What time did I get up today? I think it was half past twelve. Great, waking up when half the day is gone. It could be the story of my life, if I were to think it were full of missed opportunities, but really, it’s more about how I don’t think I have anything interesting to write about.

I suppose interesting is all rather relative. By all accounts, i do think I have it interesting when I see thing through my rose-tinted glasses. I play in bands, am rather enamoured by the inane things in the world, I have my own domain space, I do things the way I normally want to do them, although at the end of the day, you’re not above what’s commonly expected of you. It’s that grey line that keeps sifting back and forth between right and wrong.

Anyway, I do feel rather funky today. Not in the groovy sense, but more like some kind of sticky situation. Not that it’s trouble, it’s that, I can’t find myself being creative funk. I just packed my room today, and it feels great to have plenty more walking room, and being able to find my stuff. However, it just doesn’t feel like I’ve accomplished much.

Accomplishments like I want to write some of my own music, I want to commit them to a recording, but I don’t seem to really get along with commitment. In some sense, that’s also why I seem to be typing less. The only thing that I seem to be doing rather regularly, is taking snapshots of moments in time. Maybe there’s a certain distance I put between my subject and me, that doesn’t seem so vulnerable. Maybe it’s an element of control I still feel like I have, rather than plunge into an unknown element doing something I’ve never done before, whether it’s putting new thoughts down or penning new tunes.

Maybe I am afraid that people will hate it. It’s a rather real fear, that when you birth ideas into the world, and you think they’re really special, but in the end they’re not. Like children. Heaven knows how many brats grow up thinking they’re a gift to the world when they’re really just taking up space with their banality. (Which sounds like what I’m doing now.)

It could be misanthropy. I wonder if I’m a misanthrope? It seems like a rather unhealthy disposition, but they can’t say anything if it’s a medical condition, can they?

I also wonder if there’s a condition for an overuse of punctuation marks.

It’s my last night in Spain, and I’m spending it at my uncle’s home listening to music by Ennio Morricone while sitting on a couch, bashing this out. I’m slightly buzzed from the alcohol, with a burning fever to type all this down lest I forget.

I remember a time when I used to talk with my friend, Yuanheng, when we were still in university and he used to tell me of the genius of Sergio Leone, and we would talk about Spaghetti Westerns, Clint Eastwood, Chow Yun Fatt and all the points about cinema that spat in the face of classics only to become classic styles on their own.

This was a time of fearless daring, when we wanted to break rules, or adhere to rules, it didn’t matter. Homage or youthful dissident, we wanted to do our best in creating something, we didn’t care if we were recognised or not, nothing else mattered. On days, sometimes the project would consume us, on other days, we would wish we’d never started on it. We would live in that perfect, paradoxical moment of creation’s cradle, and we would allow ourselves to be shaped and molded on a moment’s whim and trust in the all-encompassing creativity that what we did would ultimately find meaning, ultimately grant us success, richness and glory.

It was a furious time when everything mattered and nothing mattered. Those times of being a student, not an adult, before we were sucked into the corporate deluge of endearing profit margins and making the world a better place. This was before all that, when we had a youthful ignorance of how the world operated, how we could change everything about the world into our image, how we were the very centre of our own universes before it collapsed like a house of cards around us.

Seemingly perfect in the things we didn’t know would break us, like all stallions will be broken before they are ridden. This age has broken us, to ride us like prostitutes in a brothel, no longer the majestic creatures that fairy tales would have us believe, that in a dream. we could be anything we desired. No, this world has only taught us we can be what society desires of us. THIS IS WHAT WE BLED FOR.

And in the end, that is all we have left, save for moments like this. Hazed upon by alcohol, a connection to the Internet, a subscription to a server and I can pen this down, that for one moment in time, I remembered, before I am consumed again, what it was like to feel alive, be alive, exist outside of the shackles of perception, of the all-seeing eye, we were free of it’s gaze for once. And I fear the addiction to such a feeling. Fine.

Don’t pass GO, don’t collect two hundred dollars.

