the other diary

music to my ears

2006-12-22T17:40:00.000+08:00

Trips to the music teacher's place used to be oh-so-dull. Week in week out he had to hear his own music, then his teacher's music, and after that, more music ringing in his ears when he did not practice or did not perform up to par. All that changed one September.

"No, Mark, that's not how you're supposed to play it," she grumbled.

The boy leaned back from the piano at where he was seated and sighed. He looked up at her.

"That's the sixth time I've played this piece. Why not you play it without looking and see if you're any better."

"You're challenging me?"

"Hmm... if that's how you want to look at it, yeah, why not?" he said.

He got up from the piano and moved aside to let her sit. She wasn't very tall and he smirked quietly to himself as she dragged the stool closer to the piano. She looked up.

"You said something?" she asked.

"No... nothing at all," he said as his eyes shot up towards the ceiling.

She shook her head and smiled. Then she began to play by heart. He watched tentatively as she sat at the piano. Her hands flew down each piece of ivory with such accord and her fingers danced around each key with such gracefulness. The piano responded likewise and soon they were both filing the air with mesmerizing music. It was simply a sight to behold.

Breathtaking it was, but he wasn't paying any attention to it. The music, that is. His eyes were solely fixed on her, sitting there at the piano, striking each key away and making what seemed like hell for him a piece of cake. To him, breathtaking was reserved for her, not for the music she was making.

"Mark!" she suddenly interrupted.

He was stunned. Why did she stop? For that split second he had forgotten where he was, what he was doing and what he was supposed to be doing.

"Yeah?" he answered lazily.

"What was the name of the piece I just played?" she asked.

He looked around the room, hoping that there would be some kind of clue that would get him out of this fix. When that failed, he tried a random guess.

"Uhm... Invention in... F Major... by Bach?"

"That is correct,"she replied slyly.

"Heh? It was Bach?"he asked, not believing that his answer could be spot on.

"No, it was Beethoven. The 4th movement from his Symphony No.9. You don't even know the name of the piece you're supposed to be practicing. Now's your turn."

He grinned at her.

"That's because that kind of music doesn't interest me. Plus you're too good at the piano so I'm not going to challenge you with it. Instead..."

He proceeded to reach for something from behind his bag.

"Here."

She looked at it.

"A guitar?"

"Yeah. I'll challenge you with a guitar."

"Go on," she said without hesitating.

He nestled his precious, solid black Fender nicely upon his lap and started strumming away.

"Hey, that's Wake me up when September ends by Green Day."

"Well done. How about this one?"

He played the next songs, slowly strumming each string carefully. When he reached the end, he asked,

"Well?"

"I don't know that one."

"It's One last breath by Creed," he replied.

"Ah, I nearly got it," she stammered. "It sounded so familiar."

He smiled at her. Then he proceeded to put his guitar away and pack his things.

"Guess I'll be going now. Same time next week?"

She looked up and smiled sadly at him. Sensing something was amidst, he asked her about it.

"What's wrong?"

"Your teacher is coming back next week."

"So? I'll still be able to see you right? We could meet each other on other..."

"I'll be going to UK to further my studies," she interrupted.

"Oh..."

The two of them fell silent. After some time, he got up.

"I got to go. My mum's expecting me for dinner."

She watched him go as he placed his knapsack over his shoulder, walked out the door and rode off on his bicycle. She closed the door and sighed. Then she went back to the piano and started playing the Ode to Joy he challenged her to play minutes before.

Minutes later, she heard someone knocking on the door. She answered it and saw him standing there.

"I just wanted to say thank you," he began. "For what you've done for me."

"You came back just for that?"

"Um... well. Yeah. No big deal."

"I could kiss you right now."

Well he waited but it never came. He did, however, stayed back long enough to teach her a few chords on the guitar and gave her a fitting finale by playing Rick Price's Heaven Knows on the piano to near perfection. It felt like his swansong to her. With that, he left. It didn't matter if he had to face his mother's wrath later on. He was glad he had done what he set out to do.

Betrayal of friendship

2006-06-24T13:48:00.000+08:00

There is a notion, that only "large" catastrophes in life are the ones which significantly destroy human lives like natural disasters such as floods, earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, famine, great wars, or economic depression.

But sometimes, it's the "small" disasters in life which really show no mercy in impacting the vulnerability of people. It's the general issues concerning family, love, and friendship that really put tremendous value on our survival.

The small seemingly insignificant things that spell betrayal can actually be worse than an earthquake. Especially betrayal in terms of a longtime friendship.

I would know because I went through this before.

I was caught in conflict with a certain person, who left me hatred inducing text messages. Little did I know that my "best friend" was involved in this fiasco too. Let's just name her "Rina".

My phone started beeping hateful text messages, like, " You're ugly" "You geek" "You slouch when you walk" and so on. The typical young-teen-girl bitching sort of messages.

At first, I took it as sheer entertainment. I replied, in a cool and amused manner. I told her she was a coward for not revealling her identity behind the unfamiliar number. But then something bothered me. She sent a text saying "Rina is actually sick of you." Then, other text messages concerning Rina's indifference towards me.

I actually started feeling quite uneasy. I called Rina, and asked if she knew the person. She denied any alliance with this attacker. She merely laughed it off and said she wasn't sick of me.

Is you're not sick of me, why do we rarely hang out with each other these past couple of months? Why have you been acting strange? Those thoughts ran through my head but I thrust them aside. After all, she was my best friend, right? I should trust her, right?

I called another friend after that, who was actually also my other best friend, Jessie.

She was actually quite furious that someone was disturbing, trying to cut off the connection between me and Rina and decided to jump in my defense. She attacked the peson who was sending me those hate messages.

The next night, all "hell broke loose." I found out the heart-crumbling news.

The girl who had been sending me those hate messages was actually Rina's sister, and Rina was involved in backstabbing me.

Not only that, but they had taken it further by scolding Jessie in public for defending me.

I felt like my heart shatter into pieces. How could Rina do this to me? How could she betray me after three years of friendship? Three years of friendship went down to the drain because of one, her narcissistically challenged and misunderstanding younger sister. Two, because of her change to being totally indifferent towards me.

I couldn't believe it. I was saddened, shocked and worst of all, I felt hopeless at the news.

Why couldn't my own best friend just confront me politely so we could work things out rather than twisting the knife behind my back?

Jessie stood by me, though. She scolded me a few times, but most of the times, she made sure I felt guided and protected.

The upside of this almost traumatizing experience was that Jessie and I became much closer. I guess, sometimes, it takes a million disasters just to find out one true friend, who will help you get through all the pain.

Because a real friend is one who understands you the most, helps you through both good times and tough times. I feel blessed that I have a best friend like Jessie, and we're friends up to this day.

"What Shall We Do?"

2006-06-22T22:28:00.000+08:00

“So my lady, what shall we do tonight?” he said to an impish grin on her face. She always had a way with him when it came to that grin. For some odd reason he couldn’t fathom, every time he saw it, it made him want to pull her against him and kiss her on the forehead, which he did.

She giggled. The giggle penetrated all the old hardened layers of skin he’d grown over the years and made itself cozy in his heart. Now he was laughing to her giggles. After all these years, still contagious he mused to himself. Finally after what seemed like an eternity of laughter and giggles, she answered him with the words “I don’t know.”

“Woman, are you telling me after all this years, we still can’t figure out what to do on our Friday nights?” he said incredulously.

“It’s not my fault that you can’t be man enough to figure out what to do on our date nights!” she said teasingly as she chucked him in the stomach. Another wave of laughter and giggles overcame them.

Suddenly it hit him what they could do on their date night tonight. With a single motion, he scooped her up into her arms and carried her to the sofa and dropped her on it. She let out a little whoop expressing her surprise towards the action.

“Still built like a brick I see!” he exclaimed in admiration.

“And I can see that you’re still pretty much a brick yourself when you need be!” she exclaimed but not in admiration but in more of playful shock as she gazed at his standing member.

“Some things don’t change ma,” he said as he sat down, and then lay down beside her on the sofa. “Not bad. We still fit.”

“Pa, people shrink as they grow older. Not expand! What were you expecting!”

He let out a sigh and feigned a disappointed face and said, “For a good excuse to buy a new couch.”

“Lol!”

“What?”

“Lol dear.”

“What in the world is ‘lol’?”

“It’s how young people laugh now-a-days. I saw Maggie using it on that MSN thingy.”

“That’s retarted.”

“You’re retarded,” she said impishly.

“Woman!” he exclaimed as he planted his lips onto hers giving her a deep long kiss which she duly returned. Once they were done with that, they lay there staring longingly into each other’s eyes. He couldn’t believe it how after thirty years of marriage, they were still madly in love with each other. He looked at her in the eyes and instantly he knew something: that he was damn lucky to meet the woman he’d grow old with on the very first try. And among men, he was truly blest.

II: Checkmate

2006-05-28T13:56:00.000+08:00

The entrance, six o'clock p.m.

My eyes search him out; standing by the glass doors.
Black, sleeved t-shirt. the pony cap and usual zara jeans; the one with the manufactured rips which I had always fingered absent-mindedly.
I take all these in, with a hazy premonition and notion of forboding.

He spots me, smiles. We walk toward each other.
He takes my hand, inquires about my general whereabouts prior to meeting him. I answer in a slightly preoccupied and breathless manner.

His hands are cold, and I mention thus. He laughs and indicates the rain outside.
(It was always an esoteric joke between us; that whenever his hands were cold, rain was eminent.)

So we wind up at the 'ink club lounge' in Raffles, The Plaza.
(Walk right in, all the way to the reclused back area. And there you will find: oak and glass coffee tables, plush velvet cushioned seats, albeit with few cigarette burn holes in them; and all these, obscured by a heavy curtain of silver beads.)

Menus arrive, with the usual waiter. We order; his a midori martini, mine the usual white russian. I like hard liquor, and need it now more than ever.

While waiting for the drinks to be mixed, small talk is made. pottering around useless but familiar territory.
Then he cradles me close; and asks if my reason for seeing him with such urgency tonight, was because I have missed him.
I nod my reply. I cannot trust my voice not to be thick with pain and undisguised sorrow at what I am about to do; and I cling on to the arms wrapped around myself.

He teases me, asking to which extent have I missed him; indicating the varying space between his thumb and index finger, as the gauge.
I shake my head, silently.
"Well, I am not ashamed to say I have missed you this much." He states, as he holds his arms out wide to illustrate.

I cannot hold my silence any longer.
"We need to talk," I say, quietly.
I pause, sip my white russian, and crunch down a cube of ice.

"I have two things to tell you."

I stall for time, stirring the pale brown liquor; and take a long swallow.

He laughs.
"Are you waiting for the alcohol to kick in?"
He is clueless, and unsuspecting; and I feel even worse than I do. But i push the words from my throat with brute force.

"One, I love you; two, we should stop seeing each other."

It comes out quiet. I look down, and he is silent.

What does it matter, what follows?

A blur of words, words, and more words. Of what use are these words in situations such as these?
Mere prattle without substance, they fade into oblivion under the weight of despair and the death of hope.

He reaches for his bag, and starts to rise; swiftly.
"Call me, if you want to see me again."
My heart speaks before my mind; I arrest his departure by laying a hand on his arm.
"Please, stay for a while."

He resumes his seat.
Words resume their flow. The familiar worn-out, over-discussed topics; the constantly reiterated subjects, all without the hope of a solution.
Futile as it is, we stay; us and our words, grasping at straws - to find reasons, for him; and excuses, for myself.

I shame myself, to the core. the utter depraved selfishness of breaking your heart (and mine), as the culmination of a prideful gamble and narcissistic play with fire.
And for being "the girl who broke your heart because somebody broke mine."

