A Waste of E-Space

Guilty Thrill.

2009-02-19T02:42:00.000-08:00

I pad along
with steps of lead
down the stifling halls.
Laughter, and a din of voices fill my ears.
I'm keeping my neck craned
tip-toed, eyes darting
wandering, wandering, wondering
where the hell you are.

A jolt

and you're there
and I turn
and I wait
for the nettles
in
my

heart

to

die.

Silence.

Save for the noise and animals around.

And I sneak a glance at you
once more.
You're fire. Beautiful, just
so dangerous; smouldering, with
the kind of eyes that could
kill
with a glance. Beautiful, the way
you dance, and the way
you move, and the way
you strut. Beautiful, like the holes
you're burning in
my chest
as I
watch.

And I watch
and watch
and watch.

'Till the crowd swallows you whole
and nothing is left.

Save the noise and animals around.

And I am left in a sea of heat and sweat,
and oversized clothes
and the guilt of staring
in ways
I
shouldn't.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

I'M BACK.

Worship.

2008-09-01T07:28:00.000-07:00

What happens when religion and love collide?

My life has always been for Him, and Him alone. Ever since I took my first sharp, cold breath of air in this strange world, my sole purpose in life has always been to worship Him, for His remembrance. My life has never been meant for any person or thing except for Him.

I am to give myself to Him.

I shift slightly under the covers, careful not to make too much movement. There is that familiar, odd sensation of being hollow, carved into my chest. I press my fingers onto the area where it aches; that expanse of bare skin over my beating heart. Perhaps it is Him, reminding me of the grave sin I still continue to commit.

Perhaps He still reminds me to give myself to Him.

With that train of thought comes forth the sudden rush of memories I try so hard to bury within the spaces in my mind. Images flood my vision; an aged woman, tears dried up on her hollow cheeks as she continues to rage on.

"First your father, then your sister, and now you! Are you all planning to send me to my grave? Jahanam kau! This is Satan growing inside of you! This is what happens when you don't give yourself to Allah! Astaughfirullah'al'azim!"

I open my eyes, trying to focus on something in the dark room, so I don't see her face when I shut my eyelids. I try to block out her voice, still ringing in my ears after nearly a decade.

It does not work.

"You'll go to hell for this sin! Neraka! My child! Don't you ever think before hurting? Haven't you thought of this at all? This is a temporary life, girl! A temporary life! Your punishment is eternal! Eternal!"

I have always known that. I knew that His anger would be immeasurable; that His wrath would be unprecedented. I was aware of it from the very beginning.

But I still wanted His light.

I wanted to return to His Paradise, back to His Palace, after I had paid my unearthly dues. I still wanted to return to my Creator, as He had created me. I still wanted to believe that He loved me, despite my flaws, despite my black mark on this earth. I still wanted Him to love me.

And for that, I had to continue giving myself to him.

The same voice; gentler, more welcoming now. Even further back in time.

"In order for you to achieve something, you should work hard for it. Work for it, and ask God for His aid. Because you can never achieve anything without the will of God, no matter how hard you try. After your hard work, you give yourself to Him. That is how life goes."

I listened. I continued acting as a good, loyal servant of God would. I spread His love through my actions, praying that it would count as service to the One I called my Lord. I acted out of fear for Him. I helped the needy, and aided the ill and aged. I continued to pray, to prostrate myself to Him. I recited the words He had relayed through His Archangels to His Prophet. I sat, night after night, fervently praising Him, my heart fixed onto His remembrance.

I gave myself to Him.

But would it be enough? He knew, as much as I did, that I held in a part of my still beating heart, the love for another. The love for another which was as strong as the love for a man for his wife, or a woman for her husband. The strong, silent love, an unbreakable bond that I held inside of me for a woman that was universal; so common in essence, and yet so unique and special. A part of me had fused with her.

No matter how much the world tried to tear us apart, here we stayed, side by side, as soulmates. I wondered so many times, like I did this night, whether God had ever meant for us to be together like we were now. And even if it wasn't, why was my heart set on it being as it was? Why, if it was so wrong, and sinful, and abhorred, did it have to be so...right? It wasn't fair. I loved her, like anyone would love their mate. I loved her more than anyone in this world. I loved her like-

"Are you alright?"

I twitched a little, taken by surprise by the sudden sound of her voice, and the touch of her fingertips on my bare shoulder.

I had not noticed my pillow getting damp.

She inches closer to me, her body pressing against mine. Her arms wrap around my waist, pulling me to her. "You were crying again."

I cannot answer.

"I love you", she says quietly, kissing the hollow between my shoulder and neck.

