middle of the night

September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007

Monday, September 25, 2006
12:38 AM

personnaly declared saturday as "heck care no work day" to unwind. But I still ended up having to draft emails and make calls. But still manage to find time at night to clean up my room and meet up with cj. simply love to kick his ass at dota.

Finally get to try out my "braised pork ribs in beer" recipe today. Although i put in a little too much fermented beans but overall, surprisingly, it quite ok. another item into my very short list of dishes i can make.

Dunno whether whether everyone has this experience or it's just me. When I was little, very little, I used to be really curious and think of stuff, like why the sky is blue and all that.

One particular thing I was really facinated was the fact that I can command my body to move. I know it sounds really stupid but when I look at my hand i see a fleshy object with 5 fingers. And when I want it to for example, chench into a fist, I dun even need to consciously think, it'll just clenches when i wanted to.

My tiny mind then just couldn't help but wonder. Why? when I want to move my hand, it moves? When I want to jump, I can jump? Of course when I gradually grow up I stop thinking about it and simply take it for granted. I understand now about how the mind commands the nerves to move the hand. But it still doesn't explain it all. It still doesn't explain how our brains exist and our nerves that commands our flesh exist. Trees can't do it, stones can't do it, but yet I can. The very fact that I can move, think, talk and feel is a miracle each on it's own. And the scary part is, our existance depends directly on our 5 senses. Without it, we don't even know we exist. We will be just another rock on the ground.

What brought me to recall that part of my childhood was a book by Paulo Coelho. Forgot the title. It was a collection of short stories and I was flipping through it while I was at kino. One particular story talks about how everyone is going about their daily routines in a zombie sort of way while he treated his every day as if it was his last. He lived his every day while most people were as good as dead even when they are alive. Sometimes we are just consumed by our everyday lives so much that we just forget the very fact that we can breathe is a miracle. No matter how much despair we felt, how sick of life we've become, we should always remember that a chance to live is a rare gift. It's something that we may never have again.

Don't know what I'm really writing about. Thoughts are too abstract to be expressed into words. I just hope that no matter what, I can still be facinated everyday, and appreciate the miracle of being able to clench my hand into a fist.

Saturday, September 16, 2006
2:07 AM

Decided to start blogging after taking some blogging time off. I closed down my last blog because I found out I don't have anything happy to write about anymore. I still don't. But just feel like blogging again.

Bought a new pencil recently. A pencil is important to me as I love to write with a pencil whenever I can. I like the feel of graphite rubbing across the grain of the paper as I write. Also makes me feel secure as I can always rub away whenever I make a mistake.

If life is a book and we record what our every moment into it, wouldn't it be great if we can write our life story with a pencil? Everytime we make a wrong decision, have a bad experience, did something we regret, we can just rub it off and start from where we left off. But unfortunately, not only we can't use a pencil, we are forced to use a ink that can never be removed no matter how hard we try. What is written will always leave a mark. It'll be part of your story whether you like it or not.

Everybody has their own book, their own unique story to tell. But we always have the tendency to think that our own story is the most dramatic, everyone else's are just not as exciting. We drown in all the ups and downs (downs especially) of our own story, thinking that the stories around us are just less significant. We don't admit it, but at some level we all do.

There are also many ways in which we let others read our book. Some like to open it wide for all to see, reading everything out loud to the world. Some kept it closed and locked. Nobody gets to see it except me. Some has two versions of the same book. One to show the world, one for my eyes only. For me, which is the case for most people, I have only 1 version, but everyone gets to read certain chapters of my book, some have access to more, some to less. Some have access to special sections. Only 1 has ever read the whole book, someone I should never have allowed.

Sometimes when we have made too much mistakes, we may have the urge to burn the whole book. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. And hope to start from page 1 again. But no matter what people believe and what religion says, there's no assurance that you can get a new book. And fortunately it's that fear of the unknown, that we may never get to write again that stops us from doing it.

What has been written cannot be erased, no matter how much u wished and wished. I am the one who wrote it, I only have myself to blame. Although what you have written affects what you are going to write, you have no choice but to just accept that it's never going to go away. Time to close that chapter, lock it away, and start a new one.

Thursday, September 14, 2006
9:44 PM

new blog new start