Today I am going to stay at home and recreate myself. (That's another interesting word, recreative/recreation. Shall write about it another time)

I detest the word pity. Perhaps detest would be an understatement, actually. Pity, pity. It carries with it a moral perch, an underlying hoity-toity-ness that belies such arrogance. I reserve pity only for my enemies, I pity only those whom I also hate.

Just say the word. The "P" sound at the beginning causes me to recall the word "pathetic". I hope I need not explain that word. The associations with pity already bring to mind a certain condescension when it is spoken. I have problems with the abrupt way it ends as well, a harsh sound expelled between the teeth. It is almost like the seething hiss of a malicious serpent. All these hard consonants that abound are too harsh.

Phonetics aside;

It is a short word too. For the noble intent it masquerades as, of such wonderous empathy for another, it is spoken quite abruptly, almost as though the speaker believes the other's plight is so inconsequential it warrants nothing more than a short 4-letter word. "I pity you" conveys nothing in its desire to connect "I" and "You". Three monosyllabic words. How can you contain such grandiose, such ideal feelings in three short bursting sounds? You cannot express sympathy, much less empathy, understanding, and a desire to help in the word pity. All you express is a veiled condescension that will frustrate the listener even more, and allow you to walk away with a smirk as you mull contentedly over how lucky you are to have avoided such a plight.

But perhaps the worst part of the word "pity" is not its pretence at nobility. The worst, as I'm sure Bree's Husband's Mistress would agree with, is that pity comes with it the sentiment that all hope is lost for the person. (I need to find a better vocabulary). To pity someone is not to do anything to help, it is not even to lend a listening ear. It is to preach about how flawed human nature is, it is to condemn the listener to his fate. It is to say, simply, that you deserve it. The judgemental quality about it is probably the worst thing about pity.

Reserve pity only for those you truly hate. In its arrogance, condescension, and condemnation, I assure you it will infuriate and frustrate them to no end. Who knows? You may even consign them further to despair, and that would be sweet revenge indeed.

Bah. What an awful post, put so whinely. I would die, I would die. Bah.

I wish I could have expressed that fear and sentiment better.

I'm finding it so much harder. Harder to stay above the waves of bitterness that come crashing down on me, harder to struggle against the current of jadedness that threatens to drag me into that unfeeling despairing creature I so fear. I fear that I will wake up each morning, unable to feel. Unable to understand, unable to empathise, unable to relate to anything. This is one of my "wake up in the morning" fears, of losing any connection to anything that anchors me in this world. I would die without my heart, without emotion.

But as I grow up, I fear it is happening. The child's troubles may be trivial, but the emotional anguish exceeds the adult in intensity. (Remind me to read Mill on the Floss one day). At the crossroads in between, where the problems are substantial but the pain recceding, I find myself lost of that instinct that has guided me.

And it is all withering away. Slowly so as to not arouse any panic, but surely as this dread sweeps over me. I no longer cry, and it is something I worry about everyday. I no longer laugh until my cheeks hurt, I no longer skip and jump for joy, I no longer have the intensity of emotion that I used to have, and it worries me. It worries me that this world is really getting to me, when I have written so much, thought so much, deluded myself so much to prevent that from happening. I do not want to lose my heart. I do not.

We were so eager to make connections. OG-mates! Classmates! Same faculty! Same secondary school. Same CCA. Primary school classmates, your friend's friend, 3rd degree on friendster. May as well same country, same region, same planet. Such desperate grasps for friendships that always seemed out of reach.

What is it about isolation that makes sitting alone in the canteen so unbearable? Is it the questioning, probing glances that people give you as they pass by in pairs and threes? Is it the mob mentality, the need to surround yourself with people, your pack, wherever you go, to feel safe and secure? Is it the disappointment, that no one has any business with you, that no one depends on or needs you?

I admire those who sit in the canteen alone. The pressure to find someone else to settle down with in isolation is unbearable. It is so much more acceptable to be near a friend, even if you aren't talking, aren't communicating, aren't interacting. Those who sit alone are those who are sure of themselves, those who know there is no fault in isolation, but that their shallow perceptions are misguided, their hasty interpretations fallacious, their haughty judgements baseless.

(There are no loves nor gods men can invent to explain how lonely all men are)

Such a powerful image the movies use. Where the world rushes by in twos and threes, the lone protagonist standing in the middle of it all, the eye of the storm. I would like him to be calm, cool and detached, yet more often than not he is confused, lost, and searching for something.