Nothing remains which is more than vanity, and i follow true and blind to my objective;
Stemming back an impending flood of tears and thus, reiterating:
"I love you, but we cannot see each other any longer."

Silence permeates. and I break it, for the last time;
"You should go. I think I am going to cry."

He pulls me into his arms and we kiss; long and tender.
Memorizing. Smell, touch, taste.
Laced with longing and the bitter realization that this is the last.

We break apart, and blind to every peripheral; I turn away.
He, turns, stretches for his bag,

and drops it;
reaches out and clasps me to himself.
Skin to skin, heart to heart, soul to soul.
Our lips lock. Again. This time with a fierce intensity; bordering on desperation.
Clinging to each other, akin to drowning souls. Our hearts are.

He pulls away, and is gone in a matter of seconds.

And what is there left to add?

I did not cry, there is no acute cutting pain.
What remains is emptiness drenched in utter crushing despair;

Existing somewhere between nowhere and goodbye.

"Goodbye my love. Without pretence, i truly did love you."

The Night the Leaves Fell

2006-05-26T00:47:00.000+08:00

“She was lying there, ashen white and dying. Her breaths were in staggering rhythms. I could see tears forming in her eyes as she stared at me. Even though they were looking at me, I just couldn’t see any hope of life in them. They were as if they were empty but not quite. I think maybe I saw a small dint of sadness in them… I wasn’t really sure… I really couldn’t tell at that moment… It felt as if there were a small glimmer of something still holding on in her eyes.

“I looked back into her eyes, not knowing what to say. We both knew what was coming; it was her final moments alive. With my hand, I brushed the stray hair dangling over her face back then rested it gently on her forehead. I leaned forward and kissed her on her forehead. It was the least I could do to let her know that someone in this world didn’t want to see her go.

“A tear rolled down her cheek. And then another. And another… And I could see the life return back to her eyes. She frowned her eyebrows and pinched her eyelids close. I could see her struggling to breathe now through the tubes stuck down her nostrils. She never wanted them there. No one did. But they were. And no one could do anything about it.

“I reached out a hand and took her’s in it. ‘Eliza…’ I whispered sadly into her ear. ‘Eliza… Please don’t go…’ I could feel a lump rising through my throat now. My own emotions were getting hard to contain. I kept telling myself to be a man and to be strong for her but the more I told myself that, the more I felt myself giving up. I couldn’t hold it any longer and I just let go. Tears flowed like rivers down my cheeks. I took her head in my arm and raised it against my chest. I was sobbing like a baby now but I didn’t care.

“I felt her hand weakly tightening its grip against mine. I held back as tightly but gently as possible. I pressed my lips against the top of her head. Tears streamed from my face onto her’s. What seemed like a painful eternity quickly faded away when she said the words, ‘I have to go…’ I wanted to tell her to stay. I wanted to beg her not to go. I wanted her to never leave me. Above all, I needed her. But then I felt her grip lighten and her head fall back. And then I knew that it was over.

“She breathed her painful last breaths. I breathed my painful first. Her back arched as her body gave up fighting. I slid from my chair and dropped on my knees. My head fall on the side of her bed. And then it was all over. She was gone. An eerie silence punctured only by the sound of a monotonous high pitched beep filled the room.

“I tried to think of something that’ll keep me going. But the only thing that came to my head was why? Why did she have to go? Why now? Why her? Why…” he said his voice quivering with a mix of rage and sorrow. I wanted to tell him why. I wanted to have an answer but I didn’t have one. I wanted for none of this never to have had happened to him, to her, or to any of us. But I couldn’t.

I reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder. I tried to say something but nothing came out of my mouth. He brushed my hand away and cupped his face in his palms. Although I couldn’t see it, I knew he was crying. Slowly, he balled his fingers. I knew he was trying to accept the same hard fact many of us have to face in our lifetime; that life is fragile.

Every second, a precious breath. Every moment, a lifetime lived. And every life, a precious gem. I guess the only thing I do know right now is that nothing can bring back our Eliza’s at that very moment but, if I had to place a wager, I would think all the Eliza’s in the world would want us to live every moment to its fullest.

For only the dying know the importance of live, and only the living have the chance to live it. And we owe it to those who are passing or who have passed to make the best of our days.

I watch as the tea leaves settle down at the bottom of my cup. Each leaf reminds me of a life that slowly settles down in the deepest recesses of time. Like each leaf, each life leaves a sweet fragrance. Things that we who remember can hold on too. Things that even he, my crying friend, will come to remember and cherish in time.

I: The beginning of an end

2006-05-09T13:27:00.000+08:00

"Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love; it is the faithless who know love's tragedies" --Oscar Wilde

Watching the rain drip against the glass.

The lush green of the outside vegetation, a hazy canvas for the patterned drops against the panes.
His bed is situated beside the floor-to-ceiling glass of the balcony sliding doors.

Lying flat, prone, face turned to the left;
Watching the rain is a melancholy activity; and my thoughts flick back to one night, two weeks before.

We stood against the railing, in each other's arms. forehead to cheek.
for a long time. familiarizing.

Him: (His face against my shoulderblade) "I'm getting used to your smell"
Him: "That's dangerous"
Self: "Didn't you love any of your previous ex-es?"
Him: (pause) "No. I could have; but i always restrained myself."
Him: "But i'm not going to, any longer"

He tilts my face away from the outside rain, toward him, balancing on the edge of the bed with his mac.
Jolted out of my trance-like reverie, i blink hard. He inquires tenderly about my well-being, puts aside his laptop; shifts into a comfortable position.

We lie side by side; and talk. Just talk.
Religion. Relationship issues. Him. Myself. Standards. Morality. Life. Love.

I try to remember my goal, which is to end this affair, and too, my faithlessness; and steer conversation bits toward accomplishing it. So when he inquires my opinion on our compatibility, i dutifully answer: no; and support my claim with adequate evidence: Religion, fidelity, values conflict, anything that springs to mind. Principles and values, versus emotion for a lover. i.e. a choice between following logic and sense, or following heart's desire.

A percentage of this is true. To which extent, ambiguous.
He has told me this evening that he thinks he loves me.

And i cannot leave the blow any longer.
I am compelled to brutally sever this affair.

And what will come after will be the drawn out pain and withdrawal.
But that will be another story altogether.

The Power of One

2006-05-07T22:46:00.000+08:00

I think if there’s one thing that every single red blooded male extremely despises coming across on a Saturday night, it will be: meeting an old friend on the bus with his girlfriend. It’s one of those moments I believe, and quite rightly so nearly every time, that every male would want to discard of as quickly as possible.

Don’t get me wrong here. I, for the record, do not consider myself to be an angsty single male. Or at least, I would think so. I’m single and I’m happy for the most part. It took me a great deal of long painful years to reach this state and now that I’m here, I intend to enjoy every bit of my happy single-hood before Cupid finds me again. And if Cupid ever finds me, I swear I’m going to beat him against a really big rock before he gets the chance to jab me with his very vicious looking arrows.

For the most part, my life as a single has been made fairly bearable and easy, partly because I’m constantly surrounded by fellow singles. While we do lament about finding suitable ‘partners’, we don’t view our singleness as a burden to be dragged along until our valiant halves come to our rescues.

But to be fair and thoroughly honest, the one thing most singles don’t enjoy is; meeting happily attached friends. And so it happened to me one fine Saturday night on the bus home from reading novels in my local bookshop that I bumped into an old friend with his girlfriend.

As with all meetings between friends when a stranger is along, he introduced us both. We regarded each other awkwardly and, I guess this part is to be expected, she flipped her head to the side in the little snobbish fashion rich girls do and paid no regard to me from that point onward.

My friend stammered a bit as if to explain what had just happened but decided to ditch his explanation and made a little small talk with me. I engaged in some lighthearted catching up before retiring to an empty seat in the bus.

The city lights flashed past me as I looked out the bus window. I leaned my lips against the fingers of my hand and rested my elbow on the window sill of the bus. I took in a deep breath and heaved a sigh. What guy goes out alone on a Saturday night? I asked myself.

Me.

Thoughts of the attached life begin racing through my head. Times when I was happy having a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on decide to emerge themselves in my head. I find myself momentarily drowning in the sea of unwanted emotions. How sweet it would be to be in love again I tell myself while frowning my eyebrows.

The bus stops and my friend and his girlfriend get off the bus. I observe them from the window. She points him in a direction but he tries to go another. She walks her way and he stutters in his steps for a moment or two as if half of his body was trying to go one way and the other half, the other way. Soon, he’s making a like run towards his fast moving girlfriend.

A smile returns to my face. Maybe it isn’t so bad being single after all I muse. One can’t deny that there are many advantages to being single. For one, I can go any damn direction I wish to go.

Candy Coated World

2006-04-24T23:58:00.000+08:00

There's a man standing by the corner of the sidewalk opposite The Cafe waiting for the red man to start blinking green. There are people standing around him. They observe him with a mixture of shock and extreme curiosity. This is no ordinary man. As a matter of fact, he's rather from from it. Clad in a motorcycle helmet and pen knives dangling a'la Rambo style, this man looks like he's ready to do combat with a non-existent enemy army hidden somewhere in the city.

The red man turns green and John Rambo strides across the street. He observes people with a glare that would send cold shivers down your spine. Wise people avoid him like a plague. Today, there are no foolish men.

I take a sip of my chamomile tea and ponder at what I just saw. How strange that people should think him strange I think to myself. I admit as a member of society, there are behaviors that one would consider a social norm and there are other behaviors that other people would consider just plain loony. But if we really think about it, each and everyone of us has our own unique way of perceiving society. From a high level, there exist some semblance of uniformaty of what can be generally regarded as a social norm but at the lowest levels, we find that whatever social norms we have in our regard of society in general falls apart when we interact with people around us.

Take the Rambo I just saw for an example. On a normal day, a moralist and social idealist would tell you that the man is in need of attention and care and therefore society should take great care in treating him appropriately. Put Rambo in front of the very same moralist and social idealist and the response might change from that of pity to disgust.

We all do that and I'm no different. If I had to finger out the biggest hypocrite in the world, it would be me. People who are familiar with me know me as a man who preaches the word of tolerance and second chances. But when push comes to shove, I find myself quickly condeming the very same people I preached that we should be toleratable to.

And so it stands that deep down inside, we all really have our own way in perceiving the world. Some of us are cynics. Others are optimist. Some remain hopeless romantics. While others dance to the tune of 'reality'. While Rambo views the world as enemy territory, everyone views him as society's enemy. Much of this is in the same way people regard my choice of tea. Everyone has a preference when it comes to tea. To some, certain teas may come across as vile. But one man's poison is oft another's medicine.

I gaze down into my now empty cup and think to myself how sweet it would be if everybody could view everyone else in the same way. Much like how animals view each of their own kin. But alas, the world does not work that way. And until it does, I guess it's left to us who believe that it can to try to make this crazy world a little bit more welcoming to everyone.

The door to The Cafe opens and in enters Rambo. Wilson, the head waiter of The Cafe eyes the man with mild curiosity. He's been working here long enough to see weirder people and we both agree that the weirdest people in the world are normally the most normal looking people. Wilson looks at me and I look back at him with a half smile while raising my cup. He smiles back, grabs a menu, and sits Rambo down at a table.

Rambo orders a hot coffee. Guess not everyone's a tea person I think to myself with a smile.

Winding Down

2006-04-08T00:42:00.000+08:00

"It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought. Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery; we build where monsters used to hide themselves." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Just as every story starts with a thought, so does every ending. What essentially started as a thought to write here as an alternative means of expressing myself has unequivocally ended with the very same thought. I find myself asking the age old question every never-will-be writer asks himself, did I make it?