------

I lie awake for the rest of the night, waiting for the digital clock on my bedside table to show me the numbers I wanted to see.

05.43

I prise her limbs from my waist, careful so as not to wake her up. I slide out of bed as discreetly as I can, careful not to rock the mattress. She stirs slightly in her sleep, but does not awaken. I make my way to the bathroom.

The water feels cool and soothing in the early hours of morning. My mind is as clear as the liquid coursing over my skin as I cleanse myself. For the moment, I think of nothing but the next act of worship I am about to perform.

I step out, reciting verses my mother taught me so long ago. I reach out for the familiar white cloth to robe myself in. It covers my being completely, save for my face, still damp from the water of ablution.

I look over at my beloved, still wrapped in the soft folds of her dreams, and turn back to what I was meant to do, since the beginning of my life. I step onto the woven mat, and I begin.

I give myself to Him.

Under Pressure.

2008-08-17T05:55:00.000-07:00

"YAAAARGH I'M UNDAH PRESSHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH"
Yes, Gerard. We can tell.

For most of us down here in little Singapore, we've got our eyes religiously fixated onto the television screen, following the small white sphere as it bounces back and forth from our home team to China and back again, moving with the same ferocious velocity as the batting hands of their players.

Yes, I'm talking about the table tennis match that's got the whole island abuzz.

And for good reason, too. I mean, we haven't even gotten a whiff of a medal in almost half a century. The fact that we've secured at least a silver is nothing short of miraculous.

Or not, seeing as how our players were bought, rather than grown. And furthermore, we got them straight from the winning crop - China herself.

Still, that doesn't lessen the immense pressure that our players have mounting on their shoulders as Singaporeans witness with bated breath the game that has the nation's hope pinned onto, the game that has reignited the little spark of hope for just a fraction of the glory that we've been denied for almost fifty years. And I'm sure our players want that victory as much as we all do, or even more so.

Heck, they're gonna get paid big-time when they get back. Haven't you heard the news?

Monetary issues aside, I think we all know how it feels when we've got expectations pressed upon us - either from other people, or from ourselves - and we are forced to take those expectations and make something out of them, whether we like it or not.

Other times, we too want to clinch that elusive goal we've all being chasing for so long. That dream we've been dreaming for so long. That dream we've always wanted to breathe life into, to become reality. That dream we've been hoping against hope for, that wish we've been clinging on to for dear life.

Sometimes, what we want isn't always what other people think is best for us, or rather, they just hate the whole idea of us receiving or achieving it, let alone the actual outcome. They could have a million reasons for it, but whatever the case, they're just completely against you getting what you want.

A few times, we've got all three of those feelings packed tightly into one scenario.

And I'm going through such a time.

It's funny sometimes, when it seems that the whole world seems to be conspiring against you, just as you've decided that there's something - or someone - out there for you worth fighting for. In some cases, you just want to scream back at the world that you've given up; that you're sick of all the beating and the cold, and you've decided to end the struggle for your cause right there and then.

But not me. I've weighed it out, the good and bad. I'm sticking to what I've stuck to for almost six months now, and I pray that I stay for many more months - and years, hopefully.

It doesn't really matter what happens to me anymore. As long as I can at least see another smile, hear another laugh...that alone would be enough to suffice. As long I've made that someone happy - happier, perhaps. With me in the picture, hopefully. I'd take any maelstrom without a second thought.

And this is my soul under pressure.

We got a silver.

Good job, guys. (:

Writer's Chopping Block.

2008-08-14T18:19:00.000-07:00

Forgive me.

I've lost the ability to write.

Well, not exactly, seeing as how I've managed to flesh out this blog post in under ten minutes(I'm having a free LEGACY period in school as I type this). But the problem lies in catching those free-flying ideas that just don't seem to be coming my way.

My inspiration. I've lost it.

Or maybe I lack the capacity to see projects through. The deadline for Renaissance's writing competition is in fifteen freaking days. I've got a grand total of six literary works saved on my laptop. Trouble is, I just can't seem to finish any of them. It's almost as if the initial golden spark in which the original stories were conceived from fizzled out and died halfway, leaving a pathetic husk of a tale.

And then it just doesn't make sense for me to write anything anymore.

Don't get me wrong. I'm DYING to see my work published in the next volume. That is, if the people over at Renaisssance don't gouge their eyes out at my atrocious work. It's just that halfway through the starting excitement of fleshing out another story, the pent-up enthusiasm just fades away into nothingness.

It irritates me. Every. Freaking. Time.

