Been posting at another location for more than a year now, and yet i cling on to some measure of sentimentality when i think of shutting down this blog. maybe i'll just leave it here, dusty and abandoned to the mercy of the vast reaches of the web.

Early morning rain is falling
Pitter patter, pitter patter
Clouds are creased in furrowed mourning
Come on darlin', what's the matter

Autumn leaves are drifting, drifting
floating slowly, gently, sighing
Wind's caress so subtly felt
Like a special embrace, like being held

Would you come a-wandering with me?
With excited and unwavering feet?
With playful lips and dreamy eyes
'Till we run out of road, there we'll always meet.



- JX

Solitary night walks around NUS are really relaxing. The whole campus is quiet and peaceful, being devoid of the hive of activity, student and otherwise, generated during the day. The buildings are given a heightened sense of character, their lines and silhouettes defined in a totally new perspective by being lit from the bottom (display lights) rather than from sunlight.

Music.

It just has a raw, primal, meta-physical way of striking at chords within people. Listening to sad music can be so powerfully moving sometimes that even though no words are explicitly put forth to describe any disastrous or tragic situation, one can get emotionally shaken to the point of feeling upset to a certain degree. Perhaps it is this quality of emotional interaction , of presenting a feeling/concept in aural form that one can identify with and connect to one's own, sometimes extremely intimate experiences that makes it so infinitely attractive on a psychological and emotional level. If listening to music can produce such a monumental effect, what about the process of making music?

I confess that I am addicted to it. Creating, crafting, shaping, nuancing sound into packages of intricate, unexplainable feeling that people can recognise and hopefully enjoy - that is a gift i would not relinquish for the world. There is an indescribable satisfaction of dodging past the cold steely exterior that everyone constructs and diving headfirst into and touching the psyche of the very real person behind that social visage: of causing that person to reflect and feel and simply appreciate their id and ego once in a while, and of seeing it somehow reflected in their facial expressions - that -almost- creates mental paroxysms of shiokness - (for want of a better word).

I love rain. Something about falling drops of water in all its variety fascinates me and captures my attention. Have you ever watched an absolute downpour through its entirety? The steady, constant roar of torrential rain is almost monstrous in its ferocity as it beats steadily and relentlessly upon houses and streets, people and trees. It lends a surreal veneer, a dream-like quality, throwing an otherwise conventional and ordinary cityscape into new and ethereal perspective. The outlines of buildings become blurred and amorphously defined, as lines of water gush along tiles and beams. Trees are bent double in what must be a state of near-agony as they struggle to accommodate the force of the gale, and water spills from the cusps of leaves like so many drops of perspiration. Circular dots bloom as people open their umbrellas, bouncing off each other in a Brownian parody of sorts as they continue on to their destinations. Occasional peals of thunder resonate so strongly that the ground itself vibrates in accompanying rhythm. Cracks of lightning streak across the sky in an instant, combining with the thunder to produce an idiosyncratic, mercurial portrait of God's' work in all its glory. I love rain.

Perhaps the impetus for returning to this derelict, defunct corner of the internet is that of exorcism. Exorcism of certain parasitic demons that have been slowly but surely eroding my willpower to think rationally, day by day. It has progressed to the point where every minutiae of waking consciousness is pervaded with and afflicted by a malady of self doubt and an impending sense of crisis - all fueled by a malicious battery of pure, unadulterated pain so intense in its integrity that i think i -will- lose my sanity if i am unable to siphon it out somehow.
Maybe Dumbledore had the right idea with his penseive. Unfortunately, as an inhabitant of reality i have limited access to such a device and so will have to rely on an old companion - writing - to purge myself and re-order my life.
Such a colossal irony that this particular chapter is steeped in such agony despite how it's supposed to be a time of anticipation and excitement and optimism. Conversely, my being feels negatively retrospective, regressive, pessimistic, and monstrously scarred past the point of healing. The desire to bury this ugly, deformed orphan deep within my psyche and smother it with metaphorical piles of cushions upon cushions so as to eradicate it is so strong that sometimes i catch myself staring at actual, physical pillow cases around the house, and wishing they could work in that way.
Perhaps somewhere above the clouds Someone is shaking his head amusingly at my myopia and naivete, all the while merrily writing the next chapter in the book that is my life.

So here i am, standing alone and reflective at this juncture, mulling over the various frayed threads of could-haves and have-beens in the convoluted tapestry of events thus far. Perhaps i cherish a modicum of hope, a tiny bud of opportunity that yearns to bloom and unfold into full, ripe potential. Yet even this is strangled by moral thorns in my side that conflict against that which my mind tells me is logical and pragmatic - combining to give me a hell of a headache that will not be easily banished by panadol and beer...