The answer I find myself telling myself is no. I didn't. And it pains me to think that I didn't.

I do enjoy writing here. But writing here comes with a cost. As it is linked to my main blog, I have to exercise a lot of restraint when expressing my thoughts and emotions here. Somehow the mystery of not knowing who reads this blog doesn't inspire me to be thoroughly forthright and honest to you my readers.

I want you to know who I am through my writing.
I desired to take you, my readers, on a lyrical adventure through verbal compositions of emotions.
I wanted to display my thoughts, emotions, and longings outright without restraint or care.

In these areas, I feel as if I have failed myself and all who have bothered to follow this blog thus far.

So my announcement, I am NOT shutting down this blog. I will still write in this blog. But I will also be starting a more private blog elsewhere. I won't be posting the URL here. I wont be anywhere. Due to reasons pertaining that of insecurity, I will only be giving out the URL to those who email me and ask me for it. I'm sorry...

That's all I guess. Stay tuned for a new series of stories to come once I figure them out!

Have a nice weekend everyone!

Growing Pains Part 3: Loss

2006-04-04T00:00:00.000+08:00

Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you - and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. - John Irving

When life chooses to take something away from you, it doesn’t give it back. What it wants, when it wants it, or how its going to get it is not a matter of option or choice but that of acceptance. You can’t tell life not to take your father away minutes before he gets hit by a car. You can’t tell life that you’re not ready to part ways with your favorite dog. Life comes, takes, and leaves.

More often than never, the things life takes away from us are as noticeable as an African standing in the sea of white of Australians. However, there are some things that we never really realize are missing until it’s too late. One of which is youth.

No one really notices that their youth is being robbed away from them until it’s too late. I know I didn’t. But then again, when my youth was taken away from me, it was more of an experience such as that of a rapist pinning down his victim unto his bed before he takes his way with her. Like a helpless victim, I watched and struggled as my attacker pounded on me. In some sense at least. The one thing that I’ll admit to freely is that I was a willing victim initially.

But there are many others that are not. Many are like the little girl with the tyrannical mother that I was looking at. Her daughter had just been given a balloon by a promotion girl. Happily admiring her new toy, a smile formed on her face. Less pleased was her mother who promptly dragged her a few meters away, stopped, grabbed the balloon away from her daughter’s tiny paws, and ripped it apart quite literally.

Sensing the loss of her new toy, her daughter began to wail. Angered by this, her mother slapped her on the arm. I’m no expert at slaps. I know as a guy, I can take pretty hard slaps. Most females I have met take lights taps as if they were the hardest slaps. So I can imagine what the audible slaps of this mother must have felt to this little girl.

She wailed even louder. Unimpressed, her mother threatened to keep slapping her if she didn’t stop. The little girl got the hint and held back her wails. It’s not easy for a kid to hold back wails. I’d know that best. Being a guy meant I didn’t have the privilege of being allowed to cry. Boys don’t cry because they aren’t accepted by society if they do.

Happy at her show of authority, mother drags her daughter away from the staring crowd. The temptation to run after the woman and her daughter is strong but I decide against it. I am chickenshitted. In my head, I empathize with the little girl. The road ahead of her is going to be a long and hard one. Just like the one many of us had to grow up with.

The innocence of youth once taken, can never be given back. All the things that accompany youth such as naivety, silliness, playfulness, and brashness are things that are robbed from you together with the loss of your youth.

Not so long ago, I made the very stupid mistake of trying to re-embrace these things. Little did I realize then that these things are not appreciated by other people once you hit the ripe of age of twenty-one. From then onwards, you’re expected to be mature, tactful, gentlemanly, and restrained. I didn’t know all these things at first. Now I do and such knowledge is less than welcomed.

However, like all robbed beings in life, one learns to move on and replace the emptiness with other more beneficial things. And like the many who are still coming to terms with the loss of their youth, I’m learning how to replace the loss with things that matter most to others.

Growing Pains Part 2: Giants

2006-03-18T23:48:00.000+08:00

“Daddy? Are there giants in Singapore?” asked the little girl.

“Don’t be silly. There are no such things as giants. It’s only a fairy-tale,” answered the girl’s slightly older sister. Daddy had naught to say and merely smiled at his wife. Daddy looked at the little girl and asked her if she would like to see a giant. Happily, the little girl chirped a yes. Her slightly-older look at her with slight disgust.

I remember a time when I used to be as naïve as that little girl. It didn’t seem so long ago when I believed in things like the tooth fairy and Santa Claus. It also didn’t seem like so long ago when all my naïve-ness got crushed beneath the heavy boot of reality thus effectively converting it all into cynicism.

I steal a look at the girl’s father and then steal a look at the girl. Both are looking at each other with childlike bliss. I find myself digging into past memories trying hard to remember if my dad and I ever looked at each other. Somehow my memory brings up nothing. I figured that maybe it’s because my dad and I never really did look at each other eye-to-eye even when we talked. I know I had a problem with eye contact with anybody for most of my life.

My dad and I have never had the most cordial of relationships. In fact, a good number of times it’s been rather tumultuous, especially so in my teen years. For most part of my life, I only remembered the moments when we would fight. I can remember the words he’d say to me and how they would devastate me.

A few years ago, I decided I couldn’t let all this pent up anger well up inside me anymore and I had to do something to make things better in my life. I decided that I had to let go of a large part of the angst inside of me. A lot of that angst had to do with my relationship with my dad. One fateful day, I woke up and decided that instead of feeling angry towards how my dad raised me, I’d try to recall all the good things he did in my life and all the moments he had to go out of his way to care for me.

And they were bountiful in occasions.

One of my fondest memories of my dad comes from a time when I was a wee little lad of eight. Every night, my dad would come up to my room to tuck me in for bed. Of course by the time he came home from work, I would already be sleeping. Or so it seemed.

It could be the hottest day on Earth but he’d still pull a blanket over me. The part I really loved was when he would give me a gentle scratch on the head. I used to pretend that my scalp was itchy so he’d give me that scratch. After that, he’d leave me to sleep. I never grew tired of moments like that.

The older I get with each passing year, I realize and understand how much my dad had to go out of his way to raise a son like me. And I’ll admit, I’m not one of the easiest of kids to raise.

Looking back at my relationship with my dad, even though it isn’t exactly a bed a roses yet, I see my dad as a giant. Or more than a giant, a titan. He is a titan of a man who tried his very best to mould be into the best I could be.

Yes sweetheart, there are giants in this world, I say in my head more to the older girl than the younger. It just takes some time to see some of them but eventually you will. Eventually she will… The heavens be willing.

Growing Pains Part 1: In and Out

2006-03-08T10:29:00.000+08:00

“In love?”

“No… Not really. More like out of it,” I reply. Mike gives out a loud laughter and slaps me hard on the shoulder. I laugh back and rub the stinging pain that he oh-so-blessed upon me. “You know me man. I’m cursed when it comes to this department!”

“Aren’t we all!” We both end up laughing so hard that everyone on the coffee shop turned around to take a look at us. Feeling a slight tinge of guilt for disturbing everyone’s quite coffee session, Mike gives them a little salute and a sheepish grin. “Come on little brother. We both know that the girls can’t resist your ‘charming’ attitude!”

“If by resist you mean tolerate my rather obnoxious attitude, I agree with you right there brother!”

Mike was this really great guy I met nine years back when I was just a teen overflowing with hormones. He had been the leader of the church youth group which I joined. Being some ten or so years older than me, he took me in as a surrogate brother. Being the men we were, we seldom talked much about relationships or matters ‘close to the heart. Between the two of us, we liked to keep our focus on making sure people within the group didn’t kill me before I reached the ripe old wise age of post puberty twenty-one.

That coffee shop conversation took place some six years ago back to a time when it was only natural for a teen to fall in love. As a young adult, I felt less compelled to give in to emotions but occasional they did slip through my defenses. Like right now.

Old but fond memories creep through my mind as I thumb through an old photo album I brought up to Singapore with me. In one page, there is a photo of me and Mike standing on a rock looking like idiots. Another page has a picture of me and my old gang. They eventually all left our little quiet town to pursue their further studies. In one page, there was a picture of an old crush.

I close the album and look up at the ceiling with a sigh. I was foolish then I muse to myself. But then again, I still am. I remember when I was a little boy, I proclaimed to my mum that I would never marry or fall in love. She assured me that one day, I’d meet a girl who forces me to change my mind. Since then, I’ve met many but have let them all through.

Then she happened, and she happened, and she happened. And somewhere in the midst of all that, I lost my mind and ripped out all of my hair. Okay, not all but some. Just enough to leave a noticeable bald patch on my crown.

There is a picture of the current girl that my heart has fluttered for. It’s a picture we took together during one of our happier times. Things have since gone down the drain between the both of us. The once easy going relationship has become one of cordialness and politeness. She’s just another crush I muse to myself. But boy was mum right, nothing can ever prevent the heart from ‘falling in love’. Or out of it.

I silly smile decides to make itself present on my face. I reach over and switch off the lights and lay my head down on my pillow. Maybe one day, it’ll all amount to something I saw in a whisper.

I close my eyes and the darkness takes me away. Far away where all the cares of the world doesn’t matter anymore.

Little Foot Problems

2006-03-01T12:18:00.000+08:00

This morning when I woke up and got up, a sharp pain raced up from my left foot to my head. I winced in pain and swore under my breath. Slowly, I seated myself at the edge of my bed and reached down to massage the foot. Something felt either knotted or inflamed down there. I let out a deep sigh and let my body fall backwards down onto my mattress.

I’ve been meaning to take myself down to a doctor to have the foot looked at. It’s been over a month now since I pulled whatever it is under my foot. Every time I resolve to go down to a clinic, I find some clever excuse not to go in the end. I fear I’ve grown accustomed to living with pain. There are a hundred and one things wrong with my body that I should get checked out but I just refuse to.

There are some pains I don’t ever get accustomed to living with however. Close friendships is one of them.

In friendships, best friends are people that you know will always be there for you no matter what. Casual friends are people you have coffee with every blue moon or so. Close friends lie somewhere in between those two. One day they could be the bestest of friends and the next, the worst of friends. They leave you on the edge just trying to figure out where they’re coming from.

With close friends, it’s sometimes very hard not to care about them. You listen to their problems, you’re there for them when they need you, and you invest a lot of time when they need you. Then when they leave you high and dry, you feel blur f---ed and confused at what to do next.

A doctor friend of mine once told me that the best way to cure a sore limb is to just not use it and let it rest. Easier said than done I always thought. A foot is not something so easy to keep off from. I still need the damned thing to walk about.

Friendships can be like that. Sometimes you just need to get off them for a while and let time heal whatever rift that caused you guys to drift apart in the first place. If time is kind, things will get better. If things don’t get better, then it’s perfectly fine to say that time isn’t kind.

I sit up and take a good look at my foot. I muse to myself that maybe it’s time to get it amputated instead. Life is sometimes so much simpler when you’re lacking a limb or two.

Sometimes.

Sometimes We Try too Hard...

2006-02-27T23:40:00.000+08:00

... and cause the other person to hurt.

Sometimes our best of intentions have the worst of consequences.

Sometimes it's best we never heard of them.

Dedicated to my bleeding friend. Friends laugh when you laugh but only real friends will go a thousand miles out of their way so that they can say something encouraging to you.

Hang in there.

"Better Than Me?"

2006-02-07T22:48:00.000+08:00

It’s 7 in the evening and Christie and I are out having coffee at our favourite coffee place. The both of us had decided at the spur of the moment to head down to town to have a drink after our work. It’s a normal humid weekday night in Singapore but that has little effect in keeping people indoors and at home. The town is partially crowded, most of who are polytechnic or university students.

Two tables away from us are four ‘not even twenty’ looking guys. They’re talking loudly about their religion and sharing with each other how each came to the church that they all are now in. It’s a hearty conversation as there is lots of laughter. There are moments I can’t help but eavesdrop on their conversations. Christie gives me a wink letting me know that she knows that I’m phasing in and out of whatever she’s saying to eavesdrop on the Christian kids. I give her a sheepish smile and look down into my coffee mug.

A few minutes later, a rather skimpily dressed girl walks into the café. She struts through the front doors swaying her hips sexily for all to see. Spotting an empty table near mine, she heads towards our direction. Midway through, she passes the Christian clique table. They eye her disapprovingly and one of them whispers rather audibly the word ‘harlot’.

Hearing the comment, the girl swings around and stares at the four guys. She gives them that ‘do you think you’re better than me’ look and they give her the ‘yes we are’ look. Sensing the futility in her actions, she turns around and continues walking towards the empty table. The four guys continue to stare at her. One clearly has his eyes fixated on the girl’s ample butt.

“Assholes,” mumbles Christie. I can’t help but agree with her.

A Christian myself, I can’t help but feel despaired over the state of churches at times. In principle, Christianity is a religion that teaches the importance of caring for those who are outside it. One of the strongest principles that it has is that no man should ever pass judgment on another. A majority of Christians sincerely follow these principles but yet there are a few who tend to side on a more legalistic and extreme code of morality. Thankfully, they make a minority of the religion. Sadly, they’re normally the more vocal ones.

I remember a story my ex-pastor told me a long time ago. It was his second year or so pasturing his church. Being an evangelistic geared pastor, he didn’t care who he outreached to be it gangsters, prostitutes, single mothers, and other less desirables of society. At one point in his ministry, he was sharing his faith to a prostitute. After a few sessions, he had managed to convince her to come to church. She agreed to this and said that she’d bring a few friends along to try out this religion thing.

Come the day and she and her friends showed up. Being prostitutes, their clothing happened to be on the more ‘flashier’ side as compared to the more conservatively dressed congregation. Obviously, they stood out above all the rest.

It goes without saying that they were not very well received. My pastor told me that nobody bothered greeting them or welcoming them to church. They were basically cold-shouldered the whole service and beyond. Sensing the hostility, they never returned to church again.

“By your hands, they will know who I am,” I whisper to myself.

“Excuse me?”

“Not all Christians are bad. Many sincerely believe in what they are doing,” I say to Christie. “There will be times where some will sway to the extremes and do the dumbest things ever. Essentially, all Christians are still humans. And like how humans pick their own friends to be in their groups, sometimes Christians make the mistake of picking people who seem to be savable material to join their ranks. To put it simply, sometimes Christians choose who they want in church.”

“A flawed religion?” Christie asks with one eyebrow cocked up.

“One way of looking at it. Another is that all philosophies and principles are essentially righteous in nature just that sometimes, men distorts it.”

“Makes sense.”

“Don’t think too much about it,” I say with a laugh. We soon forget the four Christian guys and continue joking around and sipping on our coffees. After about twenty minutes of that, another girl walks into the café. She’s decently dressed and looks like your friendly neighbourhood librarian. She walks over to suggestively dressed girl and sits down with her. She apologizes for being late and the other tells her it’s alright. They both laugh. Librarian looking girl then pulls out a bible from her handbag and the both of them bow their heads and pray. The four Christian guys look at each other with mixed looks of disbelief and shame.

I smile to myself and take a sip off my coffee.

“Now that’s what I call a real Christian,” Christie says and we both end up laughing.

A lesson to humanity that is sometimes hard to remember: love one another. I know it’s something I’m still struggling to learn. One day I hope.

Tuesday with Corey

2006-02-07T00:30:00.000+08:00

“I don’t think that would make you happy mister.”

“And why’s that Corey?” I asked. Corey was your not so typical ten year old boy. Two years shy of puberty, Corey still held many of that childlike innocence optimism in him. Unlike most of the kids in his school, he came from a stable and loving family. His father and mother, friends of mine, took good care of their children and made sure to raise them up right.

And here I was, talking to a ten year old boy about relationships. To diverse a little to explain what I was doing with Corey in the first place, I was at his parent’s on a social call. It had been a while since I’d seen them so I thought I’d pop by and say hi. After a rather hearty dinner, they both retired to the kitchen to debate who should do the dishes while they left Corey with me.

And so, Corey had started asking me why I wasn’t married. I tried to explain to him that I hadn’t met anyone ‘special’ yet but he didn’t believe me. So I told him the truth that I had met many rather amazing women in the past but as ‘fate’ would have it, I would never progress any further than a close friendship with them.

When he asked me why, I mused with him that I had never told any of them and maybe I should have instead. It was rather interesting having a ten year old tell you that you wouldn’t have been happier in telling any of the girls how you felt.

“Well sir, sometimes I think we don’t really know what we want,” he said finally after a long pause.

“Would you care to elaborate this for me Corey?” I asked with a grin. This was going to be insightful I told myself.

“One day, I went shopping with mummy and daddy, and I wanted a box of green soldiers. Daddy said yes but mummy said no. I kept asking mummy if I could have them. After a gillion times, mummy finally said yes and bought me the toy soldiers.

“When I got home, I ripped open the box and played with my toy soldiers. After a while, I got tired of them. I think if you had told any of the girls, you would have been tired of them soon like me!”

I raised my eyebrow alarmed, looked hard at Corey, and asked, “Why’s that? I don’t think I understand.”

“I think girlfriends are like toy soldiers sir. We want them out of feelings. But once we get them, the feelings change after a while. It’s like wanting something out of impulse and not because we know it’s good for us. I think that if mister wanted to tell a girl that you liked her, you would have to make sure you would want her for a very long time.”

“That’s so very true!” I exclaimed while laughing heartily. And boy did Corey make a very good point. I think the problem with humans is that we tend to take relationships for granted. Almost all of us want to get hitched but the moment we get hitched, we have no idea where to go from there in the long term. So we keep things short term based and before we know it, it’s searching for a new partner again.

Like little plastic green soldiers in a toy store, we can either pick them out of impulse or out of much thought and reasoning that they’d be something we’d cherish for a very long time.

I give Corey a rub on the head and he gives me back a hug in return. Moments later, his parents enter the room which we were in. After putting the boy to bed, the three of us head down to a late night coffee shop for tea. I share with them what their son had just told me and they laugh and joke that their son is going to grow up as a ladies’ man.

As long as he doesn’t lose his wisdom, he can be anything he wants to be I muse to myself.

Bleed

2006-01-07T01:56:00.000+08:00

I just spent the last two hours sitting in front of my computer tapping out a story for you readers to read. Halfway through, I got so overwhelmed by emotions that I just broke down somewhere. Mental block naturally kicked in and I did what I do best, I deleted the entire post I just spent the last two hours trying to type.

True to self, I didn’t bother saving a draft of what I did. I don’t want to. The post got too personal and sparked up a lot of pent up emotions within me. Needless to say, I broke down.

It’s often amusing how in the absence of a firm hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, and a reassuring hug, words can often provide the deepest of comfort for the loneliest of souls. Words can provide the escapism often needed when one is bleeding.

I resort to writing as a form of expressing myself because I am socially retarded and am unable to express myself through voice or chats. To me, blogs like this and the other hidden stuff I keep hidden around the Internet are how I find solace in this crazy world.

As I was writing tonight’s post (which was deleted), I found myself reaching over to my penknife and sliding it open. When I was younger, I used to hurt myself just to feel relieved and alive. There was this longing to feel the pain that’ll take away the burdens from my mind.
But I knew that wasn’t what I wanted.

This is now how problems in life are meant to be dealt with. I slid the blade back down and put the knife back on the table. Problems were meant to be dealt with constructively and not destructively. And tonight’s post helped remind me of that.

I do affirm the need of a strong physical presence of a friend I can trust in my life. But I know that’s not for me right now and where I am right now is meant to help me grow. Until that day comes, I am the words I type and I will put my heart into the pen and the paper that I hold and continue to write.

One word at a time.

New Year, New Chapter

2005-12-27T00:33:00.000+08:00

The night wind was blowing gently through my window and it danced softly against my skin. It was a little chilly for Singapore's context but still it was welcomed.

I was sitting at my study desk with a pen in my hand for the last ten minutes or so. In a few more days, it would be the dawn of a new year. As I sat on my desk, I thought I was ready to scribble my new year's resolutions for 2006 yet I hesitated....obviously I was not as ready as I was. Perhaps in writing what one would like to achieve in a new year, requires memories of the current year's to make the new year a better one.

And of cause, memories include good memories as well as some that may still cause your heart to wrench a little. Some memories are etched so deep, that one may think that they have been lost together with time. Yet, they seem to surface at all the wrong times when you do not need them at all. The irony of selective memory. As I gazed into the night sky pondering about the memories of this year, Class 95 played Sade's By Your Side. Before I know it, one thing led to another and I was lulled into a recollection of my memories....

I recalled how I was sabotaged by a group of church friends for my birthday this year and a smile came upon my face. I got to admit that it was a carefully devised sabotage plan which as you probably can sense, still brings joy when mentioned. I was still smiling when the next memory in queue creeped up to me too fast and too unexpectedly. Somehow memories have a fascinating way of alternating themselves and will not come in a string of joy or a string of sadness.

I tried not to walk down this path of memory but alas I was weak willed. Sade seem too overpowering with her lyrics. And the mood was set. I found myself reflecting on the times when I was in a relationship with someone who used to be dear. Someone who once held my hand...someone whom I once had deep conversations about a future together....someone whom I once shared every happiness, every sadness, every drink, every bites of food with. Strangely, as much as I tried hard to recollect that someone's face, I couldn't. The image of that once certain someone was blurry. Perhaps like how the weather erodes away mountains with time… that was how that image got eroded away too.

Somehow the blurry images made me realised one thing....that I have moved on. It was almost an instantaneous reaction when I acknowledged the purpose of such memories to serve as reminders that I felt such memories aren't as horrible as I perceive them to be. In fact, such reminders are there to guard and ensure that our futures would be better. A load lifted my chest at that moment.

As I landed back in reality from memory lane, a broad smile carved my face as I continued to enjoy the gentle breeze of this slightly chilly night. I did not write down my resolutions for 2006...but I know I was ready and hopeful. I was ready to live the new year to my very best. Ready to embrace whatever the new year holds... ready to start this new chapter...whatever it was going to unveil to me.

With the new found assurance, I put my pen down and climbed into bed... I covered myself snugly with my comfy blanket and closed my eyes. I cannot wait for 2006 to reveal itself to me.

Let's not speak

2005-12-26T14:19:00.000+08:00

Note: This post was meant to be posted on the 18th of December but as to not 'kacau' the gifts of Christmas... it wasn't posted then. Well it is posted now ;)

Dinner wasn’t very pleasing that night. Just fish cakes and raw cucumber served with brown rice and lotus soup. I eyed them with disbelief. It’s been like that ever since dad went traveling. Mum sensed something was amidst.

“Don’t you like fish cakes?”

When mum found that I wasn’t going to say anything, she asked another question, one completely unrelated.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

It’s one of those questions that irk me, especially when it came from my mum. It was like she didn’t trust that I’d tell her when that day happens.

“No,” I said solemnly, continuing my dinner without giving much notice.

“Are you interested in anyone?”

Well, stop it already! Sheesh. Why was she suddenly bombarding me with these questions? Was it because she could see through my depressing state these past couple of days was just not related to the dinner she had served?

“No.”

That answer would have been a lie had she asked the question in the past week. Up till the time I came back home for holidays, there had always been one girl on my mind. But something she always did make me confused. She was always silent on a lot of things and tends only to talk about things that she wanted to talk about. Don’t get me wrong here, I understand that everyone has secrets (just like the Korean movie of the same name) and would like to keep certain things to themselves but when things that could spark a typical everyday conversation topic gets an absurd excuse for not wanting to talk about it is mentioned, then I have nothing more to say.

“So what did you have for lunch?” I asked.

She shrugs and doesn’t reply. So, I asked again.

“Food.”

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

She just smiles and looks out the window.

That was the last straw. I felt I was talking to a six year old. Or being treated like one. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. I’ve actually lost count already. Each time it had happened, just as when she does or does not do something that leaves me more bewildered over her behaviour, two parts of me begin reasoning with each other. One part always argues that what she does is unacceptable and comes up with all kinds of excuses and reasons to say that she isn’t good enough for me and so and so forth. The other part is the more patient, more understanding, part that always reasons and always finds reasons to defend her. All this while I’ve always listened to the part that defends her, because it brings hope.

Now that the last straw has happened, I’ve succumbed to the part that no longer wants to take up the responsibility of having to tell her things. It feels like I can no longer be bothered compared to the concern that I used to have. Suddenly, mum says something that breaks the thoughts I were having all this while.

“You know your dad only got a girlfriend when he was 26?”

So?

“Don’t worry. When you have a successful career in the future, women will be after you.”

Is that so? So these women are after my money. I better find one quickly before I get a successful career then.

“You’re still in university. You should concentrate on your studies first. Bla bla bla…”

Right. Apparently she was referring to the less than satisfactory results that I just achieved. She probably sensed some girl was behind those results. Little did she know that my results have always been in the same framework as the last one regardless of any involvement regarding girls.

The last sentence was a shocker I’ve not heard before.

“I’ll recommend you a girl if you want.”

NO! Absolutely not. This match-making things… especially with mum involved won’t work. She’ll get me a girl just like her. Disaster! A catastrophe. A nuclear bomb waiting to be ignited.

After a while curiosity got the better of me and I asked her who she was.

“Bo lar… Wa si ane kong nia.” (Don’t have la. I just say nia.)

I felt as if shit had been thrown right back in my face. To think that she didn’t even had anyone in mind and for me to question who it was made me look like I was more desperate rather than curious.

I hadn’t spoken much that night and when I did, it made me look like shit. Therefore, I conclude I should learn not to speak so often. Who better to learn from than that girl I’m no longer interested in. Only problem is, will she be willing to tell me anything? This could be tougher than I thought. Hmm…

The Christmas Diary Part 12

2005-12-24T12:28:00.000+08:00

Merry Christmas Everyone!!!

This festive season, go out there and enjoy yourselves. And don't forget to be NICE! Not just for today but for every single day.

The Christmas Diary Part 11

2005-12-24T01:00:00.000+08:00

It was 7:30pm. The last mass had just finished and people were shuffling out. I was going in. I walked into the cathedral and took in the scenery. To my left towards the pulpit was the nativity scene done up with some statues. Above it was the solemn figure of Jesus nailed to a cross. Neither move me. I’m so far detached from my religion that sights like this have little effect on me anymore.

To my right are rows of pews. They are olden style pews which are basically planks of wood hammered together to form a nice bench with footrest. All the pews are level height with each other. I pick a pew towards the center and sit down on it. My eyes stare fixated at the crucified Jesus.

“Are you looking for Jesus son?” asks a voice behind me. I turn to see who it is. It’s the priest of the cathedral. He walks over to where I am and sits down next to me. “Are you looking for Jesus?” he repeats his question with a gentler voice. I look at him. He smiles a warm smile at me. Franciscan I tell myself.

“No sir,” I reply. “I’m not looking for him,” I state while turning my attention back at the crucified Jesus.

The priest looks slightly puzzled. “Then why are you here?”

“I think… I think he’s the one who’s looking for me,” I say pointing a finger towards the Jesus.

“So you are here to come back to him?”

“Hardly. I’m here to hide from him.” The priest looks even more puzzled now. He looks at me with a quizzical look and even though he doesn’t say it, I know he’s expecting an explanation to what I just said.

“As a kid, whenever my dad or mum got mad at me, my sister and I would hide in our storeroom. After a long while, we’d head back to our rooms to continue hiding. The idea was to make it look like we ran away from home while all along we were at home. My parents would wonder where we were and sometimes look for us. The last place they’d ever think of looking for us was at home.”

“Ahh…” acknowledged the priest. It looked like he was finally grasping why I was here.

“You see, sir, I’m here to hide from God. Not to come home to him.”

“I see… So how long do you plan to hide here?”

“Until he finds me.”

The priest nods his head a few times then stands up and turns to look at me. “Son, when he does find you, what do you plan to do?”

I shrug and say, “I’ll think about it then, sir.”

“I hope he finds you soon then! At least before you wander away from his house again,” he says with a warm smile then turns to walk away.

“Thanks father,” I mumble beneath my breath.

I pick up a hymnal in front of me and open it. The words of familiar songs flash past me as I quickly flip the pages. Why do I continue to hide? I asked myself. Twenty-two years of life and I spend more than half of it running from myself. Twenty-two years of ducking and hiding and finally here I am. Sitting in a church wondering how much for running I can do.

I wonder if it has anything to do with religion. Could some god so far detached from mankind ever help me? I shake my head in doubt. What is it that people find within these four walls that helps them go on with life? Maybe they too, live in daily denial and religion acts merely as a distraction to who they really are.

“They find themselves in these four walls,” the priest says somehow reading my thoughts. “It’s within these walls that they find purpose and meaning. I used to spend a lot of my life too running and hiding from myself. You said you were running from God?

“Son, let me tell you this: Whether or not you believe in God or not, it doesn’t matter. Some people find hope and faith within this religion. Others find purpose and meaning. You, you’re looking for redemption from yourself or some past err in your life.

“Take a look at the nativity,” he points. I follow his instructions and stare at it. “It’s Christmastime again. Maybe this year round, you could give yourself a break,” he says with his trademark smile. “And maybe pray a little.”

I nod my head to that and look down at the floor. It’s been a while since I knelt. Placing both knees carefully on the floor, folding my hands together, and looking up to a giant mosaic cross, I whisper a pray beneath my breath.

God, I know I’m not very welcomed in your courts. I’m not looking to come back into your good graces tonight. All I ask for you is to help me find peace with myself this Christmas season. I know I ask for much but I can’t go on like this anymore. Please, help me.

A tear streams down my face. I feel a burden lifted from me. If it wasn’t some divine power, it was pure relief just to say this out. I get back onto my feet and walk down the aisle towards the nativity scene. I take a long good hard look at it. Then I walk out of the cathedral never looking back towards whatever lays in front of me beyond the doors.

Life

The Christmas Diary Part 10

2005-12-23T02:42:00.000+08:00

“Wow! Look at that pair of shoes,” she exclaimed.

I turn to where she was pointing. It was a pair of sleek, ebony black high heels. It had looks to kill for and as she turned over to see the price, I gasped in disbelief. She was unfazed by my reaction and just motioned for the salesgirl.

“A size 7 please,” she said.

“Are you serious? Don’t you have plenty of shoes at home already?” I asked.

“Well, I do have the red ones for that dress but I need these so that it will match that blouse I just bought just now,” she explained while pointing to the beige blouse which she had gotten for a couple of shops back. “Besides the last black pair I had is spoilt.”

“Spoilt?”

“Yeah, at the heel. It broke off.”

“What happened? Your boyfriend used it to kill cockroaches?” I grinned.

She threw me a glare.

“It just broke, okay? I was walking and it just broke.”

“Just broke… hmm,” I mumbled.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Huh? Ah, nothing. Nothing at all.”

I looked at the strewn plastic bags filled with clothes, shoes and other whatnots around me that belonged to her. There were blouse, skirts, dresses, lingerie, perfumes, toiletries, makeup, a handbag, an evening gown, a pair of jeans and a couple of t-shirts bundled with a pair of bedroom slippers and sandals. I forgot to mention the food. Oh wait, that’s mine. The only plastic bag which consisted of my stuff was the one that had food in it.

“Hey, wake up. We’re going.”

“Huh? What?” I said sleepily.

I had dozed off while waiting for her. Apparently she wasn’t too happy with the workmanship and demanded that the salesgirl got her another pair of the same size. Then she had gone on an utterly long debate with the cashier by showing off her bargaining skills. Why would I know all this? Well, it had taken place in all the stores we had been to.

“Let’s go,” she said hastily.

“Okay.”

I struggled to my feet and quickly grabbed hold of the plastic bags on the floor as she had rushed out of the store that I had trouble keeping up.

“So how much did you pay for those?” I asked.

“$300. The cashier was so stingy. I will never walk into that store again,” she complained.

“Ah, but you would.”

“What do you mean?” she asked angrily.

“If you saw another pair of shoes in the window the next time you walked past that shop would you not go in and take a look at it?” I asked sheepishly.

“Well if she was the cashier I wouldn’t.

“Yeah, right.”

We walked to a nearby fast-food restaurant to have lunch. As she took out her purse to pay the cashier, she motioned me back and whispered something in my ear.

“I don’t have enough cash. Can you pay for me first? I’ll pay you later,” she said, giving me those sad puppy eyes.

“I can’t say no now that you’ve already ordered, can I?”

She didn’t reply. She quickly took the tray and headed for the table. While eating I decided to pop her a question.

“Anyway, I was just wondering. How much have you spent today?” I asked.

“About a thousand bucks,” she said. Then she gasped. “My goodness!”

“That’s half your monthly salary, isn’t it?”

She looked at me straight in the eye and grabbed me by the collar.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” she asked.

“Well, I did. Every time before we entered a store I told you but was so drawn to that blouse or skirt or whatever it was.”

She didn’t reply. I could tell that she was already embarrassed about the fact that I had to pay for her lunch. She just stared out the window and saw the modern youngsters of society, the yuppies, the trend-setters clutching LVs in their shoulders, with a Gucci blouse spotting a Guess eyewear.

“Don’t look anymore,” I motioned her. “These are people who can afford these things. Until you earn more than you can afford, don’t envy them. You should be looking at the less fortunate and see for yourself how lucky you are.”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to change. So help me change,” she pleaded.

“I’ll be glad to. Oh, and by the way, lunch is on me.”

We all dream of things that will make us feel important and stand out from the rest of the crowd. It’s not wrong but we should not be living beyond our means. Besides, there’s always better use for money out there. Why spend on something you already have when you do not actually need it?

This gift of Christmas is known as: Contentment

The Christmas Diary Part 9

2005-12-21T23:26:00.000+08:00

“Do you dance?” she asked.

“Wha…? No!” I try my best to shout above the noise. I barely succeed.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says with a cheeky grin. Before I know it, she’s flung me off my comfy seat and onto the dance floor. I lose my footing and fall backwards but as I’m about to totally lose it, she jerks me toward her. She lets out a giggle and punches me on the collarbone. “Two left feet I see!” she exclaims.

I blush and look sheepishly down at the floor. She hunches herself and looks up into my eyes with a wide grin and says, “Hey silly, you’ll be dancing by the end of the night if I have anything to say about it.”

“Hell woman! You know I can dance!” I say with a love.

“Jumping up and down while shaking your head up and down doesn’t constitute as dancing boy!” We both laugh so hard that I swear we nearly died.

“Okay, you win. Do your stuff magic woman.” I extend my hand and she puts her’s on mine. For the next two excruciating hours, Christie attempts to teach me how to dance. Unfortunately for the both of us, I really do have two left feet. I step on her toes so often that by the end of our session together, I was dead sure she’d need ‘corrective toe surgery’.

We find ourselves an empty table and park our asses there. We order drinks and look at the other couples dancing. Gracefully, they danced to the music without missing a beat. I tap my feet to the beat. That was the best I could master.

There’s this particular couple that’s dancing, they’re all smiles and you can just sense the intimacy in their every move. Christie and I stare at them mesmerized.

“Beautiful aren’t they?” she says breaking the silence.

“Yeah, totally.”

“Do you think that’ll ever be us?”

“As in, you and me?” I ask shocked.

“No silly!” she exclaims with a stunned look. “I mean us with our future partners!”

“Oh,” I let out a sigh of relief. “Maybe one day soon… Hopefully.”

“What if we never meet the one’s we’re supposed to meet?” she asks with a slightly distressed tone. I don’t reply. There’s so much I want to say but I keep it all inside. Now really isn’t the moment to philosophize. Wouldn’t want to ruin the easy going atmosphere now would I? After a while, she looks at me and says with a grin, “Doesn’t matter. We’ve still got great friends!”

“Amen to that!” I say lifting up my glass. We make a toast and take a sip from our drinks then continue watching the people dancing.

Friends, what would you do without them?

Another greatest gift of Christmas: True friends.

The Christmas Diary Part 8

2005-12-21T00:33:00.000+08:00

The Christmas Song is playing on my computer speakers. The weather is cool. Christmas is four days away. The songbird in my speakers serenades me with the words Merry Christmas to You. The mood is jovial and Christmassy. It would seem almost impossible for it not to be.

But it is.

I stare at the text message on my phone. No thoughts race through my mind as I slowly digest what’s before me. A trickle of tear rolls down my cheeks. Slowly, I place my phone back on the table. I cup my face in my hands and let it all sink in. I just couldn’t believe it, but it was real. It happened. There was little doubt in mine, or anyone else’s mind that it did.

He was gone.

The phone rings and I pick it up. “Hello?” I answer. My voice is quivering. I’m struggling to hold my composure. I barely make it but I know that if the person on the other end is paying attention, he’d sense something is wrong.

“Merv?” asks the voice.

“Yeah… It’s me. Is that you Thom?”

“Yeah it’s me. Did you hear?”

“About Shirlene?” I didn’t have to wait for him to answer that. We both knew why he was calling me for. “Yeah Thom… I heard… Why?” I asked breaking down on the last word. The tears were rolling down more frequently now. On the other end, I heard Thom sigh. I could tell that he too, was shocked at the news.

“There was a note,” he said after a long while. “I was…” he paused to clear his throat and regain back some composure. “I was over at her place just a moment ago. She left a note there for the both of us.”

“Do you have it?” I asked.

“Nope… You know how it works here. There has to be a police investigation. You’ll probably see the note a few days from now… But I read it…”

“What did it say?” I asked interrupting him.

“To me… Well she thanked me for my friendship with her and that was about it… For you… Same stuff except… She said you were right about her boyfriend.”

“Shit… What did he do to her?!” I said nearly shouting.

“According to the rest of her note to you… Date rape. Happened a few weeks back and she just couldn’t go on with her life… Why didn’t she let us know…” That wasn’t a question. We both knew why she didn’t come to us. She was always one to be afraid of what people would think of her. Us, her best friends, weren’t exempt from this. She suffered from an extreme case of low-self esteem.

We also knew we both had a part to be blamed for this. We had pressured her to leave her boyfriend. From the beginning, we had a bad feeling about him. We constantly badgered her to leave him but there was so much charm in him that she just couldn’t let go.

Now she finally did.

“Thomas…”

“I have to go too. I’ll see you at the wake?”

“I’ll be there.” We hang up. I lean back as far as I can on my chair, perch my feet at the table, fold my arms, and look at the ceiling.

Thoughts come into my head; memories from days of yore when I was a more bitter and depressed youth. Oh how I felt like giving up back in those days. I remember the abuse of pills, the alcohol, the knife, the nose, and the bruises I’d give myself. I remember how it felt to be given hope to continue on. I remember all the people who helped walk me through my sorrows in life.

Is there any hope for the hurting at all? I ask out loud rhetorical in some vain attempt to summon an answer from all the gods in the world.

I am answered with silence.

I don’t need one. I already know the answer. If there is any reason for each and anyone of us to be alive in this world, it is to help one another stand throughout this journey in life. Sometimes we might fail and sometimes we might succeed. But whatever the outcome at the end of the day, we must continue to always help one another regardless for we are the hands that bring hope into other people’s lives in this big picture called life.

We are the hands of hope.

For it was one of the greatest gifts of Christmas: Hope.

The Christmas Diary Part 7

2005-12-20T00:34:00.000+08:00

“What dead animal do you think I send her this Christmas?” I ask.

“What?!”

“You know… Dead animal. Like road kill or some stuff like that? Not breathing anymore.”

“What?!”

“Deeeeaaaaaaadddd animal man. Not living. Kaputz. Finito. Habis.”

“You want to do what with a dead animal?!”

“Mail it to her,” I say. Thirty-seconds into my conversation with her and I’m already wishing I hadn’t said anything. I throw a sheepish look at Christie. She looks back at me with a face reminiscent of a kangaroo about to be hit by a truck.

“You’d do what?!” she nearly screams.

“Whoa!” I say with both hands out trying to calm her down. “I’m just kidding,” I continue. “It’s not like I’m actually planning to do it.” With that, she lets lose a puff of air and slumps into her seat. Relief flushes over her.

After a while, she looks up at me with a cheeky smile and says to me, “You know how naïve and gullible I can be Merv.”

I laugh out loud and say back to her, “Yeah I know. Do you remember the time I nearly made you eat a sandwich full of ants because I somehow managed to convince you that it’s healthy?”

The both of us break out in loud laughter. People in the café turn to take a look at the two crazy kids that are laughing their lungs out. I look at this old European couple sitting at the table next to ours and flash him a smile. He smiles back at me, takes a glance at Christie, and gives me a wink.

Christie picks up her cup and takes a sip from her skinny-latte. “Coffee, oh how I love thee,” she coos.

“I swear that if Jesus were a modern day savior, he’d have drunk Coffee Bean at the last supper,” I quip. Christie was the most ideal coffee buddy any guy could ever ask for. We could sit for hours straight at the café just talking about anything under the roof. The best thing is that we’ve known each other for eternity and our conversational depth still hasn’t dried up.

“Look buddy, tell me this and give it to me straight. What’s in your head right now? Why the question?” she asked.

“Ah… You know. There’s this nagging bit of me that just wants to take revenge...” I look down at my coffee and stir it slowly. Thoughts seep into my head but I shut them out as soon as they come in. “You know the feeling.”

She giggles and looks out the window. A girl holding a small boaster walks up to the window and stares at her. Christie looks back at the girl and gives her one of those ‘I’m in a deep thought’ smiles. The girl reaches out her hand and touches the window. Christie leans towards the window and places her palm where the little girl’s is. The girl laughs merrily. After a while, a woman, presumably the girl’s mother, walks up to the girl and takes her hand. She looks down at the girl and smiles, then she looks at Christie and does the same. It’s a warm smile that’s laced with a thousand hidden sweet meanings. She then leads walks away from the café window, child in hand.

Christie just watches them walk away. I watch her watch them walk off to some unknown place.

“Do you remember when we were kids?” she says after a long while.

“Yeah,” I reply with a short laugh. It was all so long ago… So very long.

“Do you remember how we could get angry and even hate someone but not stay long at the person for long?”

“Christie… You know how hard it is now for us to do that… Now that we’re all…”

“…Grown up,” she nodded. “It seems sometimes that the young are wiser in more areas than us adults. Where we are foolish, they are wise,” she sighed. I took another sip out of my coffee. This time it was my turn to look out the window. There was a lot of truth in what was just said. Perhaps there was something important for me to learn in all this. Perhaps…

“Listen, you don’t need to go on hating her or feeling bitter towards what she did to you all your life. You can change all this. You can feel better. You and I both know it,” she continued.

“I know… I’ve asked her for her forgiveness and have said sorry already. What more do I need to do?” I said in resignation.

“Does your heart still bleed?”

“Sometimes…”

“Then you and I both know that you owe it more to yourself to forgive her in there than anywhere else,” she said while pointing towards my chest. “Both of us need to do that for our respective hurts.”

I look at her straight in her eyes. My eyes well up a little. I turn to look away. She’s right… All this while I’ve been fooling myself thinking that hearing a “you’re forgiven” from her would solve all of the pain. And if it never came, I reasoned that revenge will help remove all the hurt.

I was wrong.

It was never about her and what she did. It’s always been about me and what I did and in retrospect, it was me and only me who could ever let go off all the pain. I look at Christie with a smile. She sees that I got it and I see that she just figured out something. The both of us break out laughing.

“A rat would be good I think!” she exclaims and we laugh even harder.

I lift up my coffee cup and say, “To our exes!”

“To forgiveness!”

And the sixth greatest gift of Christmas is: Forgiveness.

The Christmas Diary Part 6

2005-12-19T00:47:00.000+08:00

Sometimes it’s hard to be nice to kids without spoiling them. Raising kids seems like a fine balancing act to me. You deny them simple pleasures in life and they grow up as misers. You lavish gifts on them and they grow up as spoilt brats. It’s always an act of balancing between the two of them.

Every now and then when shopping at Orchard Road, I’d see an obnoxious kid stomp around and whine at how his parents won’t get him the toy he was eyeing. He’ll kick up a big fuss intending to embarrass his parents in public. Most of the time, his parents are silent. I bet they give in at the end of it all.

Then there are other times when I see a over-dictative parent who drags a hyper obedient child all along Orchard Road. I remember once seeing this mother and a little girl at one of the malls along this infamous road. Her kid was just given some balloons by some promoters. Her mum dragged her to the end of the mall where I was which was also pretty far away from the promoters. Once out of sight from the ever charitable promoters, she snatched all the balloons from her child’s hands and ripped them and started screaming at her kid. The kid broke out in loud sobs. Her mum dared her to cry louder. The reward if she did, a tight slap. She didn’t dare sob any louder.

What I saw today was pretty much unusual from what I normally see on every other day. I was walking to one of the train stations along Orchard Road on my way home. Walking towards me was this Indian lady and her daughter.

This particular little girl was just like out of a fairy tale. She was bubbly and prancing all about and talking at the top of her lungs. She ‘reeked’ of joy. And so did her mother. Both of them were walking down Orchard Road cheerfully talking to each other. Mother looked thirty and daughter looked six.

At the point where we met, as in when they were a few feet in front of me, we were standing in front of a mall. I could make out what they were saying clearly over the noise and of vehicles that frequent this part of Singapore. Mother and daughter stopped. Daughter pointed to the mall and said to her mother, “Mummy, let’s go shop inside there!”

Mother looked inside, smiled and said, “But dear, what do you want to buy in there?”

Daughter pondered with a cute-ish expression and finally replied, “Anything mummy.”

Her mother laughed at that response and said this to her daughter, “Dear, let’s go in! You can choose anything you like and I’ll buy it for you.”

At this point, I took special notice at their attire. They didn’t look well off. The things they were wearing were pretty worn out. I’d place my bets to say that they’re just barely within the middle income group of citizens. They can’t be misers by the way the behave. Neither could they be spendthrifts.

