Intermission XVIII: A Note to the Little Ones Residing in My Hea(rt)d.

Strange bedfellows, you little fellows are. Whimsical, petulant things who constantly float about in my head, who swell into gigantic proportions and clog my heart, whenever prodded. And I cannot place you in a box nor seal it tight, for fear of feeding you a compression that causes you to grow, and grow, and grow. And then burst open like a fanfare of colours-in-a-box, splattering and staining everything inside and/or around me.

Just like the frame that captures the colours on each canvas, you swathe my world, whispering in my ears. Naughty things that tint my world rose, twine my heart with green, stain my emptiness blue and make me see red. I both envy and pity those who do not find themselves needing to deal with these little devils. Envy, because they've have cost me many a pretty pound in scrubbing the bruises they leave, both outside my shell, and inside my heart. Yet, if ever I would reach into my heart and my head and not find you there, I would find myself unbearably.. lonely. And my world would fade into monochrome dullness, losing the edge that your colours give.

Why I felt the need to write about these particular little devils, especially after waking up from a period of hibernation (from updating the blog)..  I know not. A manifestation of self-reflection after the abundant discussions about MBTI types, perchance? I have often considered you a nuisance, having associated with you various memories of losing hold of your leash and watching you lunge forward with a vengeance, suffocating the person(s) nearest to me. And often the dearest.

Good God, I’m sorry. To those who've had to scrub the splatters of emotional excess after the explosions. I’m only too glad that I found my paint rag to help cleanse some of the messes before the stains soaked in too deeply to be removed. Mum has ever told me I don’t control you enough for my own good; yet, realizing that I am an ISFJ is like being shown the reversed side of the story.

Together, how much pain have we dealt out, how much remorse have we suffered? But I have not been fair to you, you poor little devils. I have not tried to understand you, always letting you run wild, only to lock you in that prison of a box when I didn’t like how you were ringing the alarm in my head. But listen to me: I have finally accepted that I cannot shut you away in the hopes that you'll shush and not try to break free.  I promise you, although I will still stuff you in there from time to time, I will heed you when you knock on the lid and ask to be let out. And I will guide you out myself, in harmony, you and I hand in hand, walking together, finding the answers we need.

Because if you and I end up hurting the precious ones again... I couldn’t forgive either you or myself, and might wish for you to disappear. And know that if I reach inside and find that you're no longer there... I simply wouldn’t know how to live anymore. 

Intermission XVII: A (Rather) Strange Kind of Fascination. My Obsession for Paradoxes?

i'm being haunted by a pair of slanting eyes.

till now, i have never truly understood the meaning of imperfect beauty. never in my experience of reading poetry and literature have i ever been able to understand how being imperfect can almost be necessary in order to be beautiful. (not even in those strange sculptures..? they're beautiful, but it simply is beauty in imperfection. the imperfection does not make the beauty.. hmmm...) after all, the greeks believed that beauty was found in perfection. and havent i been raised in a culture that appears to agree with that?

i could not understand what drew me to such a face. neither could i understand why i kept wanting to see what fascinated me so, why i could not get it out of my mind. why i kept wanting to look at those eyes.

slanted, of the asian variety. not slitted, but not wide-open. eyes that were intense, and striking.

i look a little closer, and i notice that the eyes are not proportionate: one is slightly narrower than the other. there. imperfection.

strangely, it does nothing to detach from the beauty of the face. that very imperfection fits into place perfectly, like jagged pieces of a puzzle that fit together to make a hauntingly striking picture. and i dont know what it is about those eyes that draw me. the drooping eyelid of one that hints at secrets forever hidden, and the cold composure of the other, no matter the expression on the face they belong to. the heavy-lidded gaze that studies the world around them, but never reveals what goes on behind them.

the masculinity that peeps out from behind features too feminine to be male. the aura of fragility that belies the toughness of a warrior.

a tantalizing illusion of delicacy...

what is it about androgynous characters that fascinate me so?

Intermission XVI: Death, Doubt, and Divinity.

Have finally finished off all seven volumes of happy rotter, and I must say, I enjoyed them more than i initially thought I would (here I sense the jester doing a peevesiesque whoop of glee).

So many deaths occur in there, with enough anguish and sense of loss written into the pages for it to hit me how fragile life is, both in and out of fiction. And then it struck me hard, all these thoughts of the brushes that my family's had with death and survived.

My earliest memory of such an incident was as a child of four, five, when I contracted a severe case of dengue. Those who know about it will remember that there isn't any surefire treatment for it. I remember my gran and my mum desperately making herbal (eeeuch) concoctions, forcing it down my throat daily. But that didn't help, if the doctor's gloomy warning to my dad was any indication. 

I have been told, and I believe, that I survived solely by the grace of God's mercy. And I have often wondered, what made Him grant my father, then a non-believer's plea? Perhaps how my father put his faith in Him, despite not truly knowing Him? Acknowledging His might and will, in saying 'I beg you, give her back to me, but if it's Your will to take her, take her?'. In any case, after prayers were said over me, I passed the night of reckoning unscathed, the virus having disappeared from my blood completely by the next morning.

And so my survival became the pivotal point of change in my parents' attitude towards Christianity. 

Thinking about all the times my mum's had brushes with death, it makes me shudder. Just recently, she's had a brush with another snake, only this time the idiot creature was hiding in the house. It doesn't come as any relief that it wasn't poisonous this time round; the last one she encountered was mildly venomous. And the time a top heavy branch crashed down onto the road right after her car passed, barely missing her boot? 

Sometimes, thinking about my dad going on trips overseas, my mum being on her own at home with only Doong as companion... it shakes me up, thinking of what could possibly go wrong. And then I mutter a quick prayer to God to watch over them, remembering that He's kept us all safe all this while. I betcha my parents do the same thing, except perhaps my mum's prayers will be much longer. 

But then the next time I hear news about a trip, the worry creeps back again, and I say another prayer, which calms my fears down for the meantime. Does that make me a person of little faith? Feeling fear and worry despite having known His protection and care all these years? Should I not worry, since I know He'll protect us anyway (that smacks of taking things for granted though)? Or is it only human frailness that makes us worry and doubt, despite everything He's done?

But I guess that's the very reason we run to Him. And hence, the very essence of our faith: leaning on Him because we are, essentially, very frail beings, and knowing His strength can and will support us all. 

Intermission XV: A Rueful Admission.

It's sobering, when you take a good look at yourself through another's eyes, and find that you're not as good as you thought you were (or would like to be).

I have a tendency to ruminate, and repeat things all over and over again, which i am trying to not do. ick. jCe once told me that the way i view things can be too extreme, too black and white. Which kinda makes sense, i suppose, since i either veer sharply towards thinking highly of myself, or simply thinking i'm the most appalling creature on earth. 

Where does the line cut in between good and bad? At this moment, i'm finding it very difficult to think of myself as a 'good' person, because i recognize that i've done something(s) bad. Sometimes i wonder if i'm simply some yucky creature hiding behind the shields of 'goodness', and that if i don't keep ahold of meself, that insistent fellow's going to pop out and rear its ugly head. and i fear that i'll one day lose control over it, and people're going to see me as the  yucky creature i am and despise me for it.

And in thinking that, i begin to depise myself. in the process of depising myself, i trap myself in a circle where i simply end up repeating that behaviour, which causes me to despise myself even more. In the end, i simply get pessimistic, and all hung up about the idea of people disliking me, without having done anything about the whole issue in the first place.

Yet, yucky or not, there're those who would walk with me, and help me work on it. those who believe i can do something about it, and that i shouldn't simply ruminate and wallow in self-pity over it. those who give me the courage to do something about it. 

And i'm grateful to you (all). More than i know how to express.

Thank you. It's way too short a phrase for all i'm wanting to say, but know that i mean it in all sincerity. *hugs*

Intermission XIV: Because That's What 'Love' Truly Means to Me.

When i hear people talk about love, as that wonderful fantastic all encompassing answer-to-all never-ending entity, i wonder what love really means to them, what they really see it as, anyway. All those symbols for love, roses, hearts, cupids, chocolates and the like. Does that all really, and i mean really, adequately symbolize love?

