It has been insanely tiring. It wasn't the workload, it's just that I'm all out by afternoon, aching like hell and just mentally drained - despite me not doing much work, not exercising much.

Just before my remote was snatched and a random channel was pressed, the subtitle read,



"I'd probably give up friendship."

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*** You have joined #Your_subconcious_conscience

< catch-22> hey
< catch-22> do you realize that
< catch-22> the love that you desire can only be given by a particular type of person
< catch-22> the kind who might gut his friend, perhaps for self-preservation
< catch-22> how can someone who does not steal be asked to murder?
< catch-22> I think you should teach him to lie

*** < catch-22> has quit IRC 2009-08-16T22:58(+8GMT)

< particularperson> our love is like a black hole
< particularperson> come, fall into its event horizon
< particularperson> you know there's no turning back once you're in
< particularperson> we can dream about heaven when we are condemned so far below
< particularperson> would you like to live this dream, with me?


*** < particularperson> has quit IRC 2009-08-16T23:13(+8GMT)(I could die instead)

Wooooooot.

And yet everything makes sense.










Perfect sense.

People function base on an assumption that others will abide by their words - with the exception of part of the denomination.


Likewise it's funny how some can hold on to nothing for the years in front and some can give up the years behind for nothing.






Nothing useful, nothing worthy.

Here I am in my quiet corner of the road, pulled over, once again trying to make sense of things, praying that if I were to punish my head a bit more that I might find answers to nonexistent questions.

My car is parked in the same spot as always, and the biker from yesterday, again, stopped his bike by the road in the same spot as yesterday. He is again, dressed in black, a black collared top and black jeans, sitting still on the pavement, facing the road. His hands are clasped and his legs crossed. There is no packet of coffee hanging off his fingers, and no cigarette between his fingers. Once in a while he sits scribbling on his notepad and then he lays it down, and clasps his fingers, sometimes bringing a finger to his pursed lips and at times his index fingers jut out from his interlocked hands and he brings it to his forehead, perhaps a sign of distress or perhaps he is just deep in thought. At times he squats, and at times he stands, yet his fingers never leave his lips. Occasionally he steals a glance, just as I stole glances of him. “What is he doing here?” we asked.

It is strange as to why people insist on doing things that seemingly make no sense, doing things and persisting in doing things that are detrimental.You know it hurts and yet sometimes you just can’t resist rubbing that blue-black, peeling that scab, poking your wounds.

Likewise I’m not too sure as to why I’m writing, for whom I’m writing and for what I’m writing. And if you were to look at it, it’s pretty illogical as to how I write, but it seems that it expresses me the best, even though most of the times I do not understand it myself.

Today I tried to play some music, and each time I played a song, a totally random and different one started playing; random songs that I’ve not heard of, random songs that I do not even know that exist on my computer, and perhaps they do not even exist on my computer. It reminded me of when I was much younger. I picked up an antique cordless phone and pressing the ‘call’ button without plugging in the receiving station nor switching the latter on. To my surprise I heard random chatters – random conversations of people. I didn’t understand much. Some of which were in foreign tongues, some of which in dialects. Needless to say, my mastery of dialects was almost non-existent then – I was just another toddler in kindergarten. And yet I was enthralled. The phone was glued to my ears for the entire day, till the batteries ran dry. To the younger me, it was amazing, being offered a glimpse of the unknown, conversing with people of the past. It felt like a visit to the museum, where you could pick up an old phone and listen to the voices of people in history. And it was all so fascinating, even though you did not understand a thing to just listen and wonder.

Why then can we not appreciate and take pleasure in the things we make no sense of when we are older now? The same school of thought that provided us answers to so many problems of the physical world, that gave us the mega-structures of today fail so terribly when we have problems that seem so much simpler when placed next to quantum physics.

I wish I had answers to everything. Maybe I should wish instead that I have rose-colored glasses, living a calvin and hobbes life.

Hobbes isn’t even alive, by the way.



He’s feeling cold. His wrist, knees and back are aching. And try as he might to conceal his weaknesses, tell-tale signs give him away. His cool is broken by beads of perspiration that trickle down his forehead despite his quickness to wipe them away. He mutters silently in his head random wisps of latin tongues and sometimes he throws in prayers. The book of Psalms isn’t his favourite nor does he make the most sense of (compared to books of John, Luke, Revelations) and yet he recalls it with ease. Kyrie eleison. The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not be in want.. The prayers do not alleviate his sufferings, nor does his heart warm – he feels slightly comforted that his sufferings and the void deep inside, has been, acknowledged. Some comfort is better than none, he smiles.




Strange and funny for it seems, it’s the beautiful ones he doesn’t know, he has never slept with, he has never met, that knows his secrets.





And I love you too, my beautiful reader.

There are 600 students in the school.

40 of them

My daughter came back late from school one day, her eyes all red and swollen.

I asked, "Where have you been?"

She said, "My friend broke her doll and was crying.










I couldn’t fix her doll, so I sat down and I helped her cry."