I see a teabag suspended in mid-cup.

I see what everyone else sees. I feel what everyone else feels.

My perception of the activities i engage in are also, largely influenced by society’s perception of them.

I have so many questions regarding my future. Will i get a boyfriend, when will i get married, and most importantly, what will i be doing 10 years down the road? There are too many answers. Too many for me to comprehend.

Sometimes i wonder it it me holding myself back? Fear of not becoming the best so i don’t attempt to do it at all?

Most people complain how society is so rigid and does not give one enough freedom, but to come to think of it, maybe it’s TOO LIBERAL, that’s why we are spoiled for choices. If society is really rigid, I won’t be able to choose, and will probably be an engineer? However, it might be my bad results that broke me away from this stereotypical rat race.

If one has to be different (in a negative way) to break societal norms to achieve what they really want in life, is it worth it?

There is a risk to every profession isn’t there. Not a risk that affects mortality, but risks like you will never be as outstanding as your peers. Singers that failed to have tours, producers for Rebecca Black, chefs in food centres vs chefs in marina bay sands restaurants.

But again who are to judge who achieves more than the other?

And on what basis are we judging?

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”
― Albert Einstein

 

 

Take a trip back with me

The very fact that I’m blogging in a statistics lecture says alot about my life- it’s extremely boring. I would give everything to live in the golden ages.
I would prance along the roads and sing and dance like no one’s business. I would be flamboyant like Marilyn, wear a thick winged eye liner and an outrageous red lipstick, I would be quiet and graceful like Audrey, bun my hair, have doe eyes and be all chill in a little black dress and ballet flats. I would be witty and feisty like Sally bowles of Cabaret, be as stunning and poised as the Queen. I will wear chic Chanel dresses and wear pretty dancing shoes. I’ll wear sexy corset tops and high waist shorts, I’ll wear my hair like how Katy Perry did in “thinking of you” I’ll have super long eye lashes and bold red lip, and I’ll go dancing everyday with soldiers and actors and amazing people. I would drive a shiny yellow 1948 Chrysler Windsor Convertible Highlander, I would feel the salty wind in my hair, I would stop for hitchhikers who need rides home, I would fall in love in the rain, in the museum, in the cruise, anywhere is fine really. Everything is automatically more romantic when it’s in the golden age. He would look something like an asian Pierce Brosnan, I would make him gel his hair and slick it back, wear a black suit and shiny shoes, and we would go for balls and parties. We would fall asleep, JUST fall asleep together under the stars, leaning on my Chrysler. Oh of course he has his own car. 🙂
Then we would get married at a small chapel on a boulevard, it will be a small white chapel with green vines and flowers and I’ll be in a wedding gown, a really really simple tulle wedding gown, and he will be looking sharp in a black suit, he would be blushing in excitement. I’ll walk down the aisle and the violins will play, “here comes the bride!!!”
Then erm, we will go on our honeymoon. And kids can wait for a year or so. 🙂
… Back to a time like that. I would want it to happen, very much.

Photos

$5, $200, $500, $1000, $2000, $5000..

That’s how much memories cost. Cameras capture instants, and instants become memories. Investing in a good camera to preserve this memories, doesn’t seem that unreasonable at all.

When i saw how the magical cameras in Harry Potter can capture GIFs, i was blown away. Imagine you have animated photos of your first kiss, first time wearing a wedding gown, first time sky diving, you can almost relive every single memory again! yea but in the muggle world they are called video.

I see cameras as time machines.. they are able to freeze frame that instant. No matter how much the world changes and how much time reconstructs the building the streets the houses, that freeze frame always exists. forever.. until you lose the photos that is.

Check this out. 

Scientists have already pointed out that the theory behind time travel is not impossible, as long as a particle travel faster than light, we would be able to go back in time, or rather, time will travel slower than us. Since time is not a vector, either ways we can time travel, into the past or future. I hope this machine will be done by the time i turn 60ish.. cuz by then i probably can still move around. 😀

Dramatic Drama

I’m think, for 99% of the time, scriptwriters/ dialogues writers of a drama have painfully misunderstood the behaviour and anatomy of people in the olden days. *modern dramas potraying life in the past*

Other than excessive fainting that might be caused by malnutrition, I really don’t understand how they can all be so dramatic.

The leads are naively adorable, their pathetic lives revolving around one legible bachelor who is charming and addicted to smoking. Or, the leads are naively adorable, their pathetic lives revolving around one femme fatale who is charming and ALSO, addicted to smoking. In addition to that will be unimportant side kicks who will quietly suffer from unrequited love for the lead, and are usually bullied into suicide or victims of hand spasms.