I've always been more of a realist than a romantic. If someone asked me how it'd like being in love.... i think... i wouldn't know what to tell them, because... to me, love's so much more than just a bunch of pretty symbols and words, or some trumped up hollywood/kdrama cliche.

I like sternberg's triangle theory of love best. intimcy, passion, commitment. all important for a consummate, fulfilling relationship. but again, that's just one part. that's about... romantic love.

To me, love isnt just 'love', per se. Love isn't some mysterious, inexplicable entity that stands completely alone by itself, untouched and separate from all other feelings or emotions. I see it as a combination of many many things, the parts of which manifests themselves in different ways in relation to different people.

My father loves me, just as he loves my mother. But he loves us both in different ways. I love the jester, but in a different way from bosom friends, and even more differently from my parents. All forms have the elements of trust, emotional intimacy, friendship, commitment and care, but each form differs from the other. Love for my parents and friends doesn't include passion, and love for my friends and the jester doesn't include filial piety.

Love is my parents not giving up on me, even when everyone else thought me hopeless and couldn't care less.

Love is my mum staying up at night to bake me muffins, so that my dad can bring them to me the next day.

Love is the friendship between the jester and i, and his doing all sorts of little things for me, his having faith in us both.

Love is those friends of mine who would come to my aid should i ever need it, and who know that i'd do the same for them.

And last, but never least, love is God having given me all, despite me being imperfect.

Looking at it in such a way, how can i say that love is just one, single entity? 

Intermission XIII: Howling for the Moon.

Sometimes, i wonder what it truly means to be talented.

People throw the word talented around so lightly. They tell me i have a talent for writing, a talent for drawing or whatever, and sometimes, i really don't think i deserve the word. if i truly had talent, why am i only able to churn out half-baked stories, or repetitive, depressing poetry? 

Ugh. Hardy-esque. And here i'm doing much the same as he is, with nary a slice of hope peeking through my verses. 

Remembering what dr M (not that damn maverick; one a helluva lot more deserving of respect) said about competencies, i think i know myself well enough to accept that i have a competency for language and writing; the question is, how far does it go before it's really talent?

Nothing makes one feel more helpless than having hit rock bottom, and being trapped in a stretch of quicksilver. or worse, a bog. And once you've climbed out of it, you never want to go back there, even if it means you're gonna have to die trying to keep yourself away from there.

So many ways i could've gone wrong. Any one would've left the trail of broken hearts and hope behind, but why one that nearly broke my spirit? Why one that took so much from me only to have me struggle so hard to find it?

Perhaps... as i told the guys... perhaps one doesn't truly know who they are until they've broken themselves (over and over again) and tried to put the pieces back. and continue to look for others to cement the gaps. 

Perhaps i'm just one idiot dog out there howling for the moon, all by its lonesome self.

Intermission XII: I'd Grind Your Bones to Make My Bread and Use Your Brains for Jam.

For a long time, i haven't quite felt as furious as i did today, so much that my hands were shaking, and i had to draw deep breaths to calm myself down.

Whoever you are, you foolish clodhead(s) with mush for brains, your pure idiocy and selfishness cost the entire class our three final quizzes and any possible chance for everyone to redeem those lost marks. 

Personally, if i ever catch who you are, i'd like to give you a sound thrashing, and a kick down the stairs, to boot.

I wouldnt at all be surprised if the rest of the class were devising all manners of horrific, vile tortures for you in their minds. Especially since miss W warned us multiple times that if you didnt give back her answer sheets, she'd punish everyone. And since you were blockheaded enough to not heed her warning, our wrath's well earned.

And oh, to another bloody hole in the buttocks, i hope you go to hell for the things you put him through. I've been told to pray for you, that you'll open your heart and not be the way you are, but for years, you've only gotten from bad to worse. And i wonder if our prayers seem like they're unanswered because even God doesn't want to bother with someone like you. 

Intermission XI: Phonological Loop.

For some strange reason, today i find myself repeatedly thinking about (psychspeak: ruminating) the conversation i had with Dr.A that day, when i went to return her hair slide to her.

Frankly speaking, i had no idea i'd end up having that conversation with her, considering i'd just meant to drop the slide off and pop off, but her asking about my birthday sort of opened the gates to conversation, and well, one thing led to another.