I've got the entire plot in my head. Everything in there. But when it comes down to the nitty-gritty, the words just fail me and I stop everything. I get off the computer and stick to the old pen-and-paper. I start doodling instead. I even try drawing stories out. But I just give up and do something else.

This apathy and distraction is killing me inside out. I need to at least get something done.

I just can't seem to push my way through.

L-U-F-F.

2008-07-28T06:29:00.000-07:00

If you had asked me on my idea of love a little more than two years ago, you would have been answered with a scornful “HAH!” and a cynical tirade on hormone-riddled teenagers roaming the streets of Singapore, hand in hand and whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears.

Yes.

I was a cynic.

Now, however, you would receive quite a shockingly contrasting reply, punctuated with violently expressive hand/arm/leg movements and random outbursts of incoherent noise, symbolising my inability to fully explain to you this crazy little thing called love (excuse me if I quote lyrics. I’m like that).

It’s simply because I’m too used to the damn thing; falling in, out, and deeply drowning in it.

Scary, isn’t it?

I can hear many of you conservative, run-of-the-mill Singaporeans tutting at this teenager’s horrifying refusal to “wait after University, and then can date-date!”

I apologise.

I’m not a run-of-the-mill Singaporean. I’m not a conservative, either.

In fact, I don’t think there are many left in this open-minded Age of Aquarius. Liberty is seeping into every nook and cranny of this world, even in love. Heck, it transcends all boundaries now; age, race, religion, status – even gender now.

Why, you ask? How can some tiny, chemical emotion spark off such passionate (and sometimes downright insane) reactions and gestures, all in the name of sweet, romantic love? Even science can’t really explain. Sure, the best team of scientists could come up with a thousand and one facts about what goes on in your brain when you see that one special person, but not what goes on in the heart.

That one thing, my fellow victims of Cupid, only you can decipher, and nobody else.

Some say it starts out as a flutter in the pit of your stomach. Some say it feels like your heart attempting multiple somersaults. Others speak in length about how that flame burns after the very first spark at eye contact, and everything else is just history. Smouldering, smoky history, robed in fiery red silk, scantily covering the curved, sculpted derriere of...ahem. Sorry. Got a little carried away there.

As for me, it was a sort of happy, floating acid trip, accompanied by the slowly speeding beat nestled in my chest. The rest of the world could have blown up into oblivion, and I wouldn’t have given a rat’s arse about it. All that mattered in that particular particle of present time was gazing back into that beautiful face and hanging on to every little word that tumbled forth from those beautiful lips, in that beautiful voice.

Oh yes. It was very beautiful indeed.

Speaking of beauty, that department is almost always overlooked when one is punch-drunk in love. That significant other of yours could have had a shocking resemblance to Jabba the Hutt’s left buttcheek and still look like Jessica Alba in your eyes. Those remaining cynics still reading this last sentence can sneer all you like, but really, not all these people have been blinded by amour. The extra facial hair, the unsightly moles, the pockmarked skin and the sagging wrinkles; all of them undesirable physical traits for many, but in the eyes of others, are the things that make up the visage of their loved one. To put it simply, you can’t have a Dalmatian without a bunch of black splodges on it. Take them as they are. That’s love.

Well, not exactly. But we can’t compress it all into one blog post, now can we? That’s just downright cruel and unreasonable both to the writer and the reader. It’s endless; it’s universal, and downright remarkable. It can spark wars, bring forth peace, and merge whole civilisations together. It’s powerful. Heck, it’s what God gave us. It’s compassion; to love another, to feel for another being altogether.

It’s a crazy little thing called love.

And yes, I am in love.

Because that’s the only way you’ll ever really start to understand it.

By being in love.

I Want My Weekend Cartoons Back.

2008-07-12T03:21:00.000-07:00

The truth doesn't always set you free.

I apologise for leaving my blog abandoned into the hellish depths of cyberspace.

Wait. Nobody reads this nonsense anyway.

Oh well. The endless clockwork routine of school and obscene amounts of homework have very much sapped me of my literary creativity. Nevertheless, I still try to put on a smile and convince myself that it's only going to get tougher.

This either makes for a raising of spirits or drowning them in a giant mug of Milo.

It seems like so long ago when I actually felt carefree. Sunday mornings were actually Sunday mornings, and not just The Day Before Monday. I could eat my Froot Loops or egg and cheese sandwiches as slowly as I wanted to, and not wolf down my food to make time for revision. I could spend hours crafting whole worlds with my bucket of crayons, happily anticipating my next day in school, instead of dreading it.

It's funny how we always end up in a small, repetitive circle of routine, no matter how many times we've vowed to ourselves never to get chained down by the dreariness of life. It's almost as if we were all destined to fall into place in an almost mechanical sort of manner. Just teeny weeny cogs in the huge gamut of life.

Except for the select few who actually decide that this is definitely not the way they're going to be living their lives, and choose to break out of their molds. These people lead their own lives, and break out of the boundaries to explore their dreams. These people completely shatter the set rules in life to carve their own highly vibrant ones, their own principles, their own guides.

These people are also known to have no CPF inputs.

Oh well.

You only live once.

So kick back once in a while. Wander out in the open, out of your stuffy little work cubicles, or your study desks. Smell the grass. Sniff the air. Frolic around in the July breeze while you still can.

That is, before you get back to work.

I wanna watch my cartoons.

Picassos In Progress.

2008-06-30T05:13:00.000-07:00

Drawn by Nabilah, the self-professed tween who dwells in the same household, on MS Paint. That fox is supposed to be me. Yes, people call me Tiky.

It has become the norm for my younger sister of 11 years to come up to me with a spanking-new drawing she'd whipped up roughly ten minutes ago and shove the damn thing in my face, grinning widely in anticipation of what I had to say about it. It almost seems as if she expects a jaw-dropping reaction from me by the way she smiles.

Now, with me being the complete jerk, I feel a strong twinge of repulsion as I stare at several errors in proportion, far too many sketchy lines, and awkward poses in every one of those anime-styled tweens she creates. The only thing that keeps me from making her dissolve into tears of dejection is the small lump of noxious snot that makes up my heart, and the fact that I, too, used to draw horribly.

Before I began producing pieces of art that didn't actually make anyone's eyes implode in a spray of blood and vitreous fluid, I made endless three-minute doodles on every piece of paper that I could use without being scolded for tampering with. I recall drawing a morbidly obese German shepherd by the name of Ricky, a top team of anthropomorphic secret agents, me walking on stilts, and the one that cracks me up the most - a boy pointing a gun at his mom's face. The weapon came out from his little baseball cap.

Disturbing visual images aside, I kept on channelling my seemingly endless flow of imagination into pencil and ballpoint pen pictures. Things morphed a little more when I got sucked into the watery-eyed, sharp-nosed realm of anime, and the people I drew became less rounded and more…dynamic.

I mean, come on, who walks around in a flaming hairdo with giant spikes all over? And this he claims to be his natural hairstyle.

But all that was shattered when I first met one of my adult cousins. He’s the one responsible for Minibus, a kid’s programme that aired on Suria. He also lives in a three-story house which makes me cry when I think about how awesome it is. I mean, we live in bloody Singapore. Do you know how much landed property costs these days?

I showed him my work, with that very same expression plastered all over my face, that look of undaunted hope, waiting for the slightest sign of appreciation.

None came.

To add insult to injury, he accidentally sat on the damn piece of paper I’d painstakingly prepared to show him. Talk about having your dreams crushed - literally.

After that, I swore to myself I’d never stop drawing till I had finally perfected my craft. And I am still on that vow, till this very day. But I’d never forget that twinge of hurt I felt that day. Which is why I’ve never put down my younger sister, because I know how she’d feel if I told her that.

Then again, she’s getting much better at what she’s doing. I doubt I’ll even need to be that mean. I just hope she takes well to criticism.

Wait.

Since when have I been such a softie?

OH, NO! THE FIRST POST!

2008-06-28T03:27:00.000-07:00

This was done on MS Paint. The most accurate depiction of the birth of my blog by far.

Hello, and welcome to my blog!

Now slap yourself five times for even considering leaving behind the wonderful life you had.

This is a blog destined for tons of offbeat humour, teenage angst, deliriously mad rambling and proof that the world isn't such a stupid place after all. So if you're not into that sort of thing, you may wish to press Alt+F4 and save yourself the agony.

Still here? Excellent.

If you haven't already checked out my Blogger.com profile, you should have come to the conclusion that I am still slogging through the final few months of Secondary school life. Now having known said fact, please try to understand my sincere feelings towards the Ministry Of Education and their sadistic minions, better known as 'schoolteachers'. These feelings may very well be made known in future posts.

Besides chronicling my struggles through academia, you may discover that I have a number of issues to scream hysterically out to the wide open world of cyberspace. These issues may sprout from a spectrum of categories. You'll never really know what I'll rant about next. Hey, I'm sticking to my Singaporean roots here.

So stay, if you will, on this waste of e-space, and see what I have to say about this ridiculous planet we live in, and all those other loveable idiots who inhabit it with us.

Congratulations.

You've just wasted approximately four minutes of your life reading this piece of asinine garbage.

Feel proud, sirrah!