I fly back to Singapore tomorrow afternoon, and I should arrive back on her shores on a Saturday afternoon. I must admit, I go back with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I have been having a tremendous time here in Spain, seeing new things, natural things, being with my family, appreciating the slow, relaxing pace of life while on holiday. On the other hand, I do miss to a degree, the bustle of the metropolis, but even more so, the familiarity, my friends, being in my element of music, and being part of its community.

Still, nothing is really preparing me for what I’ve been reading about in the news of late. It all seems like familiar problems, the same old problems, the same old habits, the same old bullshite that could only happen in Singapore.

SMRT fiasco where they rebuked radio personality for using Twitter as a source for reporting that one of their train lines were down. I don’t know the specifics, but it seems the train lines were really down, and Hossan wasn’t just talking through his arse. I don’t know what exactly was said either, but as long as misinformation wasn’t spread, I don’t think Hossan did any wrong by doing what he did, and if one wanted to be pedantic, we could always stick to disclaimers that “Twitter reported blah, blah and blah

Then we have taxi fare hikes, gangsters launching death threats over YouTube, and everywhere I look, people seem powerless to do anything except talk about it online. Does anyone actually listen to all this, and then do something about it?

Maybe, what’s the biggest burden on my heart right now, is that we have a thousand and one concerns about life in Singapore, and all we’re doing is talking. It’s not enough is it? But it’s the most harmless, the most non-committal, the thing that costs us the least. And that frustrates me more than anything else. Not peoples’ inactivity, but rather, my own. I’ve led a rather inactive life, perhaps my only contribution has been creating music and writing on my blog. Anything else, I will admit that I feel rather useless, weak and powerless to affect any sort of real change. Productive change.

Maybe there will be a moment in time, but I can’t tell the future, and I think I’m just going to tolerate the fourteen hour flight back home and see where it takes me.

While this sounds like an ideal title for a spiritual, self-help book using the imagery of trekking, it’s not.

However, I would like to bring up certain reflections whilst I was doing a day hike with my sister in Andorra, Spain.

We started our trek at ten in the morning, armed with warm clothing, combat boots (for me) and packed lunches, we attempted one of the easier hikes, a supposed two hour trek to the Salamandres lakes (a rough translation.) It was to be my first real trek, and tiring as it was for an individual like myself who’s not in his peak physical performance, but the memories are staggering, and no medium of audio nor visual can truly do justice to what’s burned into my psyche.

Firstly, we were walking a path dutifully maintained by other trackers, so there were good directions and signs left behind by people who maintain the trail. In that sense, it was easy, but my sister brought up a point about the original trekkers, the trailblazers who literally cut a trail so that others may follow. We constantly talk about this idea when it comes to doing business or pursuing creative goals. Do something different, walk a path that nobody follows, carve out your own niche. Big words for small dreams if I might be cynical enough to offer my coffee house discussion.

Trailblazing is not easy, and when it comes to trekking, it becomes dangerous. One slip and you’re lost, fallen off an edge, broken bones, fractured necks.. the risks are rather paramount, and for those of us who want to at least experience what these stalwarts have achieved, it only makes sense to follow in their footsteps. Literally.

However, the sense of awe and adventure do of course come into play. Imagine, if you were the only one walking into unchartered territory. I almost got that sense as we were the only two people walking the trail in the godforsaken conditions of winter. But as you stand alone in the vast open spaces of tundra shrubbery flanked by endless mountains that seem to reach across the horizon to heaven itself, that sense of achievement, that you’re the only souls to experience something significant, it truly is an astounding elation.

Which leads me to the next point of enjoying the sound of silence. For someone who’s constantly plugged in, augmented by music or technology of some sort, my mind was a veritable blank. No songs came to mind except the songs of creation and majesty that I sing about in church. Sure they might be geological constructs, and looking at the markings, paths, rock cairns left behind by trekkers before it dawned on me that humans make sense of their surroundings by putting order to nature, but what if for every random artifact we find in nature truly is the orderly construct of God himself.

It was a bracing notion, an encouragement that there is nothing random for the omnipotent. Humbling surely, but I was at ease to surrender that part of my intellect to something greater. And the silence, the sound of your own breathing, of your own heart beating, the signs of life in a most otherwise lonely part of the world. It makes you think, we’re never truly alone as long as your vital signs still blip and bloop within our biological vessels.