So i just sorta kind told her a little of what i (we) did, and mentioned that its no big deal, after all, seriously, what's the big deal about birthdays? especially since the 'special' ones're over and done with. and she said: don't la be so negative about birthdays.

Now that kinda knocked me off kilter, since i'd never thought about me being negative, but simply indifferent. But Dr.A being Dr.A, perhaps she picked up on something else that even i'm not aware of.

Cant say as how i havent have had good birthdays. the year before, they pulled a whopper on me (and me being the blurqueen, i didn't realise a surprise was being sprung on me till it slapped me in the face). last year, i had a simple celebration with mum and dad, then the jester and R, courtesy of the jester.

And then this year's the most wonderful of all. ethics, 306 midterms (oral somemore!) and counselling. COUNSELLING. on my birthday. Dr.A said i should've told her it was my birthday, but i laughed it off. and then she said i should've told my counsellor no sessions on my birthday. oh well.

An eventful birthday not withstanding, i think one of the most valuable things i gained that week was attending the talk J invited me to, and listening to Dr.N talk about those other religions, and our own. That gave me insight into things, and generated all manners of thoughts, some of which led me into a theological -sorta- argument/discussion with SR all the way to Ming Tian.

I lose, SR. I am simply not well equipped enough to debate and argue properly, much less convince anyone. lol. Lemme go arm myself, then i'll give it another go, kay? XD

I'm glad for you guys, who cheered me on while i was trying to swallow that burning hunk of sausage meat. I'm glad for A's getting us together with a bunch of his fellows, and for being thoughtful enough to plan in a way that allows people to be able to bond. 

I thank God for having friends with whom i can sit down trade banter over cookies with ice cream(SR, bake more cookies and the jester and I'll bring the ice cream) , and who can talk from nineteen to the dozen and back again. (oh, and get pyromaniacal with matches, a cup and a sacrificial fly. gads, i can still remember the evil look of glee on you two's faces. seriously.) i'm grateful for friends who can tell awesomely disgusting jokes (its the joker that counts, not the joke. XD) and who can tell me, don't worry, just join for the fun. Most of all, i'm grateful for the jester, who's there to tell me when i'm wrong, when i'm doing what i shouldn't be, and who's there to lecture me when i need it. 

And when my thoughts hit this spot, then i think, i no longer feel the need to write just to exorcise lingering shadows of the past. For perhaps, as someone told me, perhaps, it shouldn't be anger and betrayal i'm feeling, but resignation. And with it, more than just a wee bit of pity, for you'll not be someone i'll keep in my phonological loop.

Intermission X: Post Tenebras, Lux.

Today, You called me home.

i cried out in my despair, Kyrie, Kyrie eleison. Lord, dona nobis pacem.

You said to me

Come home, o sinner. ye who are weary, come home. I will wait with arms wide open

Your words came to me in the voice of an angel

You opened my ears to words that i've heard, but not listened to

You gave me tears to wash away the darkness and anger in my heart

You lifted a lost child on wings of an eagle

And now she lies, safe and at peace, in the palm of Your hand.

Thank You, Lord.

Intermission IX: Says the Reed to the (Conch) Shell Through the Duck.

you there, born like a reed. 

have you ever imagined how it would be like to be someone other than yourself? (or maybe you do, but not the way i'm thinking).  

tell me, do you know what it's like to have a shell like mine?  

you don't.   i hoped that it'd be like what i've witnessed so often, and secretly dreamed to have. (but i forget, those people were reeds too. not conch shells).  

you found it so easy to judge my shell as unworthy, when you haven't even sampled the contents.  

so easily did you take to it a sledgehammer, not even thinking of what damage you may cause not to just the shell, but what the shell is part of (but you'd like that to happen, wouldn't you).  

