Friday, June 26, 2009

Big Fish

The film Big Fish centres around Edward Bloom, a dreamer and a charmer from a small town, and his son, William Bloom. What makes Edward Bloom so extraordinary is his knack of telling stories.Tall tales are spun, ranging from the fanciful to the downright bizarre, until everyone who knows him is spellbound by his stories and adventures. Except for his son, that is. Ever the skeptic, he stubbornly refuses to believe in the stories, and constantly demands for Edward to tell the truth. In a way, William cannot see who his father really is, underneath the glittering, distracting facade of his stories. Finally, as his father lies on his deathbed, he learns to appreciates the tales and myths surrounding him, because they are a part of his father. In the end, Edward Bloom transforms into a sort of legend himself.

Magical and charmingly captivating, this film boasts visually stunning cinematic sequences that will leave the audience completely enthralled. Thanks to the influence of filmmaker Tim Burton, there is an otherworldly, mystical, wondrously fantastical quality to the film.  With his easy grin, Ewan McGregor commands the screen, with just the right amount of charm and confidence without coming across as arrogant. Helena Bonham Carter, too, was compelling in her role as Jenny, the woman from the town of Spectre.

 Ultimately, it's a film with a big heart, and it'll leave you laughing, crying, and simply moved, all at the same time.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Dreams are just empty, insubstantial vessels, a mere means of raising one's hopes and then crashing back down to the harsh reality once more. They may be so perfect, yet fragile and unattainable at the same time. It's impossible to chase after dreams, to catch them, to call them your own.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

"We are all time bombs and angels, poisons and antidotes, question marks and commas, and it suits me just fine"

Everyday as I travel to school, an endless stream of unfamiliar faces pass me by. Sometimes, it gets too close for comfort, having those strangers pressed so tightly against me as they try to squeeze into a train cabin that is packed to maximum capacity. Their sombre expressions often leave me fervently wishing I were somewhere else. A smile would be nice. But this is the cold, harsh reality of city life - almost everyone seems to caught up in the rat race to bother about each other, even though it wouldn't kill them to mouth a hello. Sometimes, our eyes will meet, and we'll coolly appraise each other. Then the staring gets uncomfortable, and we quickly avert our gazes, turning away and retreating into back into our own private world. They fiddle with their smartphones and plug their earphones in- whatever it takes to make them look preoccupied. Maybe it's their self-defense mechanism or security blanket.. I don't know.

These people come and go. I could be trying to memorize a person's features, noticing that she wears a pair of blue earrings, that she has a tiny mole above her left eyebrow. Before I know it, the train doors open and she's swept up in the crowd which is frantically trying to jostle their way out. And it's as if I have amnesia or something, so quickly does my brain dismiss her features. She becomes faceless once more, just like any other stranger I encounter.

The train station is a fascinating place, once you learn to look past the faces of these people, and see what lies beneath. Every single one of them has a story to tell, be it sad, funny, captivating, scandalous or plain silly.

They could be broken inside. They could have loved and lost someone. They could be empty inside, lost, purposeless, without a faith to anchor them down. They could be struggling to cope with so much hurt, that it'd take months, years maybe, to fix them. They could be weary of life, too drained to even trudge to work. They could be brimming with secret hopes and seemingly impossible dreams, like being a world renowned pastry chef, an astronaut at NASCAR, or an award winning playwright. They could be a child at heart, longing for just the simple pleasures of life like blowing bubbles and sitting on the swings. They could be your soulmate, the person you've been searching for your entire life, and they're just there, right in front of you. They could be cheating on their spouses back home. They could be scared, self-conscious and painfully awkward. They could be amazing, beautiful people on the inside and out. They could be thinkers. They could be jaded and cynical, refusing to believe in a thing like hope. They could be at war within themselves.They could be unspeakably lonely. They could be blissfully happy without a care in the world.

They could be you and me. Because deep down, we're all the same.

What kind of person are you?

Sunday, June 21, 2009

stream of consciousness

Waiting (what's new. I'm always early and no one is ever there) This is me trying to make sense of the world. It would be nice to get a taste of heaven-wait scratch that, please. don't even cling on to that faint hope don't torture yourself, wishing and waiting never gets you anywhere; right now I'm teetering precariously on the edge, one slip is all it would take to plunge headlong back down into the abyss; a sea of strangers scurrying past on a crowded platform-a reflection of city life. somehow the image is poignant and it makes me want to weep; everyone has their battles with inner demons, razor blades parting your hair crimson red; so tired. take me somewhere strange and foreign where every day will be an adventure, give me an escapism pill I need something to delude myself with; iridescent butterflies dance across my vision so mesmerising and unattainable I'll settle for a smile then; it's been twenty minutes already what's taking them so long? time is ticking down oh so slowly it's agonising I can already memorise the cracks and patterns on the granite floor; the trees whisper their apologies and oh there they are don't be afraid now just put on your mask and you'll be safe no one will ever know what lies beneath this facade

After so many years of adamantly refusing to create a blog, well, here I am, with one of my own. I've always thought that's it's risky to wear your heart on your sleeve. I'm someone who's fiercely private, and I'd much rather keep my thoughts to myself, thank you very much.

I usually pour my emotions and thoughts down on paper. Of course, a journal isn't as visually appealing as compared to a blog, but I love doing so anyway. The act of carefully pressing my pen against a blank, white sheet of paper somehow strikes me as more sincere.

I don't know why but I suddenly have this irrational urge to tell the world who I am, to give them a piece of myself. So here goes..