Life is interesting from the torment I put myself through. I wonder why sometimes do I torture myself that much. I have not slept in 19 hours. Sometimes I get so pissed off with self that I refuse to eat for a day. Longest so far was 34 hours. And I just deprive myself of some of these basic things needed for life. I don't know why. I just feel there must be some way of torturing myself, suffering and just wanting to feel pain.

I've thoughts on suicide. Suicide. Life is a pain sometimes, each action a chore, each moment a wait and each breath wasted. Is death an answer? A solution? It would make everything so much easier wouldn't it? So much easier... no need to think, feel or hurt anymore... eternal rest and sleep doesn't sound too bad does it?

Eh... pain!!?! The pAiN!?!!

Stop the pain!! ArGH!!! Need painkillers... Stop the headache...

She sits beneath the starry sky,
Tanned beauty bathing in a moonlit glow,
A soft smile playing on her lips,
As she twirls her hair with a finger.
And I'm wondering,
If she's thinking of me.

I should learn to do a short blog.

Hmmm... yes two weeks seem a long time to me when you don't get online and not post a blog.

I have had thoughts, and it does concern me. Its about education. How does education concern me? I am a product of it, so in a way I am also a measure of how good or bad it is. This time I shall discuss/debate/bitch about certain things/issues/rubbish which are being promoted in the education system which I am schooled/taught/suffered under.

Creativity is a very important thing/trait/characteristic which some people have it, some people don't. And what bothers me is that creativity is being taught/educated/memorised. I do not believe that creativity should be taught nor should it be part of any fixed curriculum. The reason is simple. In the words of a some dude I know, "They are teaching people to be creative in the same way."

Who is they? They are simply a government that has spent countless billions on a tasteless effigy hunched over the bay located in a country that doesn't appear on a world map. The Esplanade, as they choose to call it, is meant to serve has a hub for the arts in this corner of the world, in a bid to promote creativity in the citizens of that country. Skeptics have expressed more than doubt over the construction of this landmark which seems to scar the landscape of the concrete jungle. But while this remains all baseless accusations by me, I choose to expound a little on my visit to this illusion de grandeur which failed to impress upon me the viability of this place to serve as a world-class theatre.

The Esplanade boasted of an impressive theatre, an extremely large pipe organ with impressive credentials, and a library of many works of art. The first thing I was hit by was the inability of plebians to appreciate the place for what it is, which underscores its failure to raise the aesthetic values of the masses. There was this couple wandering around the Esplanade mall which sold overpriced goods. The guy was a typical punk kid, tall, pierced ears, dressed in street wear, when he commented loudly outside this chocolate shop, "What expensive chocolates!" then ducked down the escalator to the next floor. I was impressed by his audacity and crass behaviour. Certainly something about the Esplanade failed to make him appreciate the arts and become more cultured and refined.

Not to judge too quickly, I headed to the library to take a good look around. Certainly the collection was impressive. It was expansive collection filled with many plays of many languages from English to Dutch, and many piano scores just for the enthusiastic piano player to immerse himself in the likes of classical musical or opera composers. Then something caught my eye. Being played on one small LCD screen was the antics of Kylie Minogue prancing around bearing her midrift and crooning to the tunes of some song which was thankfully muted in the library. Clearly I need to redefine the meaning of the arts.

Much of the library collection stands untouched, and I could see more people reading the magazines and newspapers while socialising in the bar or enjoying the ambience of the place, rather than reading the books in the shelves. How does one recognise a well-used library? Its by the measure of the change of entropy in the library; the greater the change of entropy, the more used it is. To a layman, simply the more messed up the shelves are, the more people used it. To highlight my point, I could actually find the books arranged alphabetically; try that in a school library.
I could not enter the theatres simply, and the price of the ticket simply overwhelms me. With the cheapest priced at $69, and my current status as an unemployed student who is supposed to be taught creativity, it is impossible for me to catch a glimpse of more than a play, much less appreciate the arts the way it was meant to be appreciated. This only goes to show that plays are meant only for the higher class, thereby creating more class distinction in a multi-racial society. Me? Being just a sole earthly poverty-stricken scholar of the book, I fail to see how the Esplanade is suppose to help me.

To put my bitching a little further, creativity cannot be taught, it has to be expressed, developed and nurtured. Its a path stricken with risks and uncertainty that people, particularly from the society I've been in yet not part of, are not willing and afraid to take. Well to sum it all up, the Esplanade is a waste of money. Any would-be (or rather if-any) benefits in a more cultured society will only be seen in at least 10 years down the road, and its all abstract. Just like arts itself.

I am doing this double post, because it would be a long time again before I would do another post. The story I wrote just now is simply a reflection of what was going on in my mind. Who is the boy? Who is the man? Well the boy seems childish, idealistic and a dreamer. The man is a realist, someone who doubts himself, and cannot appreciate the intangible. When they at last merge, their shadows, they become one. That person would then be me.

The sandcastle is there to symbolise the things in life we treasure, materialistic things, or the intangible. The man is only concerned with the outcome, the boy is interested in the task. The sandcastle represents a lot of things, house, car, family, friends, and someone out there you love. It is ironical that all these things are ephemeral as the sandcastle, and only last as long as the memory can hold. And the waves represent the tides of time, when all things are washed away, no matter how well preserved or how well protected.

When I wrote this, I had a lot of questions in mind I didn't know how to answer. Firstly, from the first part of the conversation between the boy and man, there was this question, Is a dream worth chasing? To the boy it is, To the man, only if you can achieve it. I cannot find the answer to that, and though I keep hearing many encouragement from books, my heart is discouraging me. When I chase my dreams, I am going to be hurt I am going to feel pain and suffering. My mind tells me it is foolishness. My soul tells me do what you wish. My beliefs urge me on. And my heart? It just doesn't want to be hurt anymore. Here, I guess I am speaking from the mouth of that man. And while this conflict boils within me, I need to turn somewhere to look for peace.