How do you think it'd feel like, if i were you, and you me? would you feel as you've made me feel?  

but then, you know don't know the meaning of empathy, i don't doubt. (i simply wonder why it took you so long to blow your whistle. after all, you've seen me at least a dozen times, knowing what i am. but you let me believe it would be alright?) 
 

i suppose i must say a bitter thank you for helping me to finalize a self-fulfilling prophesy, although i doubt i did anything to contribute to it's culmination, apart from growing my shell. 
 

it pays to be a cynic, you know. because if you'd turned out another way, i would be an optimist for a while, and tell myself 'see, what were you worried for? things turned out all right' and maybe get shot at sometime in the future. 

it hurts more when one isn't prepared to be pot-shot at.

so think about cynicism as a shield of sorts.  

and  now, when things turn out like this, being a pessimist, i can congratulate myself on being right all along, and tell myself, i told me so.  

a cynic at 22, i feel faith in good things slipping out of my fingers, like flour through a sieve (everytime you shake it, a little more falls out). 
 

because deep down inside, even as i prayed for it to be alright, somewhere inside, a little doubting Thomas whispered not to get hopes up, 'just in case'.  

(and now i'm paying the price for that folly).

eli, eli, lama sabathani?  

Father almighty, the ever-living God... is this a warning to the little thomas living inside me? (but Lord, you appeared to the other Thomas to dispel his doubts...) 
 

Happy those do not see and yet believe. i guess this means i'm one of the 'unhappy'.    

P.S to the other famous and wealthy reeds out there, if you complain another word about you having an extra millimetre somewhere on those cheese-pared stalks of yours, i'm going to pot-shoot your photos (that have been sandpapered anyway).  
 

because you don't have the right to talk about your oh-so-imperfect reed stalks, or talk about how its all about inner-beauty (when people go crazy over your reed stalk and cares a whit about your inner-beauty... wait, i hear an echo somewhere... oops, reeds are hollow, right?), not when you don't know what it's like to be a conch shell. 

P.S.S Once upon a time, a reed looked into a mirror and saw carrots for legs, a turnip for a belly, and wailed and moaned to the shell. Methinks that one ought to see Dr H, for such is a symptom of horrid self-image distortion.

Intermission VIII: Another Week, Another Friend Gone. To Q, and the Memories of 2007.

When I wrote the tribute to a schoolmate who'd passed away last week, I'd never in my wildest nightmare imagined that I'd be doing the same for you today, someone I'd been thinking of only last night. Life, how could you?

Some of my fondest memories from Form 6 were because of you, you know that? Like hearing you joke with Kulow, giggling over, well, you know who we caught in the room with her boyfriend, and you pole dancing on a dare. Or of you chasing the little kambing around threatening to bbq him. How can I hear the words 小羊 without thinking of you?

I didn't tell you how grateful I was to have your company during the convention, did I? Or that you'd covered me with your own blanket in the middle of the night?

I'll never forget how cheerfully you dismissed what would have sent other girls wailing, and simply said that you were grateful to even be how you were. Did you know I was thinking about you just last night, not knowing you were struggling for your life? and now I'll never get to see you again. 

Rest in peace, Q. And know that we'll be missing you.

Intermission VII: To KS, Whom No One Thought Would Have Left So Soon.

How many people that i personally know have passed from this world? People who attended school with me, people so young and vibrant in life that you'd never imagine they'd be gone so much earlier before myself.


'Out, out, brief candle.'


If someone'd told us, back when we were 13 and believed ourselves invincible, that you'd be be gone before you were even 30... do you suppose we'd have believed? No! We would have laughed it off as a terribly funny joke. Young, and full of promise; who'd ever have thought about death and dying?


Why oh why do we believe ourselves invincible? Infallible? Untouchable?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sun threaded through the lacy fronds of life, that slowly, slowly it's weaving.


Slowly it crept; sometimes it slept, backwards in time receding.


Often time stops, one's burden does drop, and there a soul goes leaving.


But for those who stay, weep as we may, soon, yea, we'll follow your leading.


Rest in peace. I only hope you enjoyed your short life in every way you could.

Intermission VI: 26.07.10. This is my Talent, I Will Wield It Like a Weapon.

Fear is a cage

That traps me within

A new book, new chapter

I daren't turn the page.

CBT, come to me, purge my mind with thoughts of thee.

Time to sweep fear under the dirty carpet. (where it should belong). 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There. Two done.

I realize as an editor, my name will never appear as a byline, and that some other person will take credit for my editing (at least that's how it is in the country of ones). 

BUt then i guess... the satisfaction from making something *ahem* better is fulfillment enough for me.

