Long time no blog...actually, there's a Valentine's Day draft that isn't out yet because I wanted to attach a picture and my Internet Explorer keeps rebooting when I try to. I can't use Mozilla because I don't already have it, and when I try to download it Internet Explorer reboots too. So I'm kinda stuck until I visit the computer guy in college again.
But anyway, to the topic...
How much can you disclose of yourself to people? To friends who haven't been your friends for very long, not those that you've weathered countless storms together, seen through highs and lows and nastiness and grumpiness?
I don't know, but what I know is that it needs to come slowly...and naturally. For some people their lives are an open book, they'll tell people they barely know the history of their lives and loves. I think that I'm a partially open book - I'm generally pretty open about the small stuff, with things that may help the other person, my weaknesses, things like that - but not about things that might potentially harm/embarrass me if they get out. I guess most people are like that.
There's that line, and when you cross the line, I'll probably spill everything. More than you want to hear, even. But if you've told me your stuff, does that obligate me to tell you my stuff as well? What if I'm not ready to trust you with my baggage, my secrets?
Playground politics, but we take to a greater level as we grow older...
Monday, February 25, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Wistfulness
I remember a time when I thought flowers were the most beautiful things in all of God’s creation. I remember the rapture of being given a deep red rose, sniffing deeply into it and capturing the fragrance of happiness, romance and a youthful timelessness. I remembered its perfection, a microcosm of everything that was worth living for in the world.
How small my world was then! And yet how perfect, when it only consisted of the two of us.
I remember lazy walks to nowhere even in the deep of winter when everyone was hiding in their dorm cubbyholes. I remember chocolates that melted in my mouth. I remembered laughing for no reason, feeling more alive than ever before in my life. Colours burned brighter, every pop jingle called forth emotion like the Hallelujah Chorus.
I think often about that golden, slightly ephemeral time; wishing, wondering why it didn’t last. I found the fitting metaphor for this design in the tapestry of our lives…it was a song, sung by the finest choir. A clarion call to spring, to hope. Ancient civilizations used to dance and sing to welcome a new year, the turn of frost to warmth. When we created technology and replaced Bacchus and Persephone, we lost a crucial part of our natural knowledge of the world. We lost the living rhythm of the seasons. That every song has a rising, a climax, a falling, and an end that lingers long in our awed ears.
The duet we made sang of joys that could satisfy forever, but the notes had no place in a larger reality. I am still glad that there was no discordant tune in that song; that we finished it marvellously, a wistful note towards the end that hovered in the air – who could blame us if we shed a few tears as the music stopped?
I grew up, grew out, expanded myself, my world and experienced many deep joys and heartbreaks after. But once in a while – when my glories clang like brass, when my loved ones have more important things to attend to – I wish I could sing that song with you again. The tune, every pitch and pause, remains in my memory still.
How small my world was then! And yet how perfect, when it only consisted of the two of us.
I remember lazy walks to nowhere even in the deep of winter when everyone was hiding in their dorm cubbyholes. I remember chocolates that melted in my mouth. I remembered laughing for no reason, feeling more alive than ever before in my life. Colours burned brighter, every pop jingle called forth emotion like the Hallelujah Chorus.
I think often about that golden, slightly ephemeral time; wishing, wondering why it didn’t last. I found the fitting metaphor for this design in the tapestry of our lives…it was a song, sung by the finest choir. A clarion call to spring, to hope. Ancient civilizations used to dance and sing to welcome a new year, the turn of frost to warmth. When we created technology and replaced Bacchus and Persephone, we lost a crucial part of our natural knowledge of the world. We lost the living rhythm of the seasons. That every song has a rising, a climax, a falling, and an end that lingers long in our awed ears.
The duet we made sang of joys that could satisfy forever, but the notes had no place in a larger reality. I am still glad that there was no discordant tune in that song; that we finished it marvellously, a wistful note towards the end that hovered in the air – who could blame us if we shed a few tears as the music stopped?
I grew up, grew out, expanded myself, my world and experienced many deep joys and heartbreaks after. But once in a while – when my glories clang like brass, when my loved ones have more important things to attend to – I wish I could sing that song with you again. The tune, every pitch and pause, remains in my memory still.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Chinese New Year Fireworks
Four precious days of freedom from school, and it's nearly over!:S
Weird that I should have a longer holiday back home in Malaysia for Chinese New Year than in Hong Kong, where perhaps 99% of the population is Chinese. And CNY is a BIG THING. Everywhere there are discounts, people give angpaus a lot more freely (like to doormen and waitresses and serving people) than back home. Maybe because they don't have as many occasions to be generous as we do.