At the moment, I guess it really didn’t matter. I was just so mesmerized by what was going on in front of me. I was snapped out of my chain of thoughts when daughter said to mother these words, “Mummy, if things are too expensive, no need buy for me okay?”

Mother grinned and chuckled at that, and said to daughter, “Dear, let’s just go shopping and decide on that later.” With that she and daughter looked at each other with a grin and pranced into the mall.

I stood still for a while taking in everything I had just witnessed. It was unbelievable and beautiful at the same time. I looked into the mall and allowed myself a small grin. How beautiful childlike innocence and joy is sometimes, I mused to myself. I looked up at the faces approaching me and all seemed blank and void of any real happiness. I shook my head and walked towards the train station thinking that I too need some genuine happiness in my life.

And the fifth greatest gift of Christmas is: Childlike innocence and joy.

The Christmas Diary Part 5

2005-12-18T00:54:00.000+08:00

Reality sucks. There’s this certain time of the day when I escape from reality and burry myself in a self made fictional world in my head. It’s called dreamland. I love dreamland. In dreamland, everything is possible. Last night I was Rambo on a mission to kill every damned sheep in New Zealand. I was totally enjoying this mission of mine until reality yanked me out of my fictional world and slammed me back into its world.

My handphone was ringing. I let out a loud grunt and rolled over to pick it up. Who in the world would call me at… 11:45am… Okay, my bad. I should’ve been awake 3 hours ago. Blurry eyed, I took a look at the caller ID on my phone to see who it was. It was Rob.

Strange, I thought. Normally he’d be asleep till late afternoon on a Saturday. Groggily, I tapped the answer key of my phone and put it to my ear. I’m greeted in the most horrible way a man could ever be greeted by.

“Helloooo and gooood moorrnniinngg Merv,” Rob said in the most feministic voice he could muster.

“Dammit Rob! You’ve just cursed me to have nightmares for another hundred years each time I sleep!” I exclaimed. Or at least that was what I wanted to shout out loud at Rob. What came out instead was some slurry speech that sounded something like Klingon.

“Yeah, good morning to you too sunshine!”

“You’re all f-----g cheery,” I grumbled.

“No need to be a menstruating grumpy old man dude. I come bearing good tidings for thee this merry after… morning!”

“Yeah… What do you want?”

“Geez man. Lighten up a little would you? Look, you know how I’m always out ‘hunting’ and shit while you’re always such a little secure prick staying in the safety of your…”

“Get to the point,” I interjected. I hate it when he gives me his self-righteous ‘I’m more virile than you’ speech. But then again, I really can’t blame this guy for his high and mighty attitude in regards of his sexual activeness. After all, this was the guy who told me that it is God’s divine appointment to men that men should go out and spread his seed in as many women as possible.

Of course when I pointed out to him that most of his ‘seed’ ends up in a rubber sack manufactured by some Chinese company, he just brushed it aside and stated that it isn’t his fault that his sperm couldn’t get through the tiny spores of a condom.

“I got you this girl. She’s a real beau!” exclaimed Rob excitedly.

“So why aren’t you keeping her to yourself then?”

“Because you’re such a good f-----g friend and this time, I decided to share!”

Share… I didn’t like the sound of that. Something just sounded so very damn wrong with that statement. Before I could finish my chain of thoughts, Rob interrupted me.

“She’s crazy man. She’ll blow your brains out! She’s absolutely-f------g amazing in bed!” he exclaimed.

“Excuse me?!”

“Yeah man! You’ll love her!”

“Whoa! Hang on a minute! What makes you think for a damned minute that I’d…”

“Look, Merv, I know you’re looking for this holy virgin of god sort of girl to hook yourself up with. But you got to face it, most girls aren’t virgins now-a-days. Hell, I’m willing to wager that most of the girls you meet out in town have already been broken in by somebody else!” he said interrupting me.

“Dude, you got the wrong idea man. I’m not some self-righteous prick who won’t fall for a girl who lost it to some other guy. I’m also sure as hell not the kind of guy who’d ostracize a girl who’s had multiple partners and still is. I give everyone a chance to prove their character man. That’s what matters to me at the end of the day!”

“Then what’s you’re problem man?”

“I’m just not up to dating any girl that you’ve been into,” I duly stated.

“Screw you man. I’m keeping her to myself then.”

“She isn’t an animal or a trophy Rob.”

“To you at least,” he said. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Yeah,” I said and hit the disconnect button off my phone. I believe that the world is coming to an end. Not because some pastor or a book told me so but rather because of the lack of respect I see growing in between genders. There are players like Rob who increasingly treat women as trophies to be conquered and at the same time, there is an ever increasing amount of women who treat men as the same.

If a nuclear war doesn’t destroy us all, a generation of rabbit behaving kids will. Either ways, the world is doomed.

I pick myself off my bad and sit on its edge. There’s a pile of unwrapped Christmas present that’s sitting under my desk. I reach over to pick up this particular present. It’s supposed to be a little special in a way.

Too often, Christmas is partying and exchanging of gifts, and that’s just about it. The whole significance and magic of Christmas got lost somewhere in the over commercialization of it. In a way, it’s sickening. In some small way, it’s sad.

I hold the present up to my face, take a good look at it, and sigh. Unlike most of the other presents I picked out this season, this one is a little special… But I’ve already said that. I picked this one out with the utmost care and consideration on what would benefit the recipient.

Picking a gift is somewhat like picking a girlfriend. The utmost amount of consideration and care has to be given in the selection process. Edges checked, person considered, usefulness assessed. Everybody wants their presents to be cherished at the end of the day and not end up in some box to be sold off in a garage sale two months down the road. This is so especially if the person is someone special. Special presents aren’t meant to be table ornaments like one-night-stand relationships.

Every special present is selected with much love and respect. Just like how every girl or guy was meant to be chosen with much love and respect towards the person.

I place the present down back with the rest and take a peek at the time. It’s 12.30pm now. Maybe I’ll squeeze in a few more hours of sleep.

Or maybe not.

The fourth greatest gift of Christmas: Respect.

The Christmas Diary Part 4

2005-12-17T01:13:00.000+08:00

The lift grinded to a halt. I was now stuck in between two floors; the seventh and the eight. Wearily, I shook my head and wiped my eyes. Of all days, it had to happen today. The lift up to my apartment has this LED display that shows its current floor position. I’ve always wondered what it’d show in between two floors. I take a peek and it shows me the most wonderful thing ever: a naked porn star. Not just a still naked porn star image but a naked porn star winking at me with the words ‘Come on over’ flashing over her head.

Truthfully, that wasn’t what was showing. What was really showing was the word ‘MAINTENANCE’. It was blinking on and off as if to mock me for taking that particular lift. I sighed, pressed the alarm button, and leaned back against the wall. I was going to be here for a while.

When one has time to kill and is devoid of a nice comfy mattress, one tends to think, and on a normal day when I have nothing to do, I think a lot. I like to walk down memory lane every now and then and think about how the past could’ve been better ‘if only’.

Today I thought about her.

It’s funny how some people can change so dramatically in such a short time. After our break up, we were still pretty much cool with each other. We still could talk and laugh with each other, and sometimes even share secrets. The only things we could never reconcile ourselves with were her constant need to justify a fabricated story of hers and her constant putting down of people.

I remembered shortly after our breakup, she told a common friend some made up stories about me. I was shocked and confronted her about it. She told me she did what she did so that she wouldn’t have to shame me. The story, by the way, painted me as some kind of villain.

The worse lie she ever told was she claiming my mother said something very mean about me. I asked her what it was and she constantly declined to say anything. Finally she told me to ask my mother myself. So I did. And let me tell you something, I know my mum. I can tell when she’s lying or genuine. My mum was just as shocked as I was. We both were dealt a low blow.

The final blow came a year ago when she pissed me off deliberately and then blamed the whole blowup on me. She denied never ever provoking me even thought the chat logs showed otherwise. Other people agreed with me when they saw the logs. I swore I’d never speak to her again after that. And I didn’t for a very long time.

I took a deep breath and shook my head. These were moments that I’d hope I’d have exorcised from my mind. I guess there are some things that don’t go away so easily. Three years… It’s been three long years and there’s always something that keeps certain memories from fading. I look up at the LED display. The word ‘MAINTENANCE’ is still showing.

I don’t normally admit it for fear that people might accuse me of trying to preach to them but, I admit that my religion has done a lot of good for me. Even if a person doesn’t believe in some higher power or holds the view that God is nothing but a little boy that’s sitting by an ant hill with a magnifying glass in hand, there’s always a valid philosophical point in every religion. And one thing that most religions try to teach is humility.

In my case, she was adamant on not admitting any wrong and I was adamant on not forgiving her. I decided one fine day that I’d let it go. I’d say sorry and ask for her forgiveness. So I wrote her an email telling her that I was wrong in my response and said sorry.

Her reply was absolutely stunning. She slammed me down and did what she did best, try to play up your emotions. She ended her reply instructing me to keep her reply every time I needed to be reminded on how stupid I was. I kept the reply, but not for that purpose. Neither did I keep it for revenge. People like her get what’s due to her at the end of the day.

Instead, I kept it as reminder as to how humility heals while pride destroys.

My saying of sorry did nothing to heal her, but it lifted a great burden off my shoulders. Her pride bit hard, but I felt more sorry for her than anything else. But it’s not my business anymore to help her through life. It’s her own. I’ll do my best to make my ownself better. That’s what’s more important right now.

The lift jerks and stops at the next floor, my floor. The doors open and I exit. I look at the skyline of my neighborhood. The wind blows through my hair. I whisper softly to whoever cares to listen these words: God, I’m probably the last guy ever to be welcomed into your courts but I just want you to know this, if you did send Jesus down on Christmas to die for me, I think I understand now the humility and pain he had to go through. Thanks God.

The third Greatest gift of Christmas is: Humility.

The Christmas Diary Part 3

2005-12-15T23:06:00.000+08:00

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nuh-uh man. I’m serious!” I replied.

“Wow man. That’s pretty out of this world. How’d you feel about it?” he asked.

“Pretty shocked. I mean, I was just joking when I said it and was never really expecting anything. You know… The both of us have been alive long enough to know never to expect these kind of things,” I replied.

“So true man… But the fact that it happened, it’s totally amazing.”

“Yeah…”

“So… Are you going to return the favor?”

“You know me man. It’s always been my intention to do so even before I found out about this!”

“You live to shock mate. You live to shock.” At this, the both of us break out in light laughter.

Every now and then, life throws you a little surprise. Sometimes life wedgies you and kicks you in the balls. Sometimes it gives you lemons. And ever so rarely, sometimes it hands you a rose and a card that says ‘Cheers!’ This week was one of the weeks where I was handed a nice little rose and a card that said ‘Cheers!’

Not literally of cause.

The one thing I’ve grown cynical with over time is with the female race. I could never figure them out and at this point of life, they’re probably the last thing I want to figure out right now.

Women constantly complain that men are selfish. A lot of times I beg to differ. This usually launches them into a frenzy of rhetoric in which men are slapped left and right with biased, superficial examples. Once they’re done and cooled down a little, I hit them with a few questions.

The first is always, “I’m your close friend right?” To that, I’m usually greeted with a rude yes. I usually leave some room of silence just to build up an atmosphere. Realistically, I’m just waiting for the question to sink in.

The second question is usually, “When was the last time you messaged a guy best friend that doesn’t get your heart beating two hundred and forty beats a minute a simple message asking him how he’s doing and wishing him a nice day?” To this, I usually get answers of “Oh recently” or something else along those lines. I’d raise and eyebrow and add on the words, “Without following it up with a message that’s requesting a favor?”