I’m not sure how flamboyantly songstresses/ prostitutes behave back then, but i’m pretty sure they don’t CAKE on make up and displace their hips at extreme angles. They are supposed to look pretty, not scary aren’t they?

Most of the time my favourite characters will be people who are dead from the start, or antagonists in the show. They are the only ones that have thinks and behave logically, and the rest are just whimsical idiots. Especially the innocent maidens who sings and flutter about in their beautiful garden, falls in love with a womaniser and becomes an alcoholic because she is hurt by his infidelity. Then she eventually dies of heart attack.

And when the gross gangsters tries to rape them they just scream “don’t don’t”  softly. like ? -.-

Kick him in the crotch! Stab him with ur stilettos! Slap them!

They don’t. So in the end they get raped and jump off a buildings or hang themselves in shame.

If i were to own a time machine and go back, i think i’ll be a ravishing violent whimsical logical anti smoking mafia singer…

Dear scriptwriters, you are making me doubt my understanding of that beautiful whimsical era.  Please stop.

Mission Papilion-2

He squinted into the crimson sky. Is she an angel sent by God? But Angels are asexual. It will be impossible to love her? In those dark damp memories, he always saw a girl clothed in white, the cloth so fine it had a silver shimmer to it. He would grab onto this image he would feel peaceful, and remain that throughout the torture.
“kill masum” was the only instruction issued to them. It had became a mantra, repeatedly drilled into his skull. No one questioned who or what was “masum”. They just fought like death was afraid of them. He was controlled, grasped from within, his every single nerve orchestrated by a band of faceless leaders.
Skin.
He looked down and saw her sliding her slender fingers into his hand. She smiled at him and rested her head on his shoulder.
Lilies.
She smells like lilies today, and it kills him. Something so fragile and tender could be destroyed in his hands if he is careless.
Tugging.
He felt his left hand being tugged, he turned, and her lips were on his. His eyes flew shut and the vein on his temple thumped furiously against the skin.
It was as though someone shot a jug of firewhiskey Into his bloodstream. Her lips, tender like petals, caressed his chapped ones.
Her fingers danced across his chest and stopped over his heart. Every time she does this, he could feel the warmth from her hand diffusing into his skin, and his heart would beat again. It felt, as though she revived him.

——–to be continued—-merry Xmas—

Clubbing

I don’t know when exactly the term clubbing came into my conversations with friends, but what i do remember is we always spoke of the word in caution. It was a taboo word in my circle of friends. People who go clubbing then were frowned and looked down upon.
Then I started pre-college. And all of a sudden, clubbing was cool. It was what cool kids do, and all that wannabes like me would talk about. My first clubbing experience required meticulous planning and strategic lying. Lying to my mum I went to a sleepover, so I could get home after she left for work. Till today I thought Supperclub was the best club I ever went to (it’s closed down). It was an audio and visual ‘heaven’. Following that was drunkenly walking along Singapore river and bursting out in song. Then after that, crashing on the MRT train. It was really a I-had-the-best-time-of-my-life kinda thing.
My second time was in college, it wasn’t really considered clubbing at all since I was only there for an hour. But my “moves” were considered to be provocative? Yeah whatever. They weren’t even moves. Just swaying.
The most recent party I attended was Mad Hatters event in Attica @ Clarke Quay. I wasn’t there to party, I was there to facilitate a fourskin fashion show. Maybe I was super tired, or maybe I found the techno beats were extraordinarily difficult to sway to.
While awkwardly moving around, I observed people’s facial expressions and behavior, and they were ridiculous. Exaggerated dance steps, wild swinging of hair and limbs, and extreme excitement over a lollipop handed over by the DJ. If I used to think clubbing was cool, I grew out of that phase.
When I went home with my ears ringing and hair smelling like garbage, I realised I’m a girl who likes to dress up and sway to the carpenters on a sunny Victorian afternoon.

Mission Papilion-1

“would you want war? If you are not a soldier, would you want them to start a war?”
Her voice pierced through his dissociated trance.
“What are you fighting for? Patriotism? Is it worth the lives lost? Who are you fighting for? Your people? The emperor? ”
He stood there, his arms dangling weakly at his sides. Every question she asked, are not unfamiliar, those are the ones he fired at Takuma-San before they sent him for mission Papillion.
Tears and sweat wet the dried blood on his face,and the mixture flowed down his cheeks, like streaks made by a painter’s brush.

——to be continued——