Intermission V: Pausing the Poetry for Prose.

i need to start writing in prose again. and heaven forbid, not in assignment format.

 it does get rather irritating when i'm needing to do assignments, but only have paired words and rhymes floating in my head.  i wonder if this's what dr M means by spontaneity? higher level cognitive processing? he may think it a competency (mind you, i do consider it a gift), but i dont suppose dr G'd find it amusing if i tried writing my finals essay in rhyme. not that i could *snort*.

sigh. i really dont know how to describe the tangled rush of emotions while hearing dr M lecture... fear, shock, interest, fascination, confusion? and the sense that time's running out, that i'm moving backwards even as i try to make my way up.

seriously, who after seeing pranaf's insane inventions can not feel woefully intimidated or like an intellectual ant? i do look forward to having one of those contraptions around my neck (since it practically makes any other contraption redundant), but well... i guess this's the first time i've ever seen that sort of mind in action. simply... mad.

aigoo (sorry, have been watching Personal Preference: sang jun/young seon's favourite exclamation)... tell me how to study for I/O, someone? bad enough its dr G, i have completely no idea how to incorporate dr M's stuff into the I/O mindset... and thanks to S, i've been watching Personal Preference, and thus, havent studied a bit. and now, character le jin ho keeps floating in my mind. =.=. sorry, jester. looking at it from the angle of a romance reader. characters're hard to resist, especially when packaged into such a nice parcel, but you know that already. (so dont you dare imply i'm a fangirl again or i'll conk your head. =.=)

am bloody tempted to watch another series, but i think i shall resist. will now return to crafting a timeline for the training, oops, talent management program. =.=

Intermission IV: postcountdown: hail, 2010.

just yesterday afternoon someone i know well (and who probably knows me better than i like) told me, 'you're still young, go enjoy!' when i made a face and said i aint a big fan of clubbing.

'fun'=clubbing? maybe in your glitzy world, not mine. (so said from yours truly's own personal experience from last new year's countdown after getting splashed with beer and squeezed off a dance floor by a grind-happy couple =.=)

a bit silly to ask, but i'm wondering what i'll be getting out of this year?

nice lecturers, definitely (especially after that fiasco last semester). and nice team mates (also after several fiascos last semester). and nice assignments (still from that fiasco last semester). and more good books. more new discoveries, more...

heck, when did this turn into a wishlist?

i wonder how many roadblocks there'll be this time? the beginning of this year signifies several endings for me; endings that're coming all too soon. unfortunately also, my head's swimming with ideas and sort-of plans i'd dearly love to carry out, except for the buts... never mind. i'm rambling.

for once, i dont have much to say, anymore. just that, at this moment, i'm only aware of a strangely positively, optimistic bent in my demeanor, something sweet and warm, something full of hope and lightness, and right now, its lifting me up high, higher than i should be for someone who'd liken facing the unknown to standing on the edge of a precipice on tippytoes (and who'd view the ravine with trepidation).

oh, and that warm, sweet feeling? its called Faith.

Intermission III: there you go, 2oo9.

its with a warm feeling that i remember the night before of the last new year, so ripe with expectations, so full of promise.

has it truly been a good year?

looking back at a day a year from now, scattered pieces have been glued back, some preserved like the treasures they are, more've been broken, or are cracked and close to breaking. will those be able to tahan till next year? we'll see.

these last months, there've been days where life was so bleak i simply wanted to curl up and shrink into the walls, melt into the floor, times when fury nearly got the better of me and turned me into a monster, and had lots of pebbles i tripped over and felt like taking a sledgehammer to, or shrews i'd have happily have tossed into a cellar and locked away.

having said that, it can be quite sharp a jolt, looking into and around yourself, and finding you dont like what you see. and quite a wake up call it was.

still, i'll take the bad with the good. as far as vision goes, its definitely clearer than its been in the entire 21 years of my living. Not just that, found lots of new fun to indulge in, gone through some pretty whacky and bizzare episodes, all of which total up to some very satisfying moments; had more files and stuff chucked into my long term memory, and i hope they're there to stay, even if i cant manage to lug them back up front. its enough knowing its stored somewhere in those folds of neurons.

