quiet silence

she always believed in the need to be conversational, especially with those closet to her heart. it's almost like the crusade to bare one's heart is one that she lives for, a born psychoanalyst who instinctively protects the emotional well being of all those within 1m proximity to where she's breathing. Love, to her, is a warm and engaging conversation that can last into eternity; not necessarily of words, but of music of the soul in resonance with one another, of silence that echoes out into the deep, of musings and sighs that are shared and understood. which is why, she knows and understands God's love and her love for God. not intellectually, but with the heart and soul. perhaps that's why, etched in her mind is the image of a boy, silent and slightly awkward, always watching her from afar, not daring to draw near. they share a knowing smile, and then part ways. they see each other from the corner of their eyes, never quite making the connection. they pluck up the courage to speak to each other, not of words but of music. the heart, speaking much louder than the sum total of all the words exchanged between them.

being alive, with colours and individuality

i'd very much rather stare at the computer till my eyes hurt than actually sleep when i'm dead tired since 2.5 hours ago. i know i deserve all the dark eye rings and eye bags in the world but too bad i'm endowed with youth and not-bad genes and those things don't get me so easily. right now i'm just thinking about how to use an eyeliner properly to get a rather sweet gothic look like the girl on the far left of the picture. (i don't really care very much about the other rather pointless pair of pictures.) makeup is my new love ever since starting temp work. it changes the way you look, but more importantly, it changes how you feel. it's a beautiful colourful day when i look through my 12-colour palette of eye shadows and decide whether to be a lilac butterfly or a brown racoon. it captures my imagination and expresses my creativity; yes, all in the process of choosing colours and styles to present to the world. makeup does not equal vanity my dear friends. they are like the colours of the rainbow to enthrall and inspire, the paint colours on the palette of a pensive artist to translate the overflowing reservoir of heaven in his breast. if art is spiritual, so must the trade of beauty creation be.

On a more intellectual tone, i have been reading Affluenza by Oliver James to satisfy my book hunger. how can i ever live without books and ideas?

besides the aesthetic reason of how i adore the cover picture of 2 zombified beautiful city dwellers, what Oliver expounds in his book about the Virus-infected English speaking cities (including Singapore) is superbly interesting. Sadly, Tzing was not too impressed nor intrigued when i was sharing (albeit a little too briefly) about his finding about how focusing on being beautiful rather than attractive is much healthier and more intrinsically motivated and hence gives you better emotional well being. well, it's common sense to know that you're always happier when you're not trying to please everyone in the world, but i've never truly separated being beautiful from being attractive. most people, like me, will probably intuitively think that they are one and same. he raises the very poignant example of how Russian and Danish women are the most beautiful in the world (seriously, i never knew that before reading the book but apparently, it's a known fact in the Western world.) but miniskirts and low cut tops are not found in their fashion encyclopedia. think individualistic, personalized, tasteful clothings mixed and matched that DON'T cost $60 a piece, mass produced in Zimbabwe and shipped over to Zaras and Mangoes going on sale in Singapore. i've always been disgusted by the state of fashion in Singapore. I'd rather dress plainly in clothes that are flattering for me and feel comfortable than trash my money on clothing that are skimpy, overpriced, mass produced and devoid of personality. Oliver's theory is that Russian and Danish women, unlike the Virus-stricken (materialism) women in developed cities, have learnt to express their beauty and creativity in their appearance, instead of using appearance to impress others or to attract men. this is why their beauty radiates from within.

Pretty cool thought huh? Oliver writes much better and interestingly of course. and every page reads like a vaccine for myself and helps me to dig deeper to discover what is truly important to me and authenticity ranks tops. To be true to who i am, what i feel, what i think, what i believe, to all those who cross my path and whose paths i cross. of course, that presupposes a simultaneous process of improving that authentic self; less selfishness, less materialism, less pretense, less hedonism, less directionless, less introspection. work in progress, that's what i am.

And don't ask me why i address Oliver James by his first name. i don't want to tell you that i neurotically treat all good writers as my personal friends. shhhhhh.

the diving bell and the butterfly (1)

why movie posters can look scandalous and irreverent to the spirit of a film eludes me. but it was a good film, which made me fall in love with French all over again and it nourished the lingophile in me. I love the beauty of the monologue Jean-Do recites in his solitary diving bell and can only metaphorically weep at my incompetence and his confinement; that i could only read the translated English form, like listening to Chopin Waltz No. 69 through the fingers of a mediator.

I got my hands on the book the next day, that i may savor once again, the resonance of the quotes which tugged at my writer soul. I wish i could rave more on the film tactics, but i was too wowed by the subtitles to give due attention to cinematography. that would take a separate viewing. i promise to fulfill my irreproachable role as an amateur film critic.

the first film that we watched together and might be the last for now, as seul, he takes off to France.

taking stock

a long time since she's been here, a poignant reminder of how long she has been a member of the living dead. She still is a drifter in every sense of the word; a traveller, a wanderer, a pilgrim of suppressed hedonism, a sprinter who exhaust her lungs in every surge of forward movement - never has been a persistent marathon runner. Her attention has been fleeting in other areas; shutting out the listening ear of the attentive doctor beside her as the charismatic pilot presses in for her number. Why not? her internal monologue rationalises away her 3 minute interest in anyone at all.

for the longest time she has been sick of her raven hair; the overdue sunburst colours haunt her every day, in the reflection of a glass, a mirror along the shopping windows. The memory and desire taunt her unceasingly: How much longer will you live a partial life?

the dazzling colours of the city lights of New York provide a wisp of dreamy remembrance these days, as she relives the sensation of the cool Times Square night on her skin and the buzz of people roaming the city that never slumbers. so sweet yet so short; they had to leave before the subway fails them in the wee hours of dawn. how she wished she insisted on watching the warm hues of morning light envelope this city inch by inch. Manhattan, the sleek sort of man she knew she'd fall in love with - long enough for a summer and deep enough to harp on for years after. Perhaps, fond memories will fail her when they meet again, but nostalgia remains bittersweet; like the dark chocolate she well savors.

she starts to wander once again, in her invisible cities she is once again free to roam, free to create, free to dream. no more mirrors and no more promenading.

series of unforeseen happenings

a whole whirlwind of unexpected happenings caught me off guard, and i feel i've finally been set free from a ship anchored in a wrong place for far too long. the nautical miles are dropping steadily as i start afresh on my little make shift raft and continue to sail in this vast space called LIFE. Much to do, but top of my list to really live because life really is too short to eat bad food, work in an office, maintain the status quo, be afraid of change, suppress my wildest ambitions and to live carelessly. This realization came as i was in the midst of grandma's funeral service over the weekend as people scurried around to take care of matters ostensibly for a dead person but whom will never grasp the meaning of all this fuss and bustle as her shell lies silently in the coffin.

And life, is too full of possibilities to box myself in or to tell myself NO or MAYBE out of fear. Seize the present, for it is called a gift for a reason. There is much to do, much to hope for, much to imagine, much to explore, much to seize and treasure. This realization came when Glenn told me he's taking a week's leave to go and see France all by himself after this semester of French class ends. makes me want to go with a new sort of urgency, i admit.