good times !

so on wednesday night i tore myself from the endless influx of work and broke free from camp to meet lohsie and sngsy, the former of which had just returned from a five-week stint overseas while the latter – i quote him – “has nothing left to study” with regards to his med exams. yes. justingoh came after work! i tried to make reservation at café iguana but failed miserably good thing we got a table before 9pm which was the whole point, really; 50% off on jugs, so we had strawberry and pink guava margarita’s and tons of fantastic food. I WUB MEXICAN FOOD i could seriously eat fajitas for the rest of my life. and once again that’s FA-HEE-TAS, y’all. the best thing all night was, of course, the company; it felt really, really good to know how things haven’t changed at all, and it also gave me hope that they never will (:

since none of us brought cameras we had to rely on jloh’s N93 whose camera flash has luminous intensity that pales in comparison next to the oil on my face, hence the ill-lit pictures. also, there’s no picture with all four of us because jloh didn’t want a stranger manhandling his phone or running away with it, so we took photos in a rostered manner:

re: discoveries
dinner: *over*
jloh: eh ice-cream let’s go get some ice-cream
me: mehh but i’m damn full
jloh: er what has that got to do with anything
me: ?
jloh: what has being full got anything to do with getting ice-cream
me: well i’m full so i can’t eat anymore ice-cream …?
jloh: what. but ice-cream doesn’t even take up any space
sng: wow we just discovered a new law in physics
us: ahahahah

the picture below was taken because we were walking past it and jloh suddenly said ‘hey that’s the kiddy palace font’:

sick cycle carousel

‘… it often became obvious that the love was gone; for affection was only a habit after all, and people, they forgot, or they became accustomed to its absence. They returned and found just the facade; it had been eaten from inside.’

life is what we get, not what we want

… love must surely reside in the gap between desire and fulfillment, in the lack, not the contentment. Love is the ache, the anticipation, the retreat, everything around it but the emotion itself.

‘the inheritance of loss’ by kiran desai

it’s time i woke up.

Protected: i just want to know what blurs and what is clear to see;

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but affection is merely habit;

He once asked her, “how good are you with silences?”

“Enough to do the Jack Rabbit Slims’ Twist with you,” she replied quickly, cheekily referring to the “when-you-can-just-shut-the-fuck-up-for-a-minute-and-comfortably-enjoy-the-silence” moment of the Pulp Fiction film, poised just before John Travolta and Uma Thurman take to the stage with their crazy, ill-synchronised, cultural-icon-destined dance.

She should also have added: enough to keep my Media Player blasting at top volume when I am alone at home and all I can hear are the muted roars of my solitude. Enough to type loudly on Internet Messenger so that the chattering of the keyboard might substitute our unheard voices engulfed by typefonts flying across the screen. Enough to sing to myself once I have to turn the computer off, as if my tuneless humming could reassure me of a corporeality subsisting on the basic principle of air passing through and against oesophagus and larynx. And enough to touch my wet face to realise I would rather sob than to continue listening to the silence when I no longer hear from you.

 from blueasthesky

daguerreotypes:

a. A cacophony of cricket-song punctuated by legato bird calls from the lush jungles ebbs to a dull buzz as first light breaks across the treetops where a mist hangs, so thick it is almost tangible. Sometimes you could almost imagine your breath clouding in the cold, and that maybe, just maybe, the morning dew beneath your feet was melting frost.

b. Random dirt patches of alternate black-and-white form, when you allow your stare to wander, what could be faces, like faded photographs, each with its own story of nostalgia that, when probed further, dissolve into nothing more than a nebulous haze, white noise on the walls.

c. You’d imagine countless diamonds woven unto velvet skies, where constellations whisper their secrets into the night. All you’d find is disappointment in the lone effulgence of a single spark — too bright to have transcended a thousand light years — coming from a manufactured star, transmitting to you all of its solitude; doomed to fall forever towards that which it will never get closer to. Overhead, a stretch of aerial wire splits the full moon into perfect halves.

d. The cold light does not dispel the gloom but defines it, and the shadows come unbidden — they pool in soft, liquid penumbra under the steel bed-frames and fall in sinewy threads off the wire mesh on the windows like an elaborate accoutrement of cobweb-laces in which age is (so very often) told, thus, there is certain symbolism in finding fresh spider-silk overnight: days are spun into years.

e. It is a small bit of magic, but magic nonetheless, that its fragile wings would take it on a journey across continents of trimmed grass and concrete roads to break the light of a setting sun across page seventeen of my yellowed paperback. When the butterfly’s wings beat once, twice, and folded I held my breath without realising, and for eight full seconds the world was quite still. Later I somehow imagined seeing through avian eyes a profoundly tender yet poignant daguerreotype of a boy, a book and a butterfly.

f. In the distance the steel beams of a motionless construction crane stark against the night sky sing of incompletion.

g. Afterwards, there is only a bland numbness, when your heartbeat is merely rusty clockwork, and between wanting everything and nothing at all you know there is nothing left that you will ever find beautiful again.

h. Monochrome pixels against the gray-green panel remind you gently through a mixture of numbers and words of a foreign language that you have exactly six dollars and thirty-eight cents of time left. The hollow buttons, sticky with years of fingerprints, clack satisfyingly as you unlock the door between this world and that; each ring spanning a hundred miles in a stride to bring you home. That night her gentle voice will hold you captive while a hundred tiny souls pirouette endlessly around the fluorescent bulb above in a thrall far too profound for them to ever comprehend.

fata morgana

the realisation of how much i haven’t let go of left me reeling, and i wonder how much more there is left to go：if each time i shed bit by bit the trappings of my past only to fall back into them too deep to break free then i’ll have to keep on living like this and this is no way to live.

我怀念的
孙燕姿

我问为什么 女孩传简讯给我
而你为什么 不解释低着头沉默
我该相信你很爱我 不愿意敷衍我
还是明白 你已不想挽回什么

想问为什么 我不再是你的快乐
可是为什么 却苦笑说我都懂了
自尊常常将人拖着 把爱都走曲折
假装了解是怕真相太赤裸裸
狼狈比失去难受

我怀念的是无话不说
我怀念的是一起作梦
我怀念的是争吵以后还是想要爱你的冲动
我记得那年生日
也记得那一首歌
记得那片星空    最紧的右手    最暖的胸口
谁记得    谁忘了

我怀念的是无言感动
我怀念的是绝对炽热
我怀念的是你很激动 求我原谅抱得我都痛
我记得你在背后
也记得我颤抖着
记得感觉汹涌    最美的烟火    最长的相拥

谁爱得太自由
谁过头太远了
谁要走我的心
谁忘了那就是承诺

谁自顾自地走
谁忘了看着我
谁让爱变沉重
谁忘了要给你温柔

我放手
我让座
假洒脱
谁懂我多么不舍得
太爱了
所以我
没有哭
没有说