(Reach must always exceed grasp, or what's a heaven for?)

Ah have finally filled up LINEAR INTERPOLATION notes. Staying at home today was so much more productive than whatever I could have done in school. I read Love Song of J.Alfred Prufock and am finally stumbling towards the understanding of it. Also read woman warrior, 1 chapter, some Robert Frost, and am starting to appreciate Maxine Hong Kingston better.

In recent events: my maid has been sent home. She probably had enough of my mother's cranky moods and annoying shoutings, and now the brunt of all that has fallen neatly on me. Today I have been yelled at for suggesting she pour out apple juice since there was no cold water, for being unable to hear her call for me from 376570398 rooms away, and other assorted gripes she had with me. I believe she is purposely working herself into a frenzy so she has an outlet for her frustration at finally having to do housework again. I did offer to help, but in her usual "oh-you-cannot-do-anything-you-useless-twat-of-a-son" tone, told me I'd probably burn down our kitchen if I tried to cook instant noodles myself. CT also called, but then again we've been through this argument before, and all she did was say there was nothing she could do about me, in a tone that contrary to its content, suggested that I should actually do something about it.

Which is not untrue, of course, hence the sudden inspiration and motivation that has led to this flurry of revision and studying. My BDDE has unfortunately dropped to a CDDE thanks to an overestimation of my Frost essay. (Was it really so unreasonable to expect something more than an E? Perhaps it was. It is always too much to expect for the Deludedly Overconfident)

Admittedly, I need to be pushed. And, sadly, no one wants to push me. I shall have to work my way out of this inertia myself. Oh well, it's a lesson better learnt now than later.

By now, All's wrong. In everyone there sleeps
A sense of life lived according to love.
To some it means the difference they could make
By loving others, but across most it sweeps
As all they might have done had they been loved.
That nothing cures. An immense slackening ache,
As when, thawing, the rigid landscape weeps,
Spreads slowly through them - that, and the voice above
Saying Dear child, and all time has disproved.

- From Faith Healing, by Phillip Larkin

We all wish for that bubble of time.

The bubble in which we can explore every possibility, without fear of any repercussion. When the possibilites are endless because the constraints are non-existent. Where we can live out every path, go down every road, live out every dream. Where the fragile fabric of reality is torn from the tapestry of time, where infants are born from and the world stops spinning. The ethereal bubble of fantasy.

Bubbles, when blown, struggle in spasmodic convulsions to find their own shape. They never truly stabilise.

The bubble appears to burst and disappear. But observe the splatter of water on the ground. Like little tears shed for its temporal impossibility, even the intangible has its repercussions.

I'm tired. And it's late.
Good morning everyone, Say good night to me.

Of what I remember from my last post.

There is no analysis here. It is simply the strength of emotion, the feeling of happiness overflowing and welling up. It is as though you could burst, engulfing the room with the searing light that has finally emerged from within.

This isn't what I wrote. Argh.

Dance yourself into a frenzy.
Come, drink from the springs with me.

Fuck lah. Bloody blogger
It was such a good post too. It was, it was.
I just hope the sentiments don't implode on me. It was a hopeful entry.

God this sucks.

I see you have returned.
I am not amused. Find a new tagboard.

It is midnight. The grey area between the 19th 20th of April.

I am sitting at home, refreshed after 6 hours of sleep, which attests to how dysfunctional my bio clock has become. Yet as I write this, a heavy yawn punctuates this sentence. I contradict myself again.

I have to read more, I do, I do. I am dissatisfied with so many things, perhaps the answer lies in books yet untouched. It is not that there is no time, but rather the self-delusion that I am busy that keeps me from indulging in a book. That there is no time is utter rot and nonsense, I would agree with hadri on this one. Time, is never a factor, you can do only as much as you are prepared to. After all, do we not study in philosophy that Time is a human concept?

I could write you a much more inspiring post now. But I am devoid of material. That which I would write engagingly about isn't for you to see, and that which is for you to see I don't feel like writing about. It's been so long since I've been able to say what I want to say.

I don't like this layout. I think my old one was better. I do miss the indians.

There are so many things running through my head now. So many people running. People people, the taboo subject for any blog. Some things are better left unsