, feel happy with your "display of force" and go back home to post your 561th complaint on the "Feedback" forums.

Issit me, or are we missing something here?

Not just protests...almost everything here has elements of bureacracy innit. Its almost Discworld worthy - where thieves mug you and give a reciept. Except in this case, its probably the other way round. (Its amazing what old ladies carry in their handbags these days. Some of these aunties leave the house only to go shopping, and they only leave once a month. Sacks of Rice tend to hurt alot, if only by the law of F=ma, where m is significantly higher than the mass of your chin)

And after they're done beating up the poor little mugger (the thief, not the students. We IB Muggers don't rob old ladies; they don't carry enough useful textbooks) they could probably send an email to the Security Department asking for permission to organise a "one-man-Civil-defense-Neighbourhood-Cleanup" while requesting a receipt for one unconsious ruffian, whose parents are by then no doubt posting on the forums about the lousy morals and corrupting influence western society is having on today's "open-minded" youths.

I mean really. I might just be a nerd with a computer; but I'm a bored nerd with a computer. God knows what I might do. Perhaps someday I'll get bored enough to start writing political commentries. And when that does, you'll probably find what's left of my soul shivering in a small corner, while the rest of it gets carted, signed and registered/processed past various forms of red tape straight for Heaven/Hell (apparently, its spread to even there these days.)

Still, I wonder what would happen if I try protesting against having to appeal to protest?

Or maybe I'll try walking upside down on the sky. Some part of me seems to think it might be easier.

Inner Thoughts of an Outer Dream

2008-09-22T20:12:00.003+08:00

...and when i sit down in front of a character sheet, with notes and annotations and bits of habits and desciprtions and powers and sketches and all the fluff that accompies a creation i stare at the whole sheet and just rest my hands, staring ernestly at the paper, picturing the character, name, outfit; moving, breathing acting talking and doing all the things he/she should be doing, and only one word comes to mind;

Live.

As an author, as a creator. As one of the dreamers, the child-people, whom sit in corners all day long and dream of worlds, dream of places never-been, things never-done, people that could have become. As one of the architects of the impossible, I sit here and type. And ponder.

And realise, somehow, that is all we seek to do.

It is like a plague, as Mark Twain indirectly seems to say. One author writes a book, and soon two authors are inspired from it. Those two write two books, and four more arrive. Like rabbits, Romantism spreads. The threat of too much dreaming, of imagining without acting, of words without hand.

Yet without the words, can the plan proceed?

Seers are always called mad, for they are the ones who see what lies not there.

I have within me, worlds. I have within myself the capacity to change these worlds, to move them, to shape them. The characters are mine to control, puppets on a string, yet I wish them to be more than mere puppets, to become more than just clay dolls, baked from Earth. Like Geppetto I seek more than a simple extension of myself. I seek not to wield, but to make a wielder.

For it is both a great and fearful thing, when a story rides the author. When the writer is no longer in control of the beast of which he had wrought, had laid the foundations, the ideas, planted the seeds and shadows of events to come. In one fell swoop he is overtaken by a passion, a fury, a desire to release this caged beast he has bred for so long. And like a torrent it pours, furious and powerful, that the author himself is swept by its might. Such is the power of true prose. And it is prose like this that sweeps the reader as well.

It is prose like this, that holds what each of us now have empty in our hearts.

Life.

-----------------------------------------------------

Someday I will write a book. A book about Words. About ideas. About the relationship between Man and his Language. For the first task Adam had, was the Name the animals of Eden. And though Naming they were Tamed, and through language Man did rise, beyond the singular predator, into a society, into a community - into a greater organism, the sum of many parts, words the nervous system, the nexus between.

Someday, when my art is good enough, I will make a comic. About Artists and Art, about stories and characters and ideas. About what happens when such things are lost. About Dreams. All things precious to me. There will be laughter and joy, and jokes and little bits of nonsense, but the comic will be, first and foremost, my views. On what it means to write, to create. On what it means to give life, to fiction and to Man.

Someday, I might think about religion. No, I have already done that. And the comic for it is finished, lying in my head. A simple comic, with simple themes. Yet that is all that needs to be said. For such is Faith, a simple thing - yet one impossible to grasp.

