"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.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Weary
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
To Sleep Perchance to Dream
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.
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.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday Night Out
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 !@#$. Me and Klow were the main actors while Justin and Levin came up with random scenes and the ever-popular inappropriate one-liners.
Or should I say, highly appropriate? Just...not for the pure-hearted xD
Long story short? It was bloody awesome. Really gotta do this kinda thing again. (THE WEREWOLVES ARE COMING)
Then the four of us and Chermaine, Elvira, Jun Siong, Ernest (and one more guy whose name I can't remember. I'm such a horrible person) went to a 24 hour swensens at Holland V where we ordered two earthquakes and ate coffee ice-cream at freakin' 1am.
Then I got home at about 2, slept at about 3, and woke up at 9am to the sounds of my dad printing page after page of reports (side note: the bigger the printer, the more bells and whistles they can fit inside)
Altogether, a brilliantly eccentric and fun Saturday Night Out.
Cause Ernest was busy having his time wasted by Yip (according to him), so the four of us decided to go do random "Improv acts" aka Whose's Line random !@#$. 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.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
.ORG.SG
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.
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.