Do you have any idea how anti-social I am? There are like thirty people outside losing themselves, and here I am - for the past two hours - shutting out the rest of the world, accompanied by the nosiest, most irritating brats you can ever encounter in your whole life.




"To hell with it, he thought; if destiny could not be outwitted, he might as well see what else life had to offer him other than a few decades of living on a Cretan hillside before burial underneath it."

The Island, Victoria Hislop

Yesterday's Literature SRP was a torture. Physics class was a nightmare. Today was the last straw. These days I find that I'm not easily provoked. Comments or actions that would have triggered my anger in the past only make me sad and tired these days. Maybe I'm too tired to even muster the energy to fly into a passion.

Product of yesterday's boredom:

Dozing off in this class ennui
Her voice as dull as she
Nothing makes sense here
But your face I see in this

lined paper of doodles and of words
unencumbered, and once unwritten because
there was a time when everything was
said and done
Everything was said and done.

And so her words of lullabye
continued to lull this broken piece, a masterpiece
of one, that will remain an amateur
to you and to everybody else;
the whole world and everybody else.

Alas she spoke and then I hear
the words, strangely sound so dear
'Pack up your things,
come now, don't fret'
And so I move
for it is time to go.
Hey, it's time to go.





I thought of starting a diary today. An official one. One that may be published into a book if ever I do something great within my lifetime, a kind of memoir or an autobiography of all genres. I pictured myself writing earnestly, sitting in my high-backed chair with the smooth texture of lined paper fondling my palms. It was kind of indulging for my part, since I've always really wanted to be a writer. Indeed, the prospect of having to take at least an hour a day and put the events, ponderings, or peculiar ideas of the day into the beautiful art of language is more than tempting.

Alas, it is just a temptation. You see, what is not tempting is the prospect of having to write so much (imagine how fatigued my arms would be) with my pens (they are pretty expensive). So yeah, so much for that. Maybe not yet.

I remember the days when I was so infatuated with Him. You'll never guess how much poems I've written then. But then again, you'll never guess - let alone know - what really happened. But what I wanted to say, actually, is that the poems I've written were so... daft. Or, shallow is the better word. They're poems that you need not look deep into. There's nothing beautiful about them, but melancholy pervaded every word and sentence. Or more like, melodrama.

Here I go again
Alone, silent, reminiscin'
Staring blankly into space
With only the vague image of your face
And your voice, resounding in my ears
I'm only fighting back the tears

Questions left unanswered
are questions left unasked
And the regret filling up my heart
is the sadness the we didn't last

Here I go again
Uncertain of what to do
How could I go on with my life
When you took it away with you
Leaving me behind
With nothing but my fears
I cannot fight back these tears




The fact that I blog twice in a period of 3 days only shows that I'm not coping well with whatever it is that I'm supposed to cope with.

I'm not sure how much longer I could keep with my schedule and filled-to-the-edges to-do list. It has been going pretty well on the first couple of weeks, but I've been having lazy spells lately; and the number of undone things just keeps increasing until all my nails are nowhere to be seen again, and I'm back here typing away.

I haven't even been spending time with my friends lately. Aye. That's it. I have to go easy on myself and cut me some slack.

On the bright side, I saw Mr. Perfect Stranger yesterday. Funny how I meet him on the most unlikely times. 5th time now. I know how to talk to him next time. If there is a next time.

Hailey says she wants a boyfriend. I'm not sure if I do. It's like, I'm more scared now than ever. Ever.




I want to blog, blog, blog, blog.
Yet another week has gone by. Another week less to my birthday, to my brother's birthday, to my parents' birthday, and finally to bidding farewells. At long last I now know the answer to that platitude of a question that I myself used to ask: Where will you go from here?
I'm not sure exactly how I came to the decision, or if there were anything that influenced me to come to it at all, but I'm sure now which path to take. I guess it isn't too late at all - heaven knows there are more than a hundred out there who have no idea whatsoever with their future plans.
I suppose what I'm really driving at is this: The feeling of having a reason, a rational reason, for everything you do, is nothing but fulfilling. And I can't find any other appropriate words to describe it.




I fucking left my fucking file in the fucking Chem class. I'm telling you, I can't fucking afford to lose it!!!!!!

Boo. I can't do anything useful right now.






Sometimes when I pick a book, I get that feeling that I'm way out of my league. Like that The Historian, for example, or all of Ishiguro's novel. But after I'm done with it, I know that my league has stretched further. Hah. Blah Blah blah. I don't really know why I'm talking about books when there are one too many profound conversations I had these past days, which are worth blogging about. But as it is, I'm talking about books. And I'm hungry now.




2007. Happy New Year everyone.

I am so overwhelmed by the events of last month, or rather last year, right now. Where do I start?

On the surface, it feels like nothing happened. It's like, all I remember is myself brooding in my room reading that 700-paged book The Historian, or playing Mah Jong with my great granny, or plainly wasting my time in the sitting room with my cousins drinking green tea and talking about everything under the sun.

But if I really look back and reflect, I might even say that the past month changed my life. (Alright, maybe that's overstated)

For one, the new year has come, and as superstitious as this may sound, I know that 2006 is so not my year. And it just seems logical that 2007 will turn out good for me. Yeah, maybe that's not true, but that wouldn't matter because what matters is that I believe it is.

And then there's that whole stepping to a new level with you-need-not-know-who. I don't know. I guess after all these years, it was - it is - a great leap of courage on his side. And on mine, too.

All right. They're calling out my name. Catch up later.