The power of language...in the hands of a skilled master. I have seen and read the works of such masters, and I know for certain - that while in combat the pen is not mightier than the sword, there are many other, subtler ways; by which it can pierce a person's heart.

And write upon his very soul.

The crow

2008-09-20T11:01:00.000+08:00

Amongst the flock, a crow
grey feathers tattered - fall
drifting softly, whelmed in woe
within the chirps - a caw;
of a crow rising
from the shadowy flock
Masked by the chatter
from Bird to bird, Their
tails like velvet rainbows,
leaping into the sky.

The Birds dance, soaring
within Their song a pouring
of noise, an endless cawing
its drawling
unheard amongst the calling-

Land once more;
still falling...

Pained it tries to sing
with beak and claw - a tool
to give it flight, a wing
not weighed by strong earth's pull.

Till now it dances
molting-
red against the Blue,
hoping Their feathers
somehow
may stain its own ones too.

The Tangent of the Curve

2008-09-18T19:17:00.007+08:00

To be different, one must realise that everyone is the same.

Alone...

2008-09-05T22:14:00.003+08:00

I don't have...anything do I?

Nothing.

So many bright candles...no one will miss the weak flame that goes out right?

Once I thought there were lost sheep looking for the lamp

Now I realise the only lost sheep is me.

The Archivist's Pen

2008-09-04T12:33:00.004+08:00

A few days after a botched-up IOP, I met a friend along the stairwell, early in the morning. Once again the evil spirit of self-loathing hath taken me, in part due to certain posts by people about their awesome IOPs, or disappointments about their so called "failures" (Argh! I forgot to address the symbolic relevance the capital letters in the Poem mean to the overall theme of Life, Death and Torture in my twenty-third content slide! NUUUUUUUU~!)

Anyway, I met that friend. And said to him unto the heavens: "God, why do my presentation skills suck so much!?"

To which he replied (the friend, not God), "well, everyone screws up their presentations sometimes"

"Well, everyone I know didn't"

"Everyone you know being?"

"You know, (insert name), (insert another name) and of course, (insert named name)"

"That's different...those people are well...er" he paused, looking at me, "well, one's a entertainer, the other's a dam good Speaker." As for the third, neither of us needed to say anything. He just well, was.

And as I read their blogs today, yesterday, and perhaps tomorow, I can't help but to think back to those descriptions; And wonder.

I wonder how childhood friends of the King used to feel like?

I am...privileged. Very, very privileged. I live in a place, a very secluded, isolated glade - a Garden of Eden, so to speak - surrounded by people, friends, classmates, each and everyone one of them an exemplar of society. Of themselves. And each and every one of them, I know and consider a friend.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

In DnD, there is always the standard party. Warrior, Cleric, Rogue and Wizard. The main Four of the fantasy archetype - the same Four that almost all Heroes are based on today. Each with their strengths, powers and abilities, all equal in their own special way. Some would say when such archetypes were made, they broke the mold. Every single hero, class or idea that came after was mostly a variation or combination of these four.

Indeed, for when the mould was broken, someone found the pieces. And glued them together, not knowing which was which. And from these shattered pieces a fifth archetype was created, one which lingers in the background to this day. A warrior, a thief, a wizard, a cleric. All of them yet none of them, a pale shadow of the Four.

And like a shadow he follows, writing everything down. Speaks well? Some do. Others just remember their deeds in song. Reading, writing, recording everything down. A follower, always watching; for what is an adventure if no one tells the tale?

Jack-of-trades, ad-hoc member and sai-kang warrior extraordinaire; Friends and family, meet the Bard.

Fifth party member of the Four.

Work and Dreams

2008-09-02T22:01:00.004+08:00

All this, and what for?

So many have asked that question.

What...is the use of writing? Or creating? Or simply...purely...dreaming? Or just wishing for things to be? What use is it?

In our world? In our time? None I would say. Unless you're a writer.

And even then, you got to get lucky. You got to dream the dream that everyone dreams, and make everyone else think their dream is your dream. You got the market, advetise, make your creations worth it to the world.

Worth it. Ha ha ha.

