the night before new year's eve

Last night, I dreamt about my father.

It wasn't a nightmare, and it wasn't a pleasant, happy dream but it was the sort of dream where you wake up asking yourself if it was a dream or a memory because it seemed so vivid and real.

I haven't had a dream with my father in it for months now. In fact, I'm sorry to say that my father hasn't been much in mind lately. The reason why I'm writing about this now is because I've just finished watching Sleepless In Seattle (I love Meg Ryan!) and there's this little boy character who woke up from his sleep suddenly, in tears, and exclaimed to his dad (played by Tom Hanks), that he's afraid of forgetting about his late mother (or something to the same effect).

I, too, have the same fear.

I am afraid of forgetting what my father looked like. What his laugh sounded like. What he smelled like. What he liked to do. What he liked to watch on TV. I am always afraid that I had never loved him enough. And I regret the fact that I never told him how much he meant to me. Whenever I think about him now, there is no searing pain like the one I felt before just some years back; now it's just a dull ache in my chest that will go away quite quickly.

Honestly, I've had a rough last couple of weeks and I await January with anxiety and apprehension. Perhaps, my father's appearance in my dream was a sign of something; telling me not to lose my ground, not to lose my focus in life and cling on steadfastly to whatever values I have. Only God knows.

It's a brand new year starting from tomorrow. A brand new start.

waiting

The past couple of months have been crazy. Work has been crazy.

I'm taking a breather now before my reservist on Monday. Two whole weeks of torture.

I'm still waiting for something amazing to happen.

in memoriam

The night is as black as any other,
the same crickets in symphony out there on the grass patches
and sometimes toads will croak, in interjections.
Probably the same toads, as yesterday's
or the night before last.
Or perhaps a next generation of toads
and crickets.

I see the night through the small slit of open window,
the rest curtained, because I want to shut it out --
shut the night out. It is better to be hemmed in like this
than to let self be exposed.
I don't like that.
It is easier to deal with the night this way because the night
holds some memories --
memories that shouldn't have been memories.

And I wish I cannot hear the sound of your voice;
it is still ringing, you know, in my head, your accusatory tones.
And then the sound of the lift doors opening
and closing. The cold dust, the cold tiles, of the ground.
Oh yes, I still remember.

So I don't like to be reminded of the night.
Let me stay here
celebrating. In memoriam of
the part of self that died
that night.

egg and chicken

do you love him because you need him? Or do you need him because you love him?

Perhaps it's like asking someone: which comes first -- the chicken or the egg? It is indeed a question worth pondering over.

what if

A long time ago, I used to write poems. Or I thought of them as poems anyway. Now, looking back, perhaps they were just a collection of words meant to convey feelings which I were not able to verbalize. I suppose some people may think of me as an articulate person but articulating my emotions have never been my forte. I prefer to pen them down or in this case, type them down.

It seems to me like a different person wrote those "poems." Frankly speaking, I don't think that person, exists in me anymore. Thus, I keep on having to borrow phrases from songs that are already on my ipod/itunes, in order to depict my present state of mind. I apologize for not being very original.

Here I stand alone
With this weight upon my heart
And it will not go away
In my head I keep on looking back
Right back to the start
Wondering what it was that made you change

Well I tried
But I had to draw the line
And still this question keeps on spinning in my mind

I think a more accurate depiction would be if the line was "wondering why you never change" instead. Otherwise, the part about spinning minds is completely accurate.

maybe i just wanna have it all

Was marking papers while listening to my itunes and an old song started playing.

there's a danger in loving somebody too much
And its sad when you know it's your heart you can't trust
There's a reason why people don't stay where they are
Baby sometimes love just ain't enough

I've always wondered what the lyrics really meant.

the calm before the storm

Three classes worth of exam papers are already in but I've yet to mark them. I only just submitted my last paper, which is due friday, this morning. I'm hoping to spend some time tonight to breathe abit but there's alot still to be done. Half of my to-do list will remain undone because I've given up marking holiday assignments. It's much too late to return them to students anyway.

And that's the life of an overworked teacher. So much for "reducing" our workload; most are still teaching five to six classes a week and since my school adopted the modular system for lower secondary school science, I practically see the whole sec 1 cohort plus my 4 other classes from other levels. That's ten classes worth of exam papers to mark this year. But of course, last year's twelve classes was a record. LOL.

Anyhow, I'm much calmer tonight. Was at my neighbours' house earlier, for hari raya visiting, with my mom. For a little while, as we chatted about general stuff (mostly pleasantries which are very mundane and insignificant), it seems like life is as easy as pie, as if no problem was insurmountable.

I am not nearly as angry as I was last week but it's not like everything's back to normal. I'm tired that things that shouldn't have happened just keep on happening over and over again and always regarding the same issues. Moreover, it just gets worse and worse. It will never end.

