on maturity

I initially wrote 'on growing up' as the title, but it brought to mind some channel 5 drama from years past. Never watched the show, but every commercial, without fail, had some crying woman pulling at the shirt of a man wearing a pink polo-t and striding determinedly out of a redecorated phua chu kang house. I remember that as being very tacky, so I changed the title.

Growing up means learning things that one would rather never learn. Like the fact that movies and comics are fictional, so ugly guys don't end up with pretty girls, and you can't really dodge bullets or become super-strong if you irradiate yourself.

One also discovers that there is a mystical link between the buying of food and the consumption of food. It's called cooking and it requires years of training. The money plant that you have believed in all your youth also happens to be a myth. Tough.

I read in some book in Borders that you can tell the age of people by their position in a double-deckered bus.

If you sit on the top deck, in the front, you haven't grown up yet.
Top deck, at the back, you've grown a little, you're a teenager.
Top deck, in the middle, you're a young adult.

Bottom deck, at the back, you've grown up, you're an old fogey.
Bottom deck, in the front, you're ancient and when you go to the museum people think you're an escaped exhibit.

Bottom deck, in the front right, you've probably grown up to become a bus driver.

More adventures in the concrete jungle

They did have one thing in common:

They had to prove themselves to themselves.

One, that he has it,
The other, that he still has it.

One returns triumphant and content,
The other is a little confused, in not a much better state than the one in which he came in.

The good part was that the scent still lingered despite the physical distance. It instiled an energy and vivace much like a shot of adrenaline. As well as some dopamine, when the good memories associated with the smell were recalled.

Club Med is awesome.

On responsibility

Now this is being written long after the initial flames which were my inspiration died out. Now I'm merely trying to stoke the dying embers. With each second that passes, the will to pen something down fades, just like with so many other entries that failed to publish.

Maybe the object of my life is to shrug off as much responsibility as I can. I'd love to go running in the middle of the night, to see what the city looks like then. I'd love to stay out late without fear of danger or intemperance or immorality.

I could continue writing, but I hardly feel like anymore.

All dressed up... and?

Heart of summer, I still smell the grass. I still hear the lines of the dream in the night.

It distracts too much.

sad fat and bald

I sit here in the eye of the storm, surrounded by all these overachieving people. To my left is my best friend, just returned from some international competition which he won hands-down. He's in the school rugby team. He scores inhumanly high grades for every subject he takes, and most embarassingly, for some that he doesn't take anymore. Most embarassingly because I take them myself, spend hours every week poring over them, yet still don't do as well. Women pine for him. He plays 3 different musical instruments. I just sit in the huge dark shadow.

To my right is a similar person. Scholar. Artist. Overachiever. Everywhere I look, it's success story after success story. How do I compare? I shan't even try to mention.

I realise that sitting here complaining ain't helping. Even if you're on the right track, you'll still get run over if you just sit there. Will Rogers.

But is it wrong to be envious when you're the scrawny black sheep among all the golden-fleeced?

(Meekly, weakly)I'm already giving so much. What do you want from me?

'Your soul, no less.'

just salt in my eye

Funny how the most insightful thoughts occur at the least opportune times, only to be forgotten later at the keyboard.

While playing street soccer the other day/week/month (it was some time ago can't remember exactly when), it hit me.

We know that most of the crap they teach us would probably never become of use when we are all grown up and stuff, and they instead should be teaching more useful knowledge like common sense.

But they do it anyway, and pile on so much work so that we're kept on our toes and don't question their shadowy evil motives. So instead we should-

I forgot what I was just about to say. To be continued.

What is it about the undeserving people? They must possess some aura, some mysterious weapon that endears the beautiful blind toward them. Yet the gentle ones who would do anything for others lack it. It's not that these gentle people are oblivious to stark reality, but that they hold on too tightly to some faint glimmer of hope. Hope that this one time there will be an exception to the bleak futility of the truth.

You could be driving a car, or at least riding in one. It's going at over a hundered, and as you look out, the vibrant bougainvilleas and frangipanis and the dull battleship greys and feces browns of the (school) buildings (101 Dover, more specifically) all blend into a wild cacophany of colours. Suddenly a dog crosses the road. Cars skid and horns blare. As you crane your neck you see the dumb animal, oblivious to it's impending doom. It's at that split second where you take in every single detail of the morbid picture painted in your eyes. You see the drool hanging from it's mouth, you see the panicked expression on the drivers' faces, you see pedastrians standing stock-still as they too prepare themselves for the grisly scene to come. You even have time to let out a mental sigh. Then time returns to normal and it happens. Wince.

Or you could be playing hockey for your school. Your'e on your own and you can't rely on anyone but yourself. All of a sudden your'e aware of everything. You see the bad guy goalkeeper shifting around his posts, you more feel than see the opponent racing up behind you. Without thinking, acting purely on instinct, you let loose a shot you wouldn't have been able to do normally and you even manage to catch a glimpse of the keeper's eyes widen in horror. You even have time to break into a mental smile. Then time returns to normal and it happens. Joy.

Or you could be playing some game on the computer. Say Counterstrike. It's you, one puny Arab terrorist against a squad of the most highly-trained soldiers in the world. You know you don't stand a chance. You skulk around the shadows, half-expecting to be killed the moment you step into the open, which unfortunately is exactly where you have to go. As you tread into the blinding light, you notice a movement in the corner of the screen. Instantly your finger jerks, and the poor sod who you saw is dead. It's a small consolation, there are still 3 to go, and 1 of you. Suddenly the dreaded 3 burst in at the same time. Without thinking, reacting purely with reflexes, you click 3 times so fast and so accurately you would not think it was you if you watched a replay. The last one is dead before the first hits the ground.

Best yet, you could be at a party with friends. Your'e the centre of attention, but not because your'e the most drunk or the loudest. In fact, your'e not even saying much. Rather your'e coming up with witticisms by the truckload, injecting one-liners of pure genius into the conversation every few moments. Inwardly you realise that 99% of the time, you wouldn't have thought of them. But now your'e conscious of it, you lose it.

It always lasts a moment. It's always fleeting. You yearn for it but have no idea how to achieve it. Sometimes you even dream about it. Hahaha I can't even put the way it feels into words but rather I just refer to it as it. Maybe it should have a name.

'Still looking-glass pool under light of autumn moon, after pebble has fallen into it'