Science is worth it. We got gadgets! Politics is worth it. We have countries! Sports are worth it. We have medals!

And in the end, what are all these for? Why do we research to make our lives more comfortable, debate to make our policies more ethical, compete to make our countries more glorious?

Is it not all the for the dream?

We build, we theorise - we construct. All this extra stuff, all of it - for what? For something more? For something greater? People want peace...why do they want that for? For stability? For safety? What do they want the safety to do?

I don't think I need to repeat myself anymore.

Everything begins with a dream. And everything shall end with one too.

So keep dreaming people. Its the only thing that makes life worth living.

And death worth dying for.

A Deck of Cards

2008-09-01T11:25:00.003+08:00

Be careful there, and not look at them with smirks and grins

Be careful there, when you look at him. The smiling face, and laughter, as he leans back and grins nonchantly at the world.

Shallow, you think, a joker. A fool. Yet all in all its always been the fools who see the truth. Of all the cards, beware the fool.

For he laughs and grins, and smiles and tumbles, and when you least expect, brings forth to bear all the wit and wisdom that lurks beneath that slimy rubber suit. And when he does...

King Lear went mad for a reason, you know.

Everyone judges the fool by what he says. And that alone, is his greatest power. For what it is not what he says but what he doesn't that defines his intentions, and few people notice that. He confounds the mind-readers by appearing with no mind to read, confuses the seers and wise-men by making ignorance seem like knowledge, and idiocy a form of wisdom.

And thus the wise men begin to fear the Fool, while the laughing populace watches him juggle.

And juggle well he does, the wise men, the king, and the folk of the land. It is never either of the three that remains truely free, or holds most power. For the fool is beholden to none but himself, for no one asks anything of the fool, yet the fool may ask everything of everyone else.

He throws all duties in the air, and catches them as he pleases. And the people love him for that. A fool knows no limits, and has no boundaries, for it is his job to defy the boundaries, to challenge out limits, beyond what sane men would dare. And yet the fool may appear far saner than any man before.

Why do you think the Joker is such a classic villian?

Sometimes the fool may wear the guise of a king.

Beware the fool, for beneath the bells is a dagger, drenched in blood.

Amazing Grace

2008-08-31T20:33:00.003+08:00

Of all the songs, of all the things I've heard - this one touches me the most. It rings in my heart, personally. It says so much about my life, in more ways, in more areas than one.

I can't really say much more right now. Retreat was...enlightening. I managed to get some sort of...grasp, if you could call it, on my spiritual stand in the world.

Believe me, I'm a little surprised myself.

I can't call myself atheist. The closest word I would say is agnostic. Yet I find myself drawn more to christianity. Just...not quite the christianity most people are used to.

Is it right, in religion, to pick and choose? Is it correct to say: I like this and this of the Bible, and this bit of the Quran, and this little section from the Sutra?

Does it, in a way, dilute the religion? Does it dilute faith?

Because as far as I'm concerned...there is a higher power. That much I believe in. What, who when and how of this power is too complex for me right now. Sufficient to say that I see myself in a similiar position to Helen Keller - except that when I touched the water, there were three teachers speaking.

Idealist. Romantic? Perhaps. Yet there is a practical edge to all of this as well. The world is a beautiful place, at least for me. It is a great sorrow that not everyone can feel that, either due to being blinded by the light, or enclosed by the dark.

Bring the candles from the light to the dark. And then all will see. For the light is blind, and the dark is ignorant, but the two together shall see the truth.

And the Truth is a wonderous thing indeed.

A New Age?

2008-08-19T19:44:00.003+08:00

I say this now because if I don't, someone else will say it first
I say this now cause if I don't say it now it will continue to bounce in my skull like it has bounced for the past 2 weeks.
I say this cause I don't want an exploding head.

So here I goes:

In the past we lived in the Age of Religion. Myths, legends, tales of gods and men and monsters. Worship, cults and churchs (some will object to me using the three in one sentence). Belief, for all it was worth, in deties, in a higher power.

Then came the Age of Science.