I guess I'm just a typical Sagittarian that way. I need my freedom but that doesn't mean I will wantonly disregard my responsibilities or obligations. But I'm never good with confrontations. So I do what I do best. I back out.

hate

There are 4 people living in this flat, myself included. My brother occupies the room nearest to the living room. He is four years younger than me but I've long suspected that he's stuck at the mental age of seventeen.

His illness is probably to blame for this because he was diagnosed with lupus right after his 'O' level examinations. Back then, when most of his contemporaries were pulsing with life, bursting with raging hormones and excited at the prospect of tertiary education, my brother was fighting for his life in ICU. Being a lupus patient makes him susceptible to common illnesses which ordinary youths do not have to worry about. He is now working as a clerk somewhere (I'm not sure the exact location) and bringing back around 1k a month. About a quarter or a third of that goes into his monthly medical bills.

My sister's eldest daughter, now sixteen, shares the master bedroom with my mom. She hardly ever goes back to her mother's flat but nobody minds that because everyone thinks she is good company for my mom.

It's been nine years since my father passed away. The years have not been easy for mother; with each passing year, she has more grey hair, more wrinkles, more pains in her joints. And being the only person in this household with a "proper" job, it is my responsibility to look after her, my brother and my niece by default. Thus, this job, which I complain about constantly or whenever I have the opportunity to, is the ricebowl that feeds us all.

ANYone who comes in the way of my ricebowl -- who threatens it, who does not respect it, who puts it on the line and disregards it -- will be the object of my loathing. There are no second chances, no opportunities for remorse or regret.

From now on, I will spend all my waking hours, all my energies, despising you. Your neediness. Your dependence. Your very existence disgusts me now. You are an abomination. A blight upon my life and my happiness.

And now, you are nothing.

i couldn't stop crying

Something inside of me must have snapped. I couldn't stop crying.

After I closed the door of my room behind me, I stumbled to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. For some minutes before, I was able to keep everything in; took a deep breath, turned the key in the keyhole, turned the knob, pushed open the front door, bolted it, then crept to my room like a seasoned burglar -- lest my mother, who at times could be a light sleeper, hears me.

I fell asleep in that pathetic state. An hour passed. The sound of running water must have woken me. I undressed and took a shower. My mother's face peeked from behind her bedroom door.

"Baru balik?" There was no hint of frustration in her voice. Perhaps she sounded even a little bemused.

"Dah tadi," I replied. It was the only words I could muster.

It felt good -- the shower. To scrub off the sweat and grime from my skin. To take off my contacts. To let the water wash off the scent of you from my nose -- your cigarette-tainted breath. But the water couldn't let me forget what you did.

As I curled myself up in bed, I suddenly felt it again. The tears. Another round, but this time, I cried into my pillow.

What I feared the most have happened and YOU made sure it happened. It was inevitable. Your unreasonable jealousy, fueled and enhanced by alcohol, led us to this state, just like those other times before.

Oh but you've gone overboard this time. You've certainly outdone yourself this time. It doesn't matter to you does it? This isn't YOUR neighbourhood. Why should you care? All you care about is to have your wounded pride appeased. Your green eye had clouded your judgment, and now you seek the "truth" and my annoyance at your unfair accusations only achieves to worsen it.

Even now, hours later, with the mild afternoon sun outside my window, I don't think I can forgive you. I am afraid . And I am tired. So tired. I can feel my eyes smarting with tears again.

I cannot forgive. I will not.

hurt

Unfortunately, sometimes I am not as nonchalant as I appear to be. Take for instance an incident that happened in school late last week.

I don't care if some kids (i.e students) resent me to the extent that they would rant about me, call me offensive and derogatory names on their blogs and stuff, but it definitely hurts when they intentionally hack into another student's blog and do it anonymously. In fact, even if the latter was to happen, I wouldn't have minded it so much. But once other teachers get implicated too, and especially the P, VP, or anyone else of paramount importance to the school gets implicated, it becomes an issue which cannot be taken lightly.

I am sad that this matter has to be surfaced to the sch's dis com. It is easy to be indifferent when I am reading the disparaging comments about myself alone but it is even more difficult to remain objective and share those comments (now considered evidence that cannot be tampered with) with people you don't really feel comfortable talking to at all.

As an adult, I hardly feel the need to be liked and accepted by my students but it fills me with amazement and, more acutely, disappointment, to know that somewhere out there, there are malicious and vindictive individuals who want to hurt not only me, but those (students) under my care too.