Finally, the ‘rest-step’. A trick my sister taught me to haul myself up steep inclines so that weight is evenly distributed and the strain on your leg muscles is eased. A simple repositioning of your body and the careful adjustment of how we normally walk and take for granted, allow one to achieve much greater heights.

The simple lesson, or life hack that comes from someone more experienced than you, points you along the right path and you get to make it out alive. Mentorship is what comes to mind, but I suppose you get the imagery of all that.

The reason why my last paragraph seemed rather brisk, is because I’m trying to end things off because I have a bus to catch. So with that, I’ll see y’all on the other side.

I’m still up because I procrastinated. I’ve been playing video games all week (read: Skyrim) at the cost and extent of actually being a productive member of society or a relational person with social ties. In the sum of all my parts, I am a deficit. Yet in the game world, my character build is quite a marvel. I soldiered through the initial difficulty and now I am starting to feel like a dragonslayer with enough tools and magical items at my disposal to aid me in my quest. It didn’t come easy, the game didn’t make it easy, but I grinded, clawed and toiled my way to achieve whatever success I can claim as my own (read: in-game Skyrim).

I’m pretty convinced that anybody who doesn’t enjoy RPGs (read: Skyrim) will think that I have wasted all my time, and am wasting my life. But might I just offer some perspective, that success can come in many forms, and if this form of success actually brought me millions of dollars or through sheer hypothesis actually brought some standard form of benefit, most folk would have the traps clasped. I know I’m exaggerating, so all I’m saying is that success depends on a set of pre-imposed rules but our minds tell us otherwise.

It’s five-thirty in the morning, nobody should expect anything coherent at this time of the day.

I got into the shower, and those words entered my mind.

Perhaps it had something to do with me watching Real Steel earlier this week, or maybe it’s a secret desire about me wanting to enter a slug fest and come out tops, or at least say that I’d been in a slug fest before. Maybe it’s got something with me wanting to best the punches I’m rolling with, or the inevitable punch up that life is going to swing my way once I get out of my corner. Whatever it is, it’s a tad cooler to say “prize fighter” than “world champion”.

No, wait, on second thoughts, “World Champion” has a nice ring to it.

// Excuse me while I reconvene to my campaign of Battlefield 3 //

Well, that was engaging. Ridiculous single player campaign, too difficult. Didn’t feel like much of a winner while I was playing it, but I was going to make it to the next level, and when I did, oh yeah, I did feel like a winner. For about 2 minutes. Then, lethargy takes over and you realise it’s time for bed, a 630AM tomorrow morning, and a whole day ahead of you.

Thank goodness it’s Sunday.

As I’m sitting in my usual corner of the house, typing, Ryan Adams is singing a beautiful cover of Oasis’s “Wonderwall”.

To me, the line that always tears the most, is the word, “Maybe”.

“Maybe, you’re gonna be the one that saves me.”

It’s a song about wanting something or someone. A yearning to be included, to be accepted, to be loved, simply put. Yet when faced with the possibility of finding happiness, it always boils back down to maybes.

Maybe it takes a certain amount of trepidation to always be confronted by maybes, and heaven knows I’ve walked such a path. My heart always being served back to me on a platter, thinking too much about the future, the infinite possibilities, the phobia of commitment should the heart fail some day. A lack of confidence on my part that I can play the part.

Maybe I’ve seen too much, heard too much, said too much, that cynicism runs like blood through my veins and I cannot help this condition. Maybe it has infected me to the very core of my soul and is such a big part of my identity that I no longer am capable of separating the character from the writer.

It’s all a little much to come to grips with, that this might be who I’ve become. Possibly maybe I’ve started to believe all the things I’ve preached and there is no hope left. None in the distance. Dusk has already come, and it is a long night ahead for all of us.

I woke up this morning with that phrase stuck in my head, albeit with a slight hangover. I suppose I was thinking of the deadlines and what needed clearing. There are things that I need to do (by Monday) and things that I want to do, such as playing Fallout: New Vegas or churning out some music entries for I’m Waking Up To. I have until 630 to get this shit in order, because that’s when my next appointment awaits.