Facts, experimentation, hardcore data recording. Mathematics found a whole new friend, and the world lapped it up. Religion? Pah! Just a bunch of unproven, superstitious nonsense. Science is the new stuff! Besides, what's the point of having a thunder god if you can't get him to power your shiny new fridge?

For centuaries Religion pursued science, its practionors shunned or killed, burned as heretics or witches or possessed. Later on, it gained respect, yet there were always the great, held high and mighty, and the insane; some of whom became great on their own.

And what have we now? Science is losing its edge.

Horrors I suppose. But this is something I think many would agree with.

Strange as it seems, people are losing their faith in Science.

They ask: Must things be proven to be real? What is the point of proof anyway? And above all, how do you define proof?

We live in a time of soft soil, its foundations and bedrock pulled away for the houses and temples of Religion and Science. And what have we left?

Now, I believe, is the time of definations. Of speech, of stories, of communicating your point rather than proving it entirely. It is, so to speak, the science of the Soul.

We are in the Age of Words.

Just like science had always played a part in religion (or religion a part of science), so has words and language been a part of both. Scientific documents use language to communicate, to define, to argue. Religion used it to teach, to record, to inspire.

But what have we now? People are looking into the words themselves. It is a time where not knowing the word means more than just a language deficiency. It means that even faith can be twisted, and facts been distorted, by careful use and application of the right word, right phrase. People, many people, have taken up the art of wordcraft. And have either become famed or shunned for it.

See a pattern here?

We reach a point where multiple cultures meet. Where knowledge becomes an issue of what he means rather than what he says. Facts can now hold extra meanings, are no longer netural. The internet age, the creation of languages, and above all, the writers.

I cannot claim to be able to discuss this topic to its fulless extent. There are too many ideas, angles and I am but a 16-year-old student. However, this is just my observation, one that I feel others are soon to make.

Perhaps, in the future we might have a society that worships the Word instead.

Age of Words indeed.

-------------------------------------------------------------

PS: I realise the tone of this post is in no way neutral. Treat this as an example as how language permeates everything. Frankly, this was a pure observation and not intended as a major debate or anything. If anyone wishes to discuss this with me, or theres anything in this post that upsets you, feel free to contact me. Else, I would rather get these thoughts out of my head and get on with other things in life. Like EE.

Good day and good night.

George Tesman

2008-08-13T16:53:00.005+08:00

Pay no attention to the title. It has absolutely no literary reference at all. I am not currently emoing about my inability to break free of societal conventions, nor how Ibsen is some sort of mind-reading prophet whose works transcend space-time just to mock me in my sleep. Nope, none of that at all.

So someone tells me I emo too much on my blog. Or rather, I get the impression he was telling me I was emoing too much. Okay, fine. I think I emo too much.

And you know what, I think he is wrong. I mean me is wrong. I is wrong.

...you know what again? Forget it.

I AM NOT CONSTANTLY EMO.

I might type emo stuff about myself on the blog, and talk to my friends about emo stuff, but they're not emo stuff! They're not I tell you! NOT!!!

I'm just...reflecting. Yes, that's it. Reflecting. Like you know, in a mirror. With cracks.

Besides, I only post on my blog when I'm sad. Which is why all my posts seem to be emo. Its not as though I post everyd- wait crap I do post every single day.

Erm, you know what? Forget this whole post. The bottom line is: I AM NOT EMO.

Now go away while I get the scissors.

-Signed
(Not an Emo-tard)
HJ

To Transform Literature

2008-08-11T20:29:00.004+08:00

One of the areas of Fiction that I enjoy the most is the Transformation Genre.

And by that I usually mean Fantasy Transformation. Things like Werewolves, Vampires are the most common. Other more interesting transformations also bring about certain rather intiguiging thoughts. A werewolf has to contend with instincts, but how would a two-headed chimera work?

In a way, its the dissection of myths and the concepts behind them. On one hand I'm filling this little well of emotional angst with stories of alienated characters, lonely little half-breeds (half demons, half orcs, half whatever) and attempts to fit in. I find it interesting. I'm not sure if everyone shares similiar sentiments though.