Last night, I watched the New Year fireworks from my aunt's condo's window. It was in the distance in Tsim Sha Tsui (TST) over the sea by the harbour, but the colours were bright and beautiful and sparkly. The display was long, about 20 minutes in total with musical accompaniment which I heard through the TV which was also on at the same time. Good idea actually, they used many soaring operas that highlighted the waves of fireworks building up to a crescendo-upon which they explode magnificently like a glittery mini-supernova and shower sparks onto the hapless crowd (I think. They might just fall into the sea, frying some poor aquatic creature). Well, it's fireworks, how many designs can they come up with? The ones that expanded in the air to form the letters "2008" were quite impressive though.
It made me wish that when I die, my ashes (after organ donation) could be mixed in with gunpowder and shot into the sky, illuminating the dark sky for a few seconds, shattering the monotony of a weary weeknight. "What's the occasion?" People will ask. And others will shrug. Who knows? But those who did it will remember that this is exactly how I wanted to live my life, and the perfect metaphor for death.
"Better to light a candle than curse the darkness."
Weird that I should have a longer holiday back home in Malaysia for Chinese New Year than in Hong Kong, where perhaps 99% of the population is Chinese. And CNY is a BIG THING. Everywhere there are discounts, people give angpaus a lot more freely (like to doormen and waitresses and serving people) than back home. Maybe because they don't have as many occasions to be generous as we do.
Last night, I watched the New Year fireworks from my aunt's condo's window. It was in the distance in Tsim Sha Tsui (TST) over the sea by the harbour, but the colours were bright and beautiful and sparkly. The display was long, about 20 minutes in total with musical accompaniment which I heard through the TV which was also on at the same time. Good idea actually, they used many soaring operas that highlighted the waves of fireworks building up to a crescendo-upon which they explode magnificently like a glittery mini-supernova and shower sparks onto the hapless crowd (I think. They might just fall into the sea, frying some poor aquatic creature). Well, it's fireworks, how many designs can they come up with? The ones that expanded in the air to form the letters "2008" were quite impressive though.
It made me wish that when I die, my ashes (after organ donation) could be mixed in with gunpowder and shot into the sky, illuminating the dark sky for a few seconds, shattering the monotony of a weary weeknight. "What's the occasion?" People will ask. And others will shrug. Who knows? But those who did it will remember that this is exactly how I wanted to live my life, and the perfect metaphor for death.
"Better to light a candle than curse the darkness."
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
A Grumpy Poem
I'm mean and sick and maladjusted,
I'm tortured, angsty, dark and twisted;
I leech your happiness with my heavy-lidded eyes,
my black attire reflects the tormented soul inside.
I need more sleep. My back is pain.
If I don't weep...I'll go insane.
My smiley past self can't recognise
this hideous monster it can't exorcize.
Give me no lies, no platitudes,
no comforting pats-just a box of tissues.
The snot oozes like the polluted Kinta rivers,
as I curl in my bed with this blasted cold
and shiver and sniffle.
Ish. I can't believe I wrote this.
With all my dark twisted love,
The angstry one who has taken over the Tea-Puller's body
I'm tortured, angsty, dark and twisted;
I leech your happiness with my heavy-lidded eyes,
my black attire reflects the tormented soul inside.
I need more sleep. My back is pain.
If I don't weep...I'll go insane.
My smiley past self can't recognise
this hideous monster it can't exorcize.
Give me no lies, no platitudes,
no comforting pats-just a box of tissues.
The snot oozes like the polluted Kinta rivers,
as I curl in my bed with this blasted cold
and shiver and sniffle.
Ish. I can't believe I wrote this.
With all my dark twisted love,
The angstry one who has taken over the Tea-Puller's body
Monday, February 4, 2008
The build up
Swearing. Every possible curse word that you do not speak comes into your mind, screaming at full mental volume. Not a word escapes from your lips.
Anger, irritation, repressed. Because you know it's not her fault. It's not anyone else's fault. You've made a mess of best-laid plans, and you don't feel in control of your own life. Because you know it's not fair, and you will regret it later. Because your pride and self-dignity won't let you. Because somewhere in that mindbodysoul ownership that you call "me", you know that that's not the kind of thing "I" do.
Maybe pride is a good thing sometimes. Without it, we would be crawling, snivelling. But have you seen a man at the end of his strength, yet still faltering to make the next step, and the next step, and the next? That's determination, that's pride.
I don't know what you think of me, the fact that I don't explode. Never, not here, not now. If I do, I shatter much more than your ideas of me. I shatter my own identity.
Anger, irritation, repressed. Because you know it's not her fault. It's not anyone else's fault. You've made a mess of best-laid plans, and you don't feel in control of your own life. Because you know it's not fair, and you will regret it later. Because your pride and self-dignity won't let you. Because somewhere in that mindbodysoul ownership that you call "me", you know that that's not the kind of thing "I" do.
Maybe pride is a good thing sometimes. Without it, we would be crawling, snivelling. But have you seen a man at the end of his strength, yet still faltering to make the next step, and the next step, and the next? That's determination, that's pride.
I don't know what you think of me, the fact that I don't explode. Never, not here, not now. If I do, I shatter much more than your ideas of me. I shatter my own identity.
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