I also think that the phrase got stuck in my head because my subconscious was thinking it when someone told me something last night. That familiar feeling of claustrophobia or a noose tightening came creeping back in. Time is running out, yet I’m not doing anything to help the situation. This time it doesn’t really concern my personal being, because I think I’ve got enough slack for the time being, but the reality for some people I know is very much real, and since I’ve been there before, I cannot help but empathise.

Why am I telling you this? I don’t know. Perhaps I need something to write about, and I;m just drawing from the well that I have in reserve. Talking about it here won’t help, but I suppose I just need to chronicle the feeling before it passes.

I’m off to eat breakfast now.

I’ve had an absolutely massive day and I am incredibly knackered by the end of it. I’ve only just gotten back, and I think I pulled close to a 12 hour shift. I taught four classes today, finished marking one set of scripts and proceeded to co-teach a 2 hour remedial session. That’s 6 hours of classroom time and I am absolutely bushwhacked.

Today was not a day without it’s own fair share of surprises. All over the Internet, condolences were given to Steve Jobs. Job’s legacy goes beyond the company, Apple. It’s a legacy that introduced personal computers to mankind. Fast forward a few years, he spearheaded the charge into mobile devices with a viable ecosystem of users and developers, that it’s pretty much impacted how each and everyone of us uses a device to create and share. So for what it’s worth, thank you Steve Jobs. You will always be remembered as a visionary, a maverick, a pioneer, helping to bridge the twentieth century into the twenty first.

Today is also the absolute last day that I will be conducting any formal lessons of sorts. I’ll leave it at that till things become official, but suffice to say, my time as a teacher is coming to an end. I’ll probably do a bout of reflecting some time in the near future, but for now, I’m glad I did it, I learned a lot about myself as much as I was able to teach the students entrusted to me.

So now we wait. Mom’s still away in India, so I’ll be going out with Dad to meet my sister at Liang Court for dinner soon. Some family time will really hit the spot right about now. Although I’m a little too tired right now to have any real sense of excitement.

It’ll come soon enough.

I really ought to either be marking or sleeping. Both would be more beneficial to my health and well-being instead of typing in here, but as I was taking my shower, I thought, “Why the hell not?”

I’m still in the process of trying to get my writing groove back, so since I had some semblance of a mood, I decided I’d try at the very least.

Perhaps I hold on to that romantic notion, that when lightning strikes, you try to catch it in a bottle. Those scenes where inspiration comes unawares, and you see the protagonist furiously applying to whatever he or she is supposed to do to get better in some sort of time-warping montage, and BAM! You’ve achieved what has been eluding you a half hour ago.

My mind tells me it doesn’t happen that way, my heart sways like the wind, and so I sit, and type by my window sill, committing these words into a blank screen, hoping that whoever reads it shares a glimpse into my soul, even if it’s just me reading my own blog the next day. This is for you when, as you’re reading it now.

I went to The Pigeonhole today to catch a private screening of a Doctor Who tele-movie. I met up with Xander and Joanne, and it’s always fun when they’re around. Geekish kin, it’s nice to feel comfortable around them. It was nice to kick back and enjoy a terribly campy movie with cheesy lines and dry humour. Camp is an amazing style, whether it’s done intentionally or unintentionally. To me, as the audience watching, it’s the constant deconstruction that gives way to some of the heartiest laughs.Nobody does that in real life! Did he really just say that? Suspension of disbelief is torn to shreds when it comes to shreds, as the medium of film narrative is torn asunder and the veil before your life is lifted. The make believe life is worth living. Or at least worth making fun of.

So here we are, detached from reality, escaping from the harshness of responsibilities and expectations. I might be retreating more and more into this haze of unreality, that I might never find a partner to share these idiosyncrasies with, though it doesn’t really matter at this stage. They don’t build love like they used to.

Immature, detached and completely oblivious to everything around. Life’s a joke, you’ll see me whistling along the streets as bombers pass by overhead and I would be none the wiser.