In the neighbourhood

28th July:
I am at the playground with my little brother, when I notice this boy, about 7 years, and a little girl, who's about 5 years. He looks at her, steadying her to make sure she doesn't fall down, and even when he's far away kicking a ball with his friends, he's still looking out for her. She wanders off to sit by herself in a corner, and I watch, as he leaves his friends to sit down beside her. He goes: " You're so cute. I like you." And all the while she remains silent, shyly looking up at him. The boy keeps  pressing her to say something, till she finally does. Listening to their childish voices, and their high-pitched laughter, and suddenly I'm overcome with a bout of wistfulness at the innocence and sweetness of it, and I think, perhaps this is love in its purest form

Something to clutch onto even as I flail and drown amid these trying times:

" And once the storm is over, you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won;t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about."

- Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

I don't know what I'm doing with my life.

scaredsoscaredfeelsoinadeequateandstupid

I admit, I'm too much of a coward. I assume an air of nonchalance as if it didn't matter, take pains not to acknowledge your existence at the expense of appearing downright rude, find all means to avoid contact (how can I, when you're everywhere). Any alternative would be easier than having to face your awkward smile, or fumbling with small talk. A braver soul might try to risk it, but not me.

conversation

soothing tea at RealFoodGrocer 

rainbows on table ( Photo credit: Evelyn)

bookmark from littered with books

beautiful sky and dragon-shaped cloud

Sitting on the steps by the river in the slight drizzle watching the boats go by had never felt so peaceful. We talked about the fear of not being able to find ourselves, the sadness we felt upon realizing that we could no longer talk to old friends because people change too much, how tiring it was trying to sustain those friendships, my odd trait of only lending books to people I thought were worthy of them, the wish that we weren't born in this city, our resolution never to become like another office clone trapped in those huge skyscrapers, her dream to become a wedding photographer, social hierarchies and the feeling of being an outsider, being attracted to people who could write, our tendency to idealize people till we fell in love with the idea of them; her ex, her fear of falling in love again-“ I feel like I can never give myself so completely to anyone again. It feels like I've lost a huge part of myself” and the quiet sadness in the way she held herself, and I thought about how life breaks people in places unimaginable and it made me feel heavy inside.

When it was my turn to talk, I was fumbling, stuttering, I couldn't speak, couldn't put across what I felt, I couldn't even begin to explain about him, what did he mean to me then, it was as if I had buried it so deep that trying to articulate it out felt like a pointless excavation. Speaking has never come naturally to me, but I was shocked at how much worse it'd gotten. Did something happen, she asked. I told her no, that I used to talk more in the past. Silently I added, I think part of me has died and I don't know why. But she was so very patient, and eventually the awkward lapses became less pronounced. She said, as an afterthought,“You're like a closed book” and “I sense that you don't really open up to people easily, and it's difficult for you to let your guard down” when I apologised about earlier. I realized that we weren't as alike after all- she was spontaneous and fickle-minded and impulsive, I was safe and stubborn and resolute. I marveled at her capacity to care for and love others with such pureness, I could never do that.

Later on, while tucking into my char siew pau, and she munching on her kaya toast and hot chocolate (simple joys in life), we lamented on the unfairness of having to earn the respect of certain people in order to gain acceptance. Also, we came to a conclusion that we put up our works online isn't for the sake of selfish reasons like instant gratification or stupid reasons like validation because we shouldn't base our self worth on the approval of others. Rather, it's about the inherent value of art, to use this platform so that our art can enlighten, inspire and connect with people. (hopefully)

Something she said struck me, “ In photojournalism, you look for art in the ordinary moments. But in other photography genres, you create art. There's a difference.” 

kindred spirit

And as we talked, I saw how the likeness of ourselves were mirrored in each other. But you were better than me, a dreamer, someone who was spontaneous and kind and far braver than myself. Unlike me, you were not content with languishing in a cesspit of stagnancy, you acknowledged the need for change, for reinvention of oneself. You didn't have to delve deep into yourself, scour murky depths in order to locate the words- they came naturally to you. You didn't choose to close yourself off from the world, or remain indifferent, you didn't pull away when people tried to reach out for you. You were always on the search for beauty, carefully gathering them up in your hands like fistfuls of stardust.

We shot what we could, falling into an easy rhythm of silence before resuming our conversation, all the while looking into different directions, needing different things for ourselves. You looked more closely, breathing life into inanimate objects with your pictures. While I scavenged for scraps of stories, through the old men hunched over the table playing chess, through children who played in the shadows of their absent parents, through the pair of teenage girls walking side by side with all the confidence their youth granted them, through the office workers waiting outside the bank, through a mirror image, only now there were older folks lining up at the 4D counter, clinging on to the 1 in 75 million chance of hitting the jackpot because to think otherwise would be to forsake hope itself.

Some things we talked about:“sometimes I wish we could do away with small talk altogether”“call me idealistic but there's a romance about Europe you can't find elsewhere” “I like intellectuals, people who think about life" “I wish life would slow down a little” "let's learn to be less afraid” 

the resemblance in our thinking is uncanny

How long does it take for one's deadened heart to summon up some modicum of feeling again (a tempest of sorts brewing beneath the seeming calm), what would it take to break someone completely, what happens if you punish yourself over and over and eventually the pain seeps into everything you touch like a slow venom, what does it mean when you read a book and the words no longer pierce but float away without you comprehending, maybe if you close your eyes you could just vanish, it would be as if you'd never existed

Increasingly I find that I'm growing more incoherent in my head and on paper. Over time, the deluge of words, thoughts, have become thick and sluggish. Slowly choking up. Till I am rendered an almost-mute, barely articulate, spending my days in so much silence. It becomes easier to express my life in images instead.
Raise my eye to the viewfinder.
Aim. 
Click.
Shoot.
As if an inanimate object has the ability to wholly surmise what I see, what I think, what I feel.

it's only make-believe

Bali: I am slowly treading my way across the beach, feeling the grains of sand beneath my feet. My feet are carrying me forward of their own accord, towards the black waves, which are pounding relentlessly against the shore. A terrible fear comes over me- one misstep and the darkness could swallow me whole, inky black waters filling my nose my mouth my lungs, pulling me down into the bottomless depths- but still, I continue to move forward numbly, as if in a trance. It's only when I hear my dad in the distance, calling out something about the moon, that with some effort, I pull my eyes away.