The second part of the conversation is as simple as about wanting to live this life to the fullest. It is my fear, that I am not able to live up to my potential, it is my fear that I shall fail to do what I actually can do. There are many things I've failed to do, and I recognise this as part of my inability. But when I failed to do something, because I didn't try, because I didn't see, or because I didn't understand, that failure grips me tight and I choke. Choke with that same fear. And again I am at a lost.

I think I shall do the only thing I can do. Keep fighting, and struggling and hope one day the tides will turn. I will keep building sandcastles, just as the waves will take them away. It won't be that my sandcastles are temporary, but rather the absence of my sandcastles will also be temporary. I will put them back, so that they would be eternal while my heart still beats.

A little boy was building a sandcastle by the high tide line on the beach. His hands lovingly patted the mound, as he sculpted and moulded it to the best of his artistic ability. Engrossed with his work, he didn't notice a tall gaunt dark man walk up to him. The man stood over the boy, and then after a moment of silence, he opened his mouth and said,

"Nice sandcastle you've got there, kid."
"Thanks."
"Too bad you've built it too near the sea. It would be washed away soon."
"It doesn't matter."
"Doesn't it? You've spent so much time building it."
"I can always build it again. And it makes me happy when I build it."

The man fell silent. He watched the boy, who was oblivious to the waves that crept up slowly upon the defiant mound of sand that stood in its way. A moment of silence passed. Suddenly the boy looked up and asked,

"What does it mean to be alive?"
"Hmm?"
"I mean, how do you know you are alive?"
"I guess, when you are breathing."
"But what does it mean to be a person that's alive?"
"I guess, to laugh, cry and love."
"What if you can't do that?"
"Then, I don't know."

Then, the waves, which slowly worked its way up the shore, chose this moment to crash down thunderously upon the sandcastle, sweeping away the crumbling sand. The boy and man watched the sandcastle reduced from a proud monument to nothingness. Then the boy held out his hands. The man picked him up in his arms, and they walked away, their shadow casted by the setting sun on the beach, as one.

To DLQX,

Well, I just remembered to visit your website and read your interesting post on the United States. Well certainly I am very much entertained. C'mon look at all the reality television shows that America is producing, Survivor, not one, not two, but three series, The Amazing Race, Fear Factor and a lot more things. Those shows are real, they show people in pseudo-life-threatening situations, man they are SO real. Like duh. Read the word "pseudo" again if you can't pick up the sarcasm. I guess reality TV shows won't have as high ratings as a live telecast of the bombing of Baghdad.

I guess people just want some really "reality" television, and who cares if some town got blown up in Iraq, or some people get massacred en-mass, to the jubilant voice of some telenewscaster screaming, "We kicked their butts! Long live America!" Yeah, the irony of it all, reality television sounds like an oxymoron. How real can war, death, suffering, pain and destruction be, when its shown in a mere 40" flatscreen LCD box in the middle of an airconditioned room, with the remote control nearby, so that when the m0rBiD f[ascinatio]n turns to horror, one can just turn it off without getting their (in your words) lardbutts off the comfy sofa.

If only the world could just be switched off like that, if only politicians can be silenced with a press of a remote control, if only Bush knew what the heck he was talking about, if only generations of death could we turn a blind eye to with the death of each child. Truly, I think I know why Osama bin Laden wanted to bring the war to America, after all, how can you feel and understand the horrors of war.

RavenHawk

Isn't it a wonder?

Perspective, its all a matter of perspective is it not? Depending on what lens you view things with, the object scrutinised would appear differently. So then it is, when I look at the world, do you see the same things I see? Or is it just that you intepret things differently from I do? A ball falls to the ground. Do you see a ball falling? Or the world rising? Or is it both? Or as they say in The Matrix, there is no ball, there is no ground? Then, do you see what I see? Or are we all seeing things?

It doesn't matter, I see what I see, I feel what I feel, I am what I am.
I am alive.



I don't know about you.

Sick of spam. Hate spammers. Nuff said. Cleaning mailbox.

Hate lag too.

I'm sorry.

There are a lot of things I am sorry for. Almost to the point of regret and remorse. Yes, I would echo the words until they sound dry in my parched throat and I cannot utter them any more. It sounds almost pathetic and insincere. Almost? More like completely. But its not enough. I find it hard to forgive myself for the words I said, and I find it hard for you to forgive me. And still although everything looks as if normal right now, I am scared. Scared that this would happen again. Scared I'll lose my mind. Scared I'll lose you.

And I don't want that to happen.

Someone's back. Check it out.

Lunacy in crisis. And the dark shadow falls over the eyes. No, night has yet to fall, for in this strange world, there seems to be no night nor day, just the omnious hanging of the red moon overhead which bathes the landscape with a surreal glow. And I when I look around, I find the world devoid of life, devoid of sound and devoid of anything vaguely resembling order.

Just the chaotic mess of things. Where boulders are uprooted and thrown recklessly to build craters that pockmark the sands. A twisted gnarled barren tree stands alone amidst this mess of dead grey, and it seems to struggle frailly against the harsh wind that whips around it. And it bends like a cripple to the endless torment by the elements around it, and it seeks to reach up through the sandstorm, only to have its stick fingers snapped off cruelly. And all of the land conspires to stop life from reaching into the heart of this desolation.

And I stop looking within when I could look no longer.