It says something about me, and modern society to an extent, that we as a people seem to be humanizing our demons. In ages past the werewolf and vampire were considered the height of mortal evil. What was there not to know about Vampires and how they suck blood? The evils a beast-man might bring to his family and friends? What is happening is a look into the psychology of such monsters, to the point it becomes a little...unrealistic.

Humanisation of characters are an interesting thing. Just look at the recent Twilight phenomenon. A book about a vampire romance. Then we have the huge assortment of half-demon, full-demon, werewolf, were tiger, were bird literature. Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Inuyasha, Harry Potter even. All these contain evil characters or mythological figures with identifible characteristics. And what does this say?

Is humanity opening up to its monsters? Are we becoming, to an extent, so alien to the primal instincts, to our fears and inner demons, that we must humanize them? Or could it be the reverse? Are our so-called human characterstics becoming more like the demons and evil we once feared?

Three hundred years ago Good and Evil were two opposite sides, with a very large and clear line drawn between. Now we have so much grey, a metaphorical "no man's land", that our morals, lack of morals and self have in a way, merged.

Going back to the topic of transmortative literature, I find it interesting that a vampire can have human feelings. But what about vampire feelings? Does a werewolf really think like that?

An alien should have alien thoughts. An alien that rides a bike and walks about in shorts is, while amusing, not very alien like. To an extent, sterotypes and classifications exist for a reason. To defy the sterotype is one thing, to go to the extent it becomes ridiculous is another. I for one, highly doubt that a fire-demon who is a afraid of fire would have any use short of amusement.

By all means, be creative. But creativity is defined by walking new paths, by seeking new roads, not travelling the same one backwards. Show me the difference between a werewolf struggling with his instincts and a man in a wolf suit. Why do Vampires need to feed on blood?

The greatest merit, I feel, of transformative literature, is its ability to present different viewpoints, different characters. It questions our society: why do we react to this like this? Why do certain people behave like this? What would happen if...etc

Which brings me to my point: From a single sub-set of Fantasy, we already have a large number of potentially Philosophical questions. What defines humanity? What defines society?

I enjoy reading stories. Emotion and humor, plot and action are all part and parcel of a good story. Yet for a story to truely have worth, it should have a point.

To heal? To encourage? To uncover the writhing darkness of humanity? To present some new idea or perspective?

Just because the concept of a bat-winged, red-eyed, armored w/e a tail girl dressed in strangely form fitting yet invunerable armor is bloody cool, it should not form the basis of your tale.

Fantasy has always been for me, the exploration of new ideas. New horizons, not twisted reflections of the old lands.

Perhaps I'm being a little harsh, but after reading a large amount of fanfiction, stories and such, I felt the need to write something about it. Many a good idea hath been marred because the author failed to pay enough attention to his intent.

To blend a realistic character, one that can allow the reader to identify and understand him, along with using such a character almost like a tool to present ideas - this is the challenge of a good Fantasy writer. His stories must be human, yet more than human. They must be realistic, yet reach beyond the limits of reality as well.

Many a person has dubbed Fantasy a useless waste of time. I beg on the contrary. True Fantasy, in its highest form, is potentially the hardest and most thought-provoking literature that can exist.

So give us a Sci-fi or Fantasy book to analyze for literature already.

Signed,

HJ (A rather sleepy, lit-overdosed fantasy fanatic)

Doppelganger

2008-08-10T19:06:00.007+08:00

I don't like him much,
Perhaps I never did.
He was an alien to me, a blight
from times as a foolish kid.

Throw the ball, miss -
mistakes we humans make;
I hated him for that, for being
a human for my sake.

Right now I look at a picture,
Framed in smiles and laughs-
A little boy, all glitter
unsoiled by muddy paths.

I miss him now, sometimes;
But that doesn't change a thing.
Perfection's just round the corner,
Demmand has made me King.

Today I look at the window
and see him once again;
like a ghost, transparent
yet looking behind,
I find that no one came.

Sign Post

2008-08-07T20:34:00.006+08:00

Some time now, a dusty road
Where footprints trod with lines untoed
And no wind blew - a sign
Did mark its face
upon the world so bold.

Still it was, despite the cracks
And graffiti-signed, rust-worn back
With names all over, hearts intwined
with promises, crosses-
but names? No sign.

