Irony visited me today.

it is Sadness that permeates your entire being when you realize that it is Love that prevents you from leaving.
***

Indifference - a subtle layer of deliberate dis-affection holding back affection.

***

Remind me of Your gifts to me, blessings which i might take for granted - my thankful heart is Yours to love.

its only now that i am fully beginning to appreciate academia, now in my last year. just 6 more months, and im out. it makes for awfully introspective and nostalgic [and everlasting] regrets - that after this, there would be no more readings on the different paradigms of knowledge/knowing, that names like Foucalt, Freud, Nietzche, or literary authors like Woolf, Plath, or even hearing the drones of Seet for all things theatre. ill go out into the world, wanting to know more, but anticipating the limitations imposed upon me by those rat-racers whose yardsticks are singularly that of The Paper. i can foresee all that - B.A. Arts and Social Sciences without Honours, possibly third class cos she skipped school for most of her 2 years, but bet she wants to know more and can never be satisfied. how's that for an uber-informal CV? i dont even know how to write a resume. ha.

gonna fly high for the next 2 weeks - the advent of Hari Raya AND essay[s] time. opportunity costs relatively high for both. the theory of economics states that i have to forego one in order to fully realize the pleasures of the other. get fat, or get mad? choose now, dear struggling student.

im awfully tired, of ...

small little semblances of pettiness. i thought i was beyond that, and for a while, i was - everything slid past me and i could let go of sheer indiscrepancies, human inconsistencies and even blatant cruelty pretty easily - even magnanimously (with His help, of course. it helps to know that to be like Him is to Forgive and Forget).

and now humanly, we put a label on this aspect of my being as Indifference. am i beyond war-like syndromes and the breaking of peace or am i just beyond caring? it hurts when i care far too much. it hurts when i lost a pretty special friend a year back, i didnt know whether to live and let live or show tt the loss of the friendship mattered, and by extension - care bout it (and in the event, be tormented by the knowledge of that loss) (and the consequential question would be - are people then replaceable? is that why some go thru so many relationships/friendships? apparently, that turnover rate is obnoxiously low for me. perhaps cos of the importance i attach to people whom i hold close to my heart)

***

i saw jovian at city hall today. we seem to bump into each other at the weirdest of places - like the NUS canteen (when he's in NTU) and today whilst i was going down the escalator and he, on the opposite direction. he called it Coincidence and liked that idea. Serendipity, is that it? we have awfully 'funny' vibes with each other, extends all the way back in jc i guess...at times, we connect at a certain level and at times, we're uber aloof with each other, bordering on antagonism. i can never put a finger on this, even in retrospect. but he was one of the first few guys ive respected for being the [lone] individual tt he was, and all his strange
idiosyncracies. same with jude i guess, back then (ha, and tt leaves only 2 in AC, gender-wise, respect-wise).

***

my bird-call, chirrup chirrup - the bird cage is too small, can't you see?

like plath and hughes - but my head's not heading for the oven. she needed a rebirth, hughes, couldn't you tell?

trapped, in all her materiality - and in mine.

my mind's a-flying, and you soberly complain about my artificiality, my inability to bare my soul.

your cage is far too small.

might be a really belated sort of enlightenment, but i really do like writing soci papers. compared to lit essays, they give me more leeway to fathom with my brains, go with the flow and play by ear - all without the need for secondary readings cos they make sense to me. compared to the characters in lit - far too elusive, too opaque and complex, i cant underpin their existence and unravel them into simple points. too late, far too late.

***

21 is the year for adventure - foodie-wise (but as with every other year). but seriously, my counterparts, as they age with grace, are refining their sense of taste. gone are the days of Macdonalization or Starbucks-ism (disclaimer: Starbucks still hold the fortress for fast-food-cafe-style-mass-consumerism-coffeeish-places). now, we go to exotic (albeit not-quite-so-authentic) Turkish restaurants at east coast (serrie darling!). now, we are moving on from Marmalade Pantry (Palais Renaissance) to Haji Lane/Arab Street, lil India, Chinatown, Geylang, Beach Rd, seeking for the authentic good stuff instead of riding along rip-offs like NYDC, Coffee CLub and what-not.

open to experimentation, always. even at hawker centres, i will press on till i find my perfect bak chor mee/porridge/tea-rice. increasingly, ive fallen in love all over again with vegetables. i wont do without them.

divine poetic justice, or so you say. but i beg to differ - cos He will not wreck vengeance, or wish to heap harm upon His children, and if i cannot stand upon that one true thing that i know is true in this world of falsity, then i might as well not live.

i have slain Memory, for my rebirth into a new creation necessitates that i must do so in order to fly. am i imposing my will upon your disbelief that Memory must be killed in order to father the offspring of a new life, or a new heart?

the phantoms of your past sit in that corner where you are - and i act as the gatekeeper, the door thru which you depend on to shutslambang, to shore vehemently against those unsubstantial beings borne of by Memory . but real they are to me, and substantial indeed, for they take a form in reality which blinds you to the image of me. for what am i but a mirror through which you peek into, reflecting the past in Safe Mode?

i am your Sanity, the Non-Sexual Muse, the Superego controlling the overflow of your tormented soul, or your even-more-grazed heart. i am the sensible girl, the no-go-partyhavefunfunfun, the one to soothe-heal-mend, the Heart-Weaver - or so you claim.

in other words, an Object, with a specific function.

my heart inwardly grieves, for the subject at hand accommodates not reality as we know it to be, but those very phantoms, those ideas, those thoughts, those memories which compete with my presence.

and they will win, for i am but your wallpaper.

no flower-power for the wallflower.

it was in my head to comment on the nature of how Po-Mo (flash-flash term for postmodernism) is taking over the world - how disjointed everything is, how we're living simulated reality, forever performing, enacting and referencing to other cultures, how we're cultural orphans and embracing all cultures of the world (ie: the term 'Malay' has lost its organic meaning. and hence the need to stereotype, sad as it is, as a means ot garner a hold on culture. like your derogatory term of a 'minah' - double edged as it is, cos it serves a higher, more lofty purpose - to reference to your ethnicity, to affirm one's ethnic and cultural sensibility)

but firs has already done that in his blog - 'so po-mo' - and hence your sms to me some immemorial past back, bout our imagined connectivity.heh)

actually, my whole point wasnt to write bout all the rubbish i wrote on top. understand, that i have just exited a recent socio class just barely 5 mins ago and my mind's running wild.

my po-mo-ness stems from (like firs) the increasing fragmentation of my thoughts.
i think i have the attention span of a two-year old kid.
i can barely hold a thought for 5 mins (unless i engrave it, concretize it on paper/laptop) cos im so used to multi-tasking nowadays, in betwixt classes, on buses, during meals.

right now, one thought - i am reading my life away. all my characters get mixed up, they jump from one grand narrative to another, they have a life of their own and the real ones pale - become wallpapers, as i brush past them without taking in their presence.

i think i have Selective-Presence-Tendency. How Po-Mo. How Psychology. How Literature. How Social Science. How Harry-Potter-and-His-Invisible-Cloak.