you ran away to the beach one night.

to hear the waves and see the stars.

night was unkind, the skies’ overcast -

the waves beat steadily on the constructed shoreline.

a horizon of blinkering lights,

shouting and demanding your undivided attention.

“we are different, unique in our own rights!”

shouting, yelling, screaming. they demand to be heard.

you take a step back – overwhelmed by their clutches.

gathering your thoughts, your gaze is cast at the clamouring crowd.

they are not that different. lights they still are. and lights they will be.

yet, the horizon is littered with them.

the lights that guide you home are also the ones that keep you there.

the borders are sealed. they are on guard.

the stars shine no more.

is it still possible, to dream too long

untitled no.2

“i’ll love you forever”

“we will still be, friends forever”

a thousand similar words, written into the sand.

that and the blood of forefathers – mixed together.

into the seas they go.

leaving a clean slate as they go.

washing away. lifting away.

late nights bring a candidness, a truthfulness if you will to my thoughts.

my dreams are under siege. a b- from com201 haunts my second major chances in communication studies. I wonder aloud if I will be allowed a second chance to redeem myself.

the singaporean education system is not known for its kindness nor its capacity for second chances.

sometimes, it seems that the only way to recover from such a slight is vengeance. vengeance in the form that you return to the place where you were slighted, having achieved greater things than the best of their school had to offer.

but such actions are useless. it is immature to think that it will even out any scores. at best, it only serves to slay the inner-demons of inferiority that reside within our very human hearts. and even then, it doesn’t resolve the fundamental issues within our result-driven society.

we pursue recognition like a mindless slave, chasing obscure statutory boards for certification that often impede instead of improve work flows.

and yet, some part of me knows that this is a rant against the fact that my dreams are about to be dashed against the rocks of reality simply because of a lousy grade point.

22 years into existence, and still, i am bent over by the grade-centric system that my society has.

sigh.

i’m freed from my typical responsibilities by friends and family who understand that while i do need this time to be alone and concentrate on my studies, what they don’t know is that during this time, i am truly capable of taking time off to sit down and think about the heavy things in life.

what will my direction be in five, ten – perhaps even twenty years if i dare to dream that far?

opportunities have come knocking on my door – some offering me a choice to do what i like, others reminding me of my duty, and even now, some that remind me that i am far from perfect as a person. i have much to learn to improve myself.

maybe i am weak-willed; in the sense that during this exam period, i’ve not foussed all my energies on being the best i can be for the exams – but a little, tiny part of me tells me to look beyond the tangible that the exam offers. gpa grading aside, exams force us to make a decision in our lives. it tests our resolve to commit to changes in our lives. it challenges the very fundamental of the things we claim to believe in.

ultimately, it is a test of maturity in a very materialistic way.

and perhaps in the near future, my beloved country will realize that results aside – exams are definitely not the be all, end all towards one’s person worth. the world needs to change its mindset once more. that the true mark of a matured person, lies not in the results delivered, the rationalizations and justifications given for their actions, but rather, a person who is willing to stick by his beliefs towards the very end – even at the cost of great peril, great pain.

we were once called the outliers, and we still are. but it is the outliers that push the limits of our reality. like pioneers of the old, innovators of the present, the outliers will become the hope of tomorrow.

and its in these nights, these rare nights of clarity – that i dare bear some semblance of hope.

hope that all i’ve gone through is not for naught.

hope that it will make me a better person.

and most importantly -

hope that it will give me strengths to face the trials i’ve yet to seen, the pain i’ve yet to feel – and moreover – the strength to bear these tribulations.

rationalizing.

right now, the irrational me is firmly in control.

its this part of me that mourns all the lost chances that i have ever missed. every failed endeavour, every mis-step that i make, it records in high-definition, 4k, whatever the current lingo is. it remembers every single damned thing so clearly.

a part of me knows that the only way to stop history from repeating itself right now, is to stand up, make a stand, do something about it. to move is to change, to stay stationary is the only crime that anyone can make.

really.

yet, there is no motivating factor right now – if i could set everything on fire, and watch the damned world burn, i would. but i cant.

if i could die, which i know i can, i would.

but no

it is pure irrationality – this one that knows that its existence needs to be complimented with rationality. the one that knows if it attempts to change any little bit of this equation, it would cease to exist.

teaching me that you cannot do without some sort of emotional attachment in this world. the negative effects of foreveralone, and god knows the other dozen internet memes that describe loneliness.

memes that i don’t understand. me gusta, herp derp, what do these strange words mean?

what difference are they from the words that i see on printed pages? do they have any meaning for me now?

do they? does anything?

meaning.

we ascribe meaning to the things we do.

what happens when we fail to do that? do we fail as human beings altogether if we can’t find meaning?

tell me what to do,

when the heart finds no more meaning to keep existing.

when nothing in this damned world moves you anymore.

when we have become so de-sensitized to everything there is out there. there is nothing magical or amazing about this world anymore.

and the only thing left is that empty beating heart.

a dreadful lot of waiting.

waiting for the monotonous voice to tell you that you are to stop writing. a little bit of cosmic irony following the announcement – the tape automatically reverts back to the voice that speaks to you at the beginning of your exams.

many thoughts swirl in the deep dark recesses of the brain. another voice on the radio comforts you, sort of. at least for the first five minutes. then it becomes grating. your thoughts are in a mess. a maelstrom of un-fulfilment. detest. you detest your own weak consciousness for being unable to hold onto the epiphany of a passing moment.

jab. the voice is silenced. the whirlpools in the frontal cortex seems to slow. heightened hearing and touch. the mind wanders like a two-bit street walker, now focusing on the sound of the fingers tapping away at the keyboard; the coldness in the extremities. you need a jacket – another voice resonates – from the depths of your consciousness.

the chair is really comfortable, pipes another voice. maybe you should rest awhile – it prods, gently.

NO. you cannot afford to rest. not when there is this much unfinished business; and definitely not before you retrieve the epiphany that is lost. this voice sounds more  authoritative. the other voices cringe at this one voice. yes master, grovelling, like the slaves they are, they retreat to the shadows.

but do they truly retreat? no, there is no way. they are vicious rumour-mongers, waiting for the slightest opportunity to strike once more – once Mr. Authority slacks off, they will come with their knives, garden shears and chainsaws. they will tear Authority to bits and claim this intellect as their plaything.

no.

they have already won.

the infinite permutations of 24 letters in different lengths seek a freedom they cannot have.

alone, they mean little. together, and only together, can they take form.

rational and irrational – twins separated at birth, united by a force quite unknown. to quote a bit of pop culture ” one cannot live while the other dies.” the endless twinning that exist in society – the matter and anti-matter.

desiring to be no longer alone, yet, unable to fulfil one’s own end of the bargain. burying double meanings in one’s posts, yet certain that no one will be able to find them. the perfect hidden message – paradox in the making.

waiting. waiting. waiting.

the novels have always betrayed this sensibility.

they make you age countless years in a matter of hours. it was David, then Joe and Violet Trace, Archie Jones, J.War Moorehouse. The whole crew. people who lived in the same time and age, rushing forward to tell you their stories.

and you sat there, face ashen, starbucks coffee cup stacked against one another, digesting their lifetimes – the hopes and dreams; highlighting furiously, desperately hoping that you’ll find a spark of brilliance in this maelstrom of emotions and lifetimes.

and theses poor creatures, their fates so determined, that they are but shadows of real people; perhaps a half-remembered dream in Woolf’s bouts of clarity, a half encounter by Joyce along the streets of his fictional Dublin.

So come tell me a story of what’s true and what’s not – when reality comes collapsing upon one another infinitely, where the arbitrary labels come crashing down. different characters holding a little conference meeting in your mind; a mini United Nations if you will.

each arguing their cases, each assuring you that they exist, each desperate to take over your dreams tonight.

(i dare not say morning since most of my friends have already abandoned that pursuit)

- when all you hear is the relentless beat of your heart,

the silent whirring of your mechanical fan.

the floor is filled with laundry, papers, books.

(an organized chaos you are so proud of)

the door’s slightly ajar, sun streaming in.

you are cold -

(you reach over to your throw-over)

[somehow, somewhere, we've lost the ability to use blanket,

it's one syllable too much]

to find some warmth in it.

denied.

(your throw-over proclaims)

you focus your squint,

hands searching for your tinted glasses.

gazing -

the room is impossibly filled,

yet – impossibly empty.

perhaps it’s the lack of photographs,

a missing portrait.

another human face to occupy the void.

your heart continues its relentless beat,

the fan does it’s duty mechanically.

a light typing on a keyboard.

a futile attempt to define

loneliness.

it’s pre-ordained;

that you should die today.

(perhaps die is too strong a word;)

live, cry, laugh, crinkle, run, smile

a dozen words waiting to fill that are willing to fill that blank.

but still i choose die.

fate implies an ending, and death is the ending(for most).

no great adventure beyond the shawls of Death -

death brings all motion to a halt.

no liberation, no afterlife to be had.

illusions they are, and illusions they remain.

if fate has decreed that you shall die today,

then wait calmly in your room; sip your cup of tea -

and see Fate and Death, hand-in-hand, joining you at your afternoon respite.

there is no struggle to be had,

no heroics before fate.

she’s the dealer that knows your hand,

seen your life when you’re just a sperm.

she knows you before you know her.

so struggle not against fate,

her fancies are for you to obey.

grovel at her feet and skirt,

you’ve no power over her.

for even if you kill yourself today – she knows,

that today was the day you die.

a house made from cards is weak, flimsy and ultimately, unsure of itself.

outside that exterior of imposed uniformity, lies a different heart, spade, club, diamond.

from the ace to the king, queens, jacks, tens, threes and twos

(not forgetting the fours, fives, sixes, sevens, eights, nines).

three a room, life’s a squeeze.

the spade king is in bed with the queens of club and diamonds

(dude, he’s living the life)

the rest of the lowly workers,

(the tens of spades,clubs and hearts)

squeezed into a hole at the bottom.

the aces, always in the pocket – living it up at the corners of the house

- waiting to make a move.

amongst the milling hundreds that live in this house,

lies the one maverick.

he has no suit, no identity, a migrant.

he stands in for the childish queen of hearts when she’s away with the king

of clubs.

he replaces the nines when they’re out tasting wines.

 the threes when they’re stuck in a tree.

everyone’s substitute.

 a joker at the court of kings and knaves(for that was the name of the jacks before the Renaissance)

and one day, the joker will grow tired of waiting to become someone else.

one day, he’ll take leave of this accursed house.

and watch the house come down.

i was looking through some old photographs – you’d know, that nickelback song? i found this image of myself, taken by Ly.

i never realized how much i’ve aged since a year ago. i recognize a different person in the mirror now, one on the verge of shattering into pieces, one who was no longer sure of what to do with my life.

so much has happened and changed me. its undeniable that – i’m no longer the person i thought i used to be.

perhaps, a little part of me has died, never to come back.

and in the years that have yet to come, i’ll realize how much i’ve died.