; thinking of you.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

11:12 AM

Someone once asked me what was my favourite room in the house.
Then without waiting for my answer, she laughed and answered herself.
It had to be my room, she beamed with a hundred watt smile, her voice confident and self-assured. Because my room was the place with all my books, with the computers, with the comfy bed and the guitars.
She walked off, drawn away by passing friends who beckoned at her with crooked fingers.
I was left standing by the squalid toilets, having uttered not a single word, my bottle poised halfway by the water cooler.

No, despite what some might think, my favourite room in the house is not my room, which is not even my own room, but a walled area I share with my sister. Yeah, the books might be there, I might write stories there, I might strum there. But I don't actually read there, I don't actually get ideas for stories by sitting for hours by my desk, and I do most strumming in the hallway, when no one else is home, so I can catch the fresh breeze from the balcony.

My favourite room in the house, is the toilet. Yes, I know it's not an actual room. I also know that we deposit our smelly faeces there, and not to mention the urine.
But seriously? The toilet, is the closest I can get to having privacy.
The toilet is where I go to hide and have embarrassing conversations with friends, unfit for fellow nosy family members to hear.
The toilet is where I seek relief from monthly cycles. Where I sit out deadly cramps as the white of the toilet bowl is stained by crimson liquid.
Where I cried my eyes out when Dumbledore died, when Akkarin died, when the Sisterhood seperated.
Where I practised the cha-cha in the shower for the dance exam, embarrassing as it is to admit.
Where I sat in the shower, hot water pounding on my back as I tried desperately to sort out all the warped ideas and images of a new story.
The toilet is where I sat crying for my dead goldfish, seven years ago.
The toilet is where I sought peace, leaning my head against the smooth, tiled walls as cold water pattered on my face, and I tried to blank out my mind, to find calm.
Where I always brought my laptop in, sit on the closed lid of the toilet bowl, and sob shamelessly for soppy movies I could not bear to watch with my family for fear of humiliation.
Where I first tried out acting, at nine years of age, thinking I was Mia Thermopolis.
Where I shed tears for friends I missed, for friends I feared would forget me.

It's the place most important to me, the place filled with most of my sorrows, my cheeriness, years of immatured naivete, months of pressured studying.

The toilet, is my inspiration.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

6:05 PM

Alone and forgotten, she stood, a lone figure on the bridge.
She stared down into the waters, watching sheets of water fold over themselves, ripples caused by an unknown hand.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and Lena glanced up at the rolling grey clouds in the velvet night sky. Unconcerned, she peered back down.
Would she ever forgive her? She wondered, staring at the silent water. Could she ever forgive herself?
Lena rolled a rose stalk between pale fingers, reminiscing. A thorn pricked the edge of her thumb, but she didn't notice. Crimson blood dribbled down, staining the grey stone ledge she rested her elbows upon.
Water under the bridge, Lena had told her with a dagger held behind her back. And then, Lena pushed her over the bridge, into the dark, unrelenting waters. Her skull cracked against a stone, she broke her spine and the body turned up at Westbridge three days later.
Lena loosed a harsh laugh that rang in the quiet night air. What irony!
And instead of hurling the black rose into the riverwater as a sad tribute to her as planned, Lena let it fall to the floor. She grinded it into the ground under a booted foot, the black petals breaking into soft fragments.
She stepped back from the ruined flower with a wolfish grin turning up the corners of her harsh mouth.
Lena turned back to the side of the bridge, placing her elbows upon the ledge once again. But the smile was gone now, replaced by a vague emptiness, a feeling that was nothing at all.
Suddenly, it began to rain.

Monday, May 22, 2006

9:06 PM

I don't usually do this sort of thing, but I find it kind of sad, so I'm doing it anyway.

Seven People/things that make me smile:
1) Reading
2) Movies
3) Smily
4) Charyl
5) All my old sc friends
6) Renee
7) Writing

Seven Ways to Win My Heart:
1) A good sense of humour
\2) Sensitive, but not too sensitive
3) Kind, selfless
4) A love for books
5) Always by my side
6) -
7) -

Seven People I Trust In:
1) Joelle
2) Jess
3) Bala
4) Joy
5) Val
6) Lynnie
7) -

Seven Things I Hope to do now:
1) Read a very good book
2) Write a good story
3) Dye my wardrobe black/ Get black clothes
4) Watch a movie
5) Talk to someone
6) To be left alone
7) Have all the chocolate in the world

Seven Things I Do Everyday:
1) Switch on my computer
2) Read
3) Eat like a pig
4) Sleep
5) Daydream
6) Make stupid mistakes
7) Think about my pathetic self

Seven People I Want to See Now:
1) Charyl
2) Smily
3) Esther
4) Bala
5) Jia Wen
6) Val
7) Joy

Seven (+1) People I Want to Do This:
1) Bala
2) Priscilla
3) Jessica (Juwono)
4) April
5) Ms Goh
6) Joy
7) Val
8) Lynnie

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

9:43 PM

I've been a terrible person all my life.
And no, I'm not saying this just to garner sympathy. It's miserably true, according to what Joey tells me everyday. Not that I actually listen to her, but after it's being drummed into your brain everyday, you start to believe it, too.
I can't explain how lazy a person I am. I'm too lazy to even walk across the room to grab a piece of tissue. I've so many ideas, and I'm too lazy to actually carry them out.
I keep saying I want to go to Cambodia to save the poor. But when I go there, I'll probably be too lazy to crawl out of my tent to serve them vaccines.
I'm such a hypocrite; I should cut my tongue out.
I'm too horrible a person to say sorry. Maybe it's not that I'm horrible, but it's more that I can't. Yeah, I can say the word well enough, but devoid of any emotion. What's the point of saying sorry when you aren't sorry at all?
I wish I could take back all the mean things I've done this year, things that deserve a thousand sorries. Maybe it was a casual, flippant remark, but it still hurt somebody else. And maybe we should think about that. I don't want people to do what they did to Jessica Choo. Look at the poor girl. People make smarmy remarks right in her face, gossiping here, gossiping there.
Maybe you should stop for a while and think about what you're going to say, instead of just blurting it out. How would you feel if someone else talked about you like that? Just shove all that resentment in and take it out on your diary at home or whatever.
I wish I could just do something about it, instead of just yakking about it. Again, I'm being a hypocrite. I just say it, but I know I won't, can't, do it. I'm too much of a wuss.
I've got no guts whatsoever.

Monday, May 15, 2006

6:30 PM

No one is ever satisfied with her life.
We think that our needs will be sated, if we just have that one crumpler bag or those funky high tops.But once we get them, something else bigger, better and more expensive comes along and the whole cycle of whining to parents starts all over again.
I'm a quitter with insatiable desires. I can't help it, it seems to be innate and practically uncurable. There was once upon a time, that I wanted to learn the piano, I wanted to learn the flute, I wanted to learn ballet, jazz, judo, painting, Spanish, Italian, how to cook linguine, how to skateboard, how to act. I wanted lots of things, all of which I lost interest just a few weeks later.
I give up in everything I do, I just can't seem to pull through difficulties that everyone else faces with ease. I quit badminton in P4, when I started to lose interest. Then in P5, Jessica and Smily got me so excited about it again that I joined it, quitting about four months later. In P2, I started learning the violin. When my teacher told me that I had some talent in me, I dreamt of growing up to be a famous violinist. I listened to the violin group Bond, aspiring to be just like them. I admired their funky black and wood violins, dreaming of my own in years to come. Three years later, I quit violin because I lost interest in it, and at the end of P5, I took up guitar.
This afternoon, I just heard Bond again. My mom played it over the car stereo, and I was extremely surprised by the familiar sounding violins. And it made me long to hold that violin again, to become the professional musician I wanted to be.
When I was still playing the violin, there were times I grew really tired of it. I would sit the tiny instrument on my lap and start plucking away, as if it were a guitar, inventing my own fingerings along the way. Now, as I hold the heavy, polished guitar, my thoughts start to wander to the times when, with the carefree, lightweight violin that I would hoist onto my shoulder, I would start playing Minuet in G.
It's funny that when I want something, I really want it. But when I finally get it ... the desire to want it is gone.
I want to be a perfect guitarist, but I have no patience for it. It's the same thing as before, I wanted to be a smashing good badminton player, bringing home trophies, I wanted to be a martial artist, kicking butt off the streets, I wanted to be the next Vanessa Mae, rolling out sweet melodies on my violin.
It's all about wants. No one can honestly tell me that she is satisfied with her life, that she desires nothing but what she already has, that she longs for nothing better than that of hers.
A Roxy wallet. A crumpler bag. An Ipod. A pair of Converse high tops. Everyone has her material wants.
And you ask me why people aren't happy in this world.