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This is a very stressful period for all those in my vocation. It is the mid-year examinations! I have 10 ten stacks (i.e. classes) of markings to finish by thursday afternoon and I have only barely finished three stacks. Already, I can feel the rising panic within, as there are still loads of other admin stuff to do too. It does take alot of self-motivation to get myself going (because just to complete one class may take a good three to four hours, minimum, of diligent, non-stop marking), thus I had hoped that those whom I care about (and care about me) will understand the predicament I am facing and the mood-swings I may contract in the meantime.

However, I discovered something recently that caused my trust to waver. I want to be nonchalant, cold, and indifferent because if I were all of those things, then I would be incapable of being emotionally hurt. But at this point in time, I am not all of those things.

not anymore

The wind is howling outside. Like lost ghosts. Rain pouring down in sheets. Perfect weather to be asleep in bed, curled up beneath your blanket.

But I'm not asleep.

I'm drinking coffee.. much diluted. Thinking that I am actually afraid of dying.

When I was abit younger, I used to wish, sometimes, that if I were to not to wake up from sleep, it would be a good thing. I wanted to sleep everything away. Now that I've become slightly older, slightly more jaded, I realise that I don't want to die like that.

Because if I did, I would miss my family very much.

where is that perfect day?

These past couple of weeks are full of ups and downs. The latter mostly, in fact. Work has been crazy and I've been plagued with an incessant cough and an annoying runny nose. Most of the time, I'm either drowsy from the anti-histamines I've been taking (and cough syrup) or I've got a mild throbbing headache at the back of my head (from thinking about work all the time!).

Today, I was supposed to be catching up on my homework but the daylight hours was spent nursing a bad-ass, congested nose and a headache. For most of the evening, I were busy ironing shirts for the whole week. I seriously, do not like ironing. Took me an hour and more just to finish six shirts! I'm really pathetic.

This year evidently, the stress is at an all-time high. I think I'm slowly, but surely, sinking into depression...

killer rojak

No other piece of local news so far this year, have caught my eye more than the plight of those affected by food poisoning after consuming rojak from one of geylang's most popular stalls. My condolences to the families of the two women who passed away due to (what is believed to be) complications of food poisoning.

If you think about it, it's also rather scary that a dish as popular as the quintessential Indian rojak can be deadly. And which Malay visitor of geylang would not buy his or her share of geylang goodies? Why, just the other day, my mom bought some satay (I've a weakness for mutton satay) during her trip there and I gorged myself so much I actually developed a sore throat and cough the day after. And I've been, on and off, coughing, eversince.

Whether the rojak sauce had been accidentally contaminated with rat poison (my mom's theory) or whether it was the nasty sabotage of a jealous competitor (my brother's theory) -- who knows? Two people have died and many others were in terrible pain as a result. I hope the authorities can uncover the cause of this tragedy soon so that history will not repeat itself. Because the next time I go to geylang and buy something edible from a stall at the temporary market, I want to feel safe.

been away too long

Seriously, I've been putting off updating my bloggy for so long - without me realising it, it's already April. Four months into the new year, which by the way, isn't so new by now, and what have I got to show for it??? Nothing much, basically. It's just the same old story.

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We are like little ants floating on separate leaves upon this stream of consciousness. Time pulls us along in different directions, and I fear we will be swept away by our disparate lives very soon.

Is this what growing up entails? Becoming so distinct that we have lost the fundamental emotion of empathy for each other? Our happiness is no longer defined by the journeying together (like I used to believe it was) because the fact is, there is too little of "together" to make it worth it. Happiness has become snatches of time; fleeting moments of rushed evenings of conversations. It is never enough to satisfy our hunger; our desire to escape the realities of our weekday lives. Is our weekday lives the reality? Or those rushed evenings? But the latter is just too brief to be registered significantly by our calculating minds.

I don't know the remedy. How do we make our moments count in our journey together when "together" exists in banal moments? Is it banal because our precious conversations have become meaningless? Precious because of their rarity and meaningless because they have become mere platitudes. Empty conversations. We have become experts of polite and automaton responses that pretend to be cordial and sincere exchanges. Quantity of time does not affect its quality. It's not like that anymore. Everything counts in the end, doesn't it?

God help us.

happy new year

That last few weeks of 2008 has been a blast.. or sort of. Filled with many idle days of decadence; days with no objective, no productivity and not much cares.

Unfortunately, all good things have always got to come to an end and here's 2009, bringing with it a new set of challenges and forebodings. And let me assure you, I am very anxious about the next few months. One word of course, is the main reason of my anxiety -- work. Seriously, I've only been back at work for less than a fortnight but already, I'm now trying to accept (with much effort) certain decisions made by management concerning my workload and extra-curricular activity, much like a very sick person trying to swallow a very very bitter pill. How could I object? Especially if the very people responsible for those undesirable decisions are the same ones who have a say about your ricebowl?

Sometimes, the people with the most noble of intentions are the ones who are most cruel to you.