Set high up in the clear sky is a full moon, completely suffused with light. Its brightness stuns me momentarily. Free from distracting artificial lights, free from being blocked by massive buildings- it feels like I'm looking at the moon for the first time. It is achingly beautiful, radiating rays of glowing white light, and the world is bathed in a soft, ethereal glow. I think about the atoms that make up the universe. How it would take light-years to traverse through the galaxy, and be consumed by an infinity of space, of silence. How painfully inconsequential our lives are. I feel like Aomame in Murakami's novel 1Q84, as I gaze up, wondering if the world that I exist in is even real. Perhaps it's just a paper moon, a paper world that will ultimately crumble to dust and cease to exist. And then briefly, I let myself wonder, perhaps somewhere out there, oceans away, my Tengo is looking up at the same moon, our thoughts perfectly aligned. But then I stop myself. Maybe the idea of Tengo exists, but only in another life, in another world, in another reality.

it's magic magic magic

Munweng my kindred spirit!  <3

Jiayi and Deborah^^

Daphne and Mingmin:D

*awkward*

a handmade book decorated with my favourite things from MW!

a lovely drawing done by talented Deb:)

a painting kit for wannabe artists like me:p

I cannot believe how lucky I am to have met friends like these in WKW :')

grandma and lil bro 

Blind Pilot; Mosaic

when they ended with '3 rounds and a sound', i was on the verge of tears

+65 Indie Festival

The Obedient Wives' Club

In Each Hand a Cutlass

All it takes is the first few guitar riffs, and I'm instantly mesmerized. Usually I'd be pretty much immune to instrumental music but In Each Hand a Cutlass has turned me into an instant fan, just like that. How do I put this... they were mind-blowing. 


Time seems to have taken a sort of unreal, hazy quality, adrenaline rush mixed with a giddy pleasure, drunk with the feeling of heady ecstasy, heart pounding, rising, falling in sync with the music, I can barely think straight, all my senses are fully attuned and there's no room for distracting thoughts, all I can do is feel, let the intricate tapestry of music wash over me, go right through me, and think, " Oh my god" over and over again

their music is beyond amazing

4 Fridays ago : I've just taken my holga out from a dusty corner of my room and and loaded a brand new roll of film in it, something I haven't done in nearly a year. G and I spend the afternoon wandering around the art store at bras brasah looking at unfamiliar things like easels and wooden alligators and tubes of paint, picking out items for a birthday present. The music store too, holds just as much fascination for me, as I run my hands down the acoustic guitars, fingers idly plucking at a string here and there. We watch as the shop assistant, a man in his 40s, give a live demonstration, he's showing off just a little, and we smile and nod appreciatively. Afterwards, I find myself walking on the sidewalk with a cup of ice cream in my hand, everyone's moving at an unhurried pace as they cross the road, I look up at the gradually darkening skies, it's cool and nearly evening-time, and I think to myself, ' every Friday should be spent like this'

Afterwards, I receive some news from my mother, and the thought of june holidays spent traipsing around endless vineyards and vast lavender fields fills me with so much happiness I can barely speak. Later on at night, an hour-long phone conversation with gwen makes me laugh and laugh, what a perfect way to end the day

Fatigue seeps into my bones
a noxious, deadening substance.
I would like to
empty my mind
of all thought
free my flesh
from all sensation.
A hollow shell.
(something inside me falls away)
I would like to sink
backwards
into the comforting embrace
of my bed.
And pull the covers over myself
lie motionless and still
while the voice of bon iver whispers into my ear
leave this place far behind
let myself drift.
It would grant some modicum of blessed respite
however fleeting, however temporal.

Thursday night:  I'm walking towards the laundry room to collect my clothes. The corridors are deserted, everyone's probably at the carnival downstairs, watching the band play. Someone from the band starts to sing High and Dry by Radiohead, and as I listen to it, something within me seems to give way. As I sing along to myself, I happen to look down at the the road below and see a lone figure waltzing slowly to himself in sync with the music under the moonlight. Little things like this make me laugh. And even though there are so many deadlines to meet, though time seems to be running out so quickly, though the world is just so crazy right now, I stop and smile to myself, feeling unspeakably at peace, with the sensation that everything is right with the world.

There are so many other things I should be doing but right now I can't even begin to bring myself to look at the growing stack of readings, let alone touch them.

A friend from hall once said, " You know, you wee kim wee people seem to be the only ones who love their school so much and get so animated talking about the mods they're taking. While everyone else- the engineering people, the business people, the chemistry people are always endlessly complaining about their course."

It's times like this which help to remind me what I'm doing all this for. Not for the sake of getting a good G.P.A, or the degree, but because I genuinely enjoy what I'm doing in wkw. Increasingly, it's getting so much harder to keep my head above the water. And the very notion of graded work robs learning of any joy whatsoever. :(

persevere em

These snatched minutes of conversation aren't enough, will never be enough, but that's all I'm ever going to get so I should learn to be content with what brief fragments I have

every time our paths cross I tell myself ' I feel nothing I feel nothing'

on most days I actually believe it.