for better or for worse, its also taken this year for me to finally comprende that certain fears're simply unfounded, and that sometimes the easiest way to beat a demon is just to close my eyes, have faith in the Father above and take a nice big leap. and for that, i thank Him, for the little bites of insight He's given me, for all the peace of mind that He filled my heart with, for every prayer He granted, for the strength He's given me through those genuine companions He's given me.

also, there're someone elses i would thank, for all the patience shown me, all the short tempers put up with, all the trouble i've given. you, you and you, you mean just about the world to this child who's still finding her footing in this world.

yes. i've grown up, and not just only a little bit more. wish me luck in growing up another bit more.

oh, one final thing... isnt it funny how a grown-up still needs to have grown up in order to be considered grown up? sorry, i couldnt resist one last bit of wordplay. ;)

Happy New Year, everybody!

P.S to all those who've left this world, i pray that you may find peace and solace in the world you're in now, whichever one you believe in. May God be with you always.

Intermission II: somehow, i had a feeling this was coming.

when i'd decided that i'd dedicate this blog to entirely poetry and prose, i think somehow deep down inside i knew i'd end up changing my mind, and start chunking conversational bits in. after all, i got bored with switching blog colours once a month, so who's to say i wont get bored writing P and P all the time?

yesss... it does get very tiring and mind-crashing writing stories and poetry all the time (or turning incidents and thoughts into them anyway. its easiest when the words fall together themselves); having said that, when i was with BP, i found it infinitely easier to churn out the above, rather than a piece of hard news.

i'm glad i went. i really am, because that one month pointed out my path clearer than any course counselor could. you see, a doubting thomas like me has to experience things for myself (when i can work up the guts to) or else forever i'll be wondering if i could handle it, and end up not doing anything at all.

with the intention to digress, i've suddenly gotten a sudden urge to dissect my behaviour in relation to the doubting thomas infliction: i used to refuse to eat eggplant until once i had it, and found it incredibly delicious, and have been enjoying it ever since then. oh, black mushrooms too. and multiple other vegetables, bitter ones excluded.

good God, why am i rambling about vegetables? i must've had my brain addled with all the research terms miss W was tossing at us just now. i will NOT want to do anything with research, ever. i can barely even catch up with that machine brain of hers; Lord knows, not being able to catch on quickly's pretty damaging to the pride of someone who considers herself relatively quick.

the jester often laughs at me for saying 'if only' (if only Dr M'd chosen a better successor), but now all i can think about are the so many 'if onlys' that've been bothering me in the recnt weeks.
if only we'd followed our instincts when we first met PD.Q, if only Dr N would still be teaching us, if only i'd known that Group Processes was under Dr A, if only we didnt have to get separated for PSY208, if only DKF hadnt been such a stubborn fool, if only he'd thought to use his brain, if only L didnt behave like that, if only i knew how to help them, if only she didnt have to suffer and go through all this, if only, if only, if only.

i hope this semester isnt going to turn out rainy. by the looks of it, i'm sensing dark clouds ahead already.

if only, if only.




P.S you see? rhymes come to me when i least need them. =.=

Intermission I: The Ruffian Coach Driver.

What shall one do, when one crosses the road, only to have a ruffian of a driver force his way through the crowd, and continue driving, heedless of the safety of the pedestrians?

What should one do, when said vehicle knocks into you?

Has he not broken the law?

Would you not say that a kick on said vehicle was well deserved?

Think on it.

What should one do then, if the ruffian parks his vehicle and chases after oneself, dragging one out of the line one is standing in, shouting and cursing one for kicking his vehicle (conveniently forgetting his own fault in causing this sorry mess), loudly proclaming one as being insolent?

And what ought one do, if he continually tries to goad one into a fight, though one attempts to ignore him?

And what when he still strikes one on the face, although one has apologized?

Should one strike back?

But someone did not. Someone walked away, instead of demeaning himself to the level of such lowlife ruffians, for he knew, understood that to talk common sense and righteousness to a blockhead was akin to preaching morals to a cow.

And so, he lowered down the fist poised to strike back, allowing the guard to lead the blockhead away.

Never has this author been prouder of him than then; fortunate I am, parce que j'ai trouvé ont un véritable gentilhomm.