"End of the Rainbow", that's what it said
the words are Just
like the cheque we paid
into the pot, which where they laid
at the foot of the arc,
For now we head

Towards our fortunes, so says the sign
But along the way, t'was none to find
Of animals or birds
just twin yellow lines
By the borders, marked the signs

Some time now, a dusty road
Where footprints fade on paths untold
A fresh wind blew - but yet
there was no face
needed to point the flow.

----------------------------------------------

Zee great big cloud of emo has passed, although it still hangs around sometime.

This poem...speaks of some of my views, I guess. On what and on which, Let's just see how clear it is. Feedback is welcome, very welcome indeed.

Found it

2008-08-04T21:27:00.002+08:00

I found the problem with me: Its jealously

I'm jealous of how others are able to balance their time with their work and at home with play so well

I'm jealous of how each person seems to have this incredible level so stamina and focus when approaching any task - this passion and drive which I lack.

I'm jealous how everyone seems at least as perceptive, if not more wiser and intelligent, than me. That all my thoughts seem so shallow - so...stupid. Just a bunch fo emo rants.

And finally, I'm jealous of how each person seems to be able to live each day coping with their stress, their worries, their obstacles, without succumbing. While I, weak of spirit, falter at the mere sign of "stretching myself"

And the worse part is that I cannot bring myself to change myself. Its just that I'm not sure why: Is it because I cannot do so, or because somewhere, subconciously, I don't want to?

I've always been disillusioned with life - yet people always represented to me a strange kind of potential; a hope if you will. What I've lost all faith in now is myself.

I no longer have anymore courage to continue forward. In fact, I wonder if I ever had any at all.

Signing off. Good night.

Rant about Change

2008-08-03T22:49:00.003+08:00

Bureacracy. Not everyones favorite modus operandi, but arguably the most efficient. Done properly, Bureacracy can ensure things get done, information gets dissemilated, and people actually produce quality work.

Its a sad day when we have to resort to such tactics in BB.

A sad day indeed.

Its not that I can complain though. IMO, this was a needed move. We, in a sense, brought it upon ourselves, in our complacency, lack of fore-sight and general laziness.

It is strange, sometimes, how an entire organisation usually runs on the spirit of a single person. It is something that is so common, its never noticed, because the efficiency of the spirit that is designated to such a last is such that it never needs to be noticed. It is like the wind in the trees, or water flowing downwards. It just is.

We dont notice these people. But they notice us. They watch us all the time, and think. See the problems, the crooks, the little loose screws that might come undone sometime in the future. And with care, concern and utmost silence, they tighten the screw.

Until there comes a day when they're more screws to be tightened than screwdrivers. Or hands to hold the screwdriver. And when they fall, it all comes crashing down.

We never notice them. So we take for granted things are working as they are. Nothing's changing - the pressure is the same. Who cares that the pipe over there is channeling three times more steam than pipes one and two? As long as the overall pressure is the same, it should be fine, right?

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Our spirits have not left. They have not snapped yet. We, as a group, have more spirits than most organisations have. And in a way, it has caused the spirits themselves to lose focus. When so many spirits exist, more and more would begin to retun to rest. And eventually, we would be left with no more spirits, to tighten the screws again.

Such people...I admire. In a way, I wish to become like them. However, it is one thing for a rock to mold itself into a pillar, and quite another for fragile clay. It is when the clay breaks that people do take notice. And that is something that must never happen. Never happen at all.

---------------------------------------

Change of topic, I went to type-logic (Myer-briggs) again, and looked around the types. And somehow, to my amusment and somewhat horror, I found I might have switched types.

I say types because no one should or can be classified into a single sterotypical role, and no number of paragraphs, systems or descriptions should ever be considered to fully define a person. Psychological was never meant to be a precise or accurate science, and it still isnt. Very good estimates, yes, but precision? No one can be sure of that.

Anyway, I find myself falling into the catergories of thinkers. People whom, as some say, are capable of good insight and forethought. Granted, I am capable of thought, but how does that make me any diferent from the billions of other possible type combinations out there?

Do I really possess as much insight as my ego thinks it does? My inner voice says no (if it is my inner voice.)