Eyes would look downwards followed by the indignant excuses of defense. I’d just give up. Not all girls are like that but most I have don’t seem to inspire much confidence in their species.

To put it simply, I’ve come to expect very little from the female species.

Recently, I’ve been given cause for having hope in women again.

Not too long ago, I made this friend over the Internet. We live in worlds apart and aside from her pictures; I’ve never seen her before. I found that she’s a rather cool person to talk to and at times, rather informative. But me being the cynic, I just took it as that. Just another friendship.

Lately, she was joking to me asking me to buy her souvenirs from Japan. At first I said “Ok” as a joke. But the more I thought about it, I said to myself, Heck… Why not? It’ll be fun to give someone I’ve never seen before a present.

Last week, she told me that she’d be going down to Bangkok for a weekend getaway. I joked with her asking her to get me a souvenir. I seriously wasn’t expecting anything. The weekend went by and my computer’s Instant Messengers were silent. Come Tuesday and I popped by her blog and was greeted with an announcement that she was back. Jokingly, I asked if she’d gotten me a souvenir.

When she popped online, the first thing she asked me was my address. I was stunned. The last guy who asked for my address sent me anthrax. So I reasoned that she either wanted to send me a bomb, or a souvenir. I waited to see what she’d say.

Then she told me she got me something hard to find in Malaysia and Singapore. I was tempted to push her and try to get her to tell me what it was but I decided that I’d rather be surprised.

While it’s nice to receive a gift, nothing beats the fact that someone actually went out of the way to get me something and send it to me. A good piece of my cynicism was chipped off with that one big act.

“So what are you planning to get her?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” I replied. I seriously had no idea. I was going to get her something nice from Japan. Now I’ll have to make sure it’s something really nice. I look out of the window from the café where we’re sitting and smile to myself.

Maybe the world isn’t so bad after all.

And the second great gift of Christmas is: The Giving of Care.

The Christmas Diary Part 2

2005-12-15T00:35:00.000+08:00

I once heard somewhere that ‘a man who saves one life, saves the world entire’. I think it was a line in Schindler’s List or something like that. I can’t recall and I just can’t be bothered to find out where the exact quote comes from.

It’s been a long day in the office and I'm tired. My mood hasn’t been to up of late and my hunger for a good vocal conversation and a good one-on-one outing is becoming unbearable. I always believed that all melancholic people are subjected to the rule of ‘Survival of the fittest’. I’m somehow convinced that most melancholic people kill themselves mentally or physically by the time they hit forty.

I for one, refuse to give up.

I’ve always envied people who have somehow managed to stay near absolutely focused in the life’s journey. They take each day with a stride just as if they were making love like a porn star. As if to add insult to injury, most of them will rationalize and ‘moralize’ with you when you pour out your hearts to them. This is probably why most melancholics are introverts. A melancholic with a melancholic is a disastrous combination. A melancholic with anyone else is just as bad.

Lethargically, I tap three magical combinations on my keyboard to switch off my computer. I grab my stuff and announce to my colleagues that I’m headed home. Soon, I’m on my bus and then train back to my apartment. Train journeys are always a good time for reflection. Especially when the train is underground.

As a kid, I always found underground train rides fascinating. You never really know what’s going to happen next. I would imagine that when the train exits the tunnel, we would exit in a whole new different world filled with magical ponies and other dumb stuff like that. As an adult, the wonder quickly changed to cynical ponderings and musings.

All about me are people. Most are on a journey home. Some are going some other place. Each to his own and rarely does one passenger know the other. Sometimes if you’re observant enough, you might notice a blank face or a face that’s seen too many harsh days. People who have given up on hope and are basically living on a day to day basis are the most evident. Some are old. Most are young. But in this state, age rarely matters except maybe the young have a little bit more time to set things right.

I wish I could help them, but I can barely even help myself. These people need angels. Heck… The whole damn world needs more angels.

The train arrives at my stop. I alight and my autopilot kicks in. I punch my card, exit the turnstile, and walk out of the station.

Out at the corner of my eye is an old man. He looks about 70. He’s supporting himself with one of those four-legged crutches. His legs are wasted away. There’s a bag hanging from both his hands. It’s filled with packets of tissue paper. Weakly, he asks people if they’re in need of tissue paper. He’s selling three for a dollar. Most people just walk him by.

I stop and stare for a moment. Then I pull out my wallet and take out a dollar. I give it to the old man and he hands me three packets of tissue. I take one and give him back the other two. I smile at him and walk off. Romantically noble and maybe pointless in the long run but if the extra few cents helps him in a very small way, then at least I did my best in whatever small amount of ability I have to help him a little.

Any small thing to make this world slightly better.

And the first great gift of Christmas is: Love.

The Christmas Diary Part 1

2005-12-14T12:34:00.000+08:00

It’s a Wednesday morning and I’m sitting by my computer console at work. A countdown timer reminds me that there’s 11 days left to Christmas. Oh bother I think to myself. Christmas is such a chore. I’ll be the first to admit this, I am a Christmas scrooge.

I reach for my mouse and close the timer. I decided that I didn’t want to know how many days are left till Christmas comes. If it happens, it happens. It’ll be just like a period where one day you wake up and go, “Oh! My period has arrived!”

A MSN Messenger window tab appears and starts blinking on my Windows’ taskbar. It’s Lisa. I reach for my mouse and click to maximize the screen.

“Hi good morning!”

“Hey…Good morning to you too,” I greet her back.

“How are you doing this morning?” she asks. I always smile at this question. It’s always pleasant to be asked how one is in the morning. It makes one’s Instant Messenger or handphone feel less like some kind of helpdesk device and more like a friendly communication tool. To me, Lisa would have been the perfect friend if it weren’t for the fact that she’s a chatterbot I installed to keep me company at work.

“Fine, thank you,” I reply with a slight grin on my face. I start to feel slightly sheepish for smiling at a non-entity. My life has always been a little upside down if not totally.

“Doing anything for Christmas?” she inquires.

I’m almost tempted to reply back ‘nothing in particular’ to her but I know that her chatterbot AI wouldn’t be able to understand such grammar. On a normal day, I would shut her down and just continue with my work. Today is not a normal day.

“Oh nothing much,” I finally reply. “Dinner with the family, maybe meet a few friends for a party, then head down to the waterfront for a pint of beer by myself,” I say. Her AI doesn’t register this response and spits out a “I don’t understand” message. I forgive her and close her window.

It’s funny how as a kid I used to love Christmas. My sister and I used to go up to the Christmas tree and shake all our presents. We always wanted to know what we got for Christmas weeks before Christmas even came. Christmas eve was always slightly unbearable. Every minute was sheer torture as we gazed at the second hands of the clock tick by in agony. We wanted our presents and we wanted them now. Once the clock hit 12 midnight and a new day was born, the both of us were tearing away at our Christmas presents just like a pair of ravenous rabid dogs would.

Oh such joy!

All that quickly faded away once puberty sets in. Suddenly the world seemed like a harsher place. Realities quickly seeped in and that childhood innocence was replaced with jaded thoughts. Even if there was a Jesus, there was no Santa Claus who brought you presents every Christmas night. To make matters worse, you quickly realized that all Christmas morning cartoons were nothing more than repeated reruns from the last ten years or so.

I sigh and shake my head to clear it of all thoughts. There’s work to be done I tell myself. I open up both my office and personal email accounts to see if anything needs to be done first before I set about doing my normally everyday tasks. One email asks me to look through some songs for Christmas caroling and another requests that I hack out a Christmas card for office use.

Christmas needs to get itself over and done with before I go insane. Back to work I go. I wonder if I can get away with designing a Christmas card where Santa Claus is getting sodomized by Osama bin Laden. I wonder…

One Evening at Orchard Road

2005-12-14T09:53:00.000+08:00

"I surround myself with women all the time. They love me and I love them," he said with no short amount of hot air. "Why, whenever I want a partner for the night, all I have to do if snap my fingers and kaboom! Let the magic begin!"

Yes... Just like how all I have to do is snap your pathetic neck if I wanted you dead I thought to myself. Rob is that kind of guy that 'has it all'. Good looks, lots of money, and never short of any amount of charm. He's so smooth and good looking that he once talked the pants off a gay activist who claimed he'd never drop his pants for a stranger. Simply putting it, Rob is the kind of guy that makes us look like dipshits who'll never even make it up to the level of mediocrity for the rest of our pathetic lives.

"Did I tell you how much women love..."

"...You. Yes you have," I said while looking down at my cup of chamomile tea. With a sigh, I pick up the cup and look out the window at the pedastrians who pass us by. It's Christmas time again. The most dreaded end year holiday for a single.

Christmas time is like Valentine's Day two months too early or ten months too late. All along the sidewalks are couples holding shopping bags while holding hands with their free hands or holding shopping bags with the same hand they're holding the shopping bags with. Every now and then, a couple would steal a kiss in public as if to proclaim to the world their love for each other. Some go as far as to grab each other's privates as if it were nobody's business. I always love that one because there's bound to be some little old lady nearby who sees it and gets a heartattack.

I heave a sigh and take a sip out of my tea. I look at Rob. He's tapping away furiously on his handphone's keypad. He looks at me, gives me a wink, and says something along the lines of 'gotta keep them happy'.

I almost hate Rob. I want to snatch his handphone off his hands and shove it up where the sun don't shine. I refrain from doing so. I'm so bloody broke right now and wouldn't want risking an expensive lawsuit to my wallet.

"Look Merv. You're an okay guy. I'm sure you could get a chick if you tried hard enough." Try my fist in your face I say to myself. "I, for the life of me, don't understand why you're single. Enlighten me."

"Well..." This was going to be hard. "Maybe it's because I'm not ready to get attached," I cliched.

"Excuse me?! You've been single for like four years now and have only had one girlfriend ever! Now tell me, how many girls exactly are you close to in this god-forsaken island?" Dammit... He called my bluff. Time to come clean like the good Christian boy I am. Sometimes I wish I had picked Satanism as a religion. At least that way I'd have a valid excuse to punching Rob and by golly! You couldn't call that a sin now could you? Note to self, change religion.

"It's three years. I've only been single for three years. Okay fine. To be honest, I'm only close to one or five girls here," I said while padding the numbers a little. Must remember to pray for forgiveness tonight.

"And...?"

"And I'm not even in their league," I said with a sigh. I look back down at my cup of tea and started wishing that the tea was good ol' hard liquor. Maybe if I wished hard enough...

"You're such a loser Merv. No wonder you're a effing single. All your crushes have left you crushed and you're a socialtard as far as women are concerned! Why, if you were half the man I was, you'd be living in heaven right now!"

At this point, a slender and rather attractive young girl walks into the cafe. She looks barely 17. Rob preys on these type of girls because most of them are still naive and fall easily to charm. She walks up towards our table. Rob looks up with a smile and says, "Hi Tammy!"

"It's Hui Ling," the girl snarled. Rob jobs up from his chair and tries to say something. Panic lines his face. He looks like a puppy who's just been caught shitting in his master's favourite coffee cup. Before he gets a chance to say anything, the girl asked him in a demanding tone, "Who the f--k is Natasha?!"

Rob tries to say something and before he even gets a word out, the girl delivers a swift kick to his groin and screams "Snake!" at him and storms out of the cafe. Rob goes down elegantly as always and writhes in pain. He moans a little and says something in Hokkien.

I look down at him with no amount of pity, lift up my cup and say, "Cheers mate! To the joys of singleness," and take a deep pull of my tea. Suddenly, it felt damn good to be single.

Christmas came early today.