I just don't want to think of it that way. Else I'll probably go crazy. A friend told me, in response to the previous post, that we all "analyze movies...as a byproduct of lit". Granted, that was paraphrased, but the meaning was generally there.

And once again, I ask: Do I analyze deeply? More than others? Why should I be concerned about wheter it was more than others?

Subconciously, I'm a competitive jerk, that's why. And subconciously, I really, really want to be someone special.

Then again, don't we all?

Analyzing (the act of) analyzing

2008-08-01T19:47:00.004+08:00

The writer who cares more about words than about characters, action, setting, atmosphere is unlikely to create a vivid and continuous dream; he gets in his own way too much; in his poetic drunkenness, he can't tell the cart- and its cargo- from the horse. -John Gardner

Perhaps something I need to consider more.

Watched Dr Horrible at last. I feel...inspired.

There was something about his thoughts and way and acting - the psychology behind the character, that made me think. Or rather, reflect.

So strange how fictional characters always seem to embody our ideals, thoughts and dreams? Like a magnifying glass, enlarging what was a mere fleeting thought to an image - something more. I suppose this is how symbols are made.

Friends tell me that I analyze books and movies too much. Its so strange - whenever I read or watch something I analyze it a little; its almost subconcious now. At least, I'd like to think I'm analyzing it. Me thinks I merely enjoy the movie for the references and ideas behind them. In a way, its no longer just the plot and show - its what the author is seeking to achieve.

Is it wrong, to view a movie through critic eye? In fact, is it even accurate to say I view the world through a critical eye? Perhaps I'm merely looking at the surface, stating yellow as yellow and air as air - what others feel and absorb and learn from I study with a fascination that makes them seem so much bigger. Yet it is all the same message in the end.

So many ideas...so many thoughts. Someday I will have the time to share them. Develop them and let them grow.

Someday.

Bird Spew

2008-07-29T20:18:00.000+08:00

And who am i? What shall it be
Well-trained horn or bird set free?
The noose is made
of coils unseen
too late for us,
some may deem
To run-a, fly-a, spirit ourselves
away
From bird-seed; fed
till bloated
each day.

Young sparrows wonder
what the great robin may be
So to check they shoot
with arrows - and flee
Question is, these archers
are they in forts or moats?
Either way the breathing
is difficult without boats
to surf the rotten seed
thrown
without thought or wonder
alone
down the dead robin's
swelled gut.

Ink and Oil

2008-07-13T20:36:00.002+08:00

The miners dig and dig they do
Each and every last shard of oil,
that when they strike they throw the spades
and cry out loud "oh, what a spoil!"
"Yet it seems" the workman say,
"they may be more beneath this clay,
More oil to dig, more sights to see
of promises past and what's to be."
And so it seems, these fields of oil
will seep beneath the endless soil,
While we chase after, for fields of gold
or the wonders that lie below;
more oil to mine, more ink to know-
to clay and paper our lives are sold
till we hit the bedrock, a pit so deep
that no more does the oil do seep.
A pit in them and in us as well;
to climb out now? Only time will tell-
if this pit we dig brings gold and oil
or empty pools, once filled with joy.

------------------------------------------

Exams results were bleh, need to work harder in the future

Currently drafted into physics and chem olympiads, question
for self is whether i'm biting off more than I can chew

Always remember what mining does to the fertility
of the land

Reading Glasses

2008-07-04T20:20:00.002+08:00

"...And when Hercules was saved
By the intervention of Zeus
the Critics did cry
"'Plot Armor! Plot Armor!'"

In seeking all knowledge
and learning all things;
the scholar shuns the candle
the writer shuns the strings.

No more is it enough
to merely forge for fun,
nor jump-joy, make-merry
see-silly
smile.

Instead all people,
yes, all people of "Wisdom",
of clarity and reason,
of realism and thought.
Must first purchase, before all else
a pair of blackglasses.

Blackglasses; that's all we seek
stained from stains upon the others-
Even the brightest of lights
is throughly absorbed; no smile
shall shine through
the blackglasses tint.

All words of joy
are the Medusa's gaze-
turn our hearts to stone;

Like moths to flame, we gather-
around the fiery innocence
of the neighbour's child,
born yesterday.

Self-Analysis (Well, sort of)

2008-06-25T18:22:00.005+08:00

Not really a self-analysis. More of a random thought.

Those of you who have played Resident Evil: Something games should know about zee Herb System. Basically something involving three leaves: Green, Red and er, Blue I think.

Green basically heals you of HP. 25% or something. Red cures poisons and status problems, while Blue is well...er, Blue.

Thing is, you can mix herbs together to get more effects. The Blue Herb in particular, is useless on its own, but can be mixed with Green to get something like a 75% Heal.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm like this. I know one or two people who might be Blue Herbs. People who, on their own, appear useless or otherwise weak, yet when working in a team, boosts the overall performance immensely.

I like people like that. Part of this is the reason why I'd like it if I was that sort of person. Part of me thinks all this is just bs****.

Not quite sure whether I'm a supporter or a lone wolf. Frankly, I think most humans are somewhere in between. Caught between the desire for independence, and the comfort of friendship. The need to belong and the need for freedom sometimes clash head on-with painful results. Most people usually lean more towards one side or the other, and hence get the differences in behaviour and such (its in reality alot more complex I guess, but this isn't meant to be a sociological essay)

Green leaves...I guess most of us are Green leaves. I'm probably a Green Leaf too. But should I, and do I, want to change my color?

What is my true color anyway?

Blue leaf or Red?

Or Perhaps its always just been Green after all...

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Temperance

2008-06-17T16:13:00.006+08:00

And it was in a cloud of impatience, rage, confusion and sadness that a single lone voice spoke out;

Temperance, it said, Temperance.

Who was that voice? God perhaps. A spirit? My conscience? Who?

I'm not sure, but voices like that...are like ice on a hot day.

Suddenly the cloud vanished. A few deep breaths, and everything seemed so much clearer, so much more at peace.

Perhaps in my period of sadness, wondering why I was sad, and whether I should be feel more sad, I began to translate some of that sadness into anger. I never was that close to her, yet there was a strange sort of protective pride - a duty, if you will. As one whom spent the better 16-17 years of his life in the same house as her, watching her doing her morning excercises and drinking that tiny cup of coffee from that same chipped little mug.

Hearing her pray for me, to the gods of heaven, each day and each hour, when I had exams, when I feel sick, when I went overseas, when I went with my friends.

Hearing her words, even as we grew older and she grew sicker; even when her mind was ill it still thought of us - Most hallucinations are of dangers happening to the victim, but her greatest fear was of danger happening to us.

The phone rang every day for six months straight.

And then the phone calls stopped.

Visited we did. Us to her, or vice-versa. All smiles and laughter, yet still it seemed strained. We knew, she knew - everyone knew, but no one said. No one wanted to say. And still I don't know whether it was true.

Of course it had to happen. The bump only sped it up, they said. Only sped it up.

Ha...

Only.

And she lay there, on their bed, and we went every day, and sometimes I cursed at being interupted in my own activities, then cursed myself for cursing, and then saw her on the bed and threw all curses aside, they had no place there, there wasn't enough room for more.

Only blessings were needed. But blessings, unlike curses, never come often enough.

It got worse, she got worse, and so a decision was made. And so five days were set aside, while there they cleaned the bed.

It happened so fast. I didn't know what to say.

Cry? Scream? There wasn't anything like that. So I just kept quiet, wondering why I didn't cry and didn't scream and didn't feel anything; and grew sad at not being sad, and angry at not being angry and slowly, the cloud built up amongst the fog of fever, among the pains of cough.

And then, just when I was contemplating shouting at the blasted priest with his cane and lantern and endless chanting--

The voice spoke out

Temperance.

I still want to know who it was today.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And so I'll remember that word, and remember that day.

Wonder

2008-06-09T23:46:00.002+08:00

Sometimes I wonder...

Is it my fault?

When people cry, or rail at the heavens

Is it somehow my fault?

For not helping when I could,
For not trying harder-
For not simply being there...

And when they shout and cry
and scream anger at the shadows

I wonder-

Who are they yelling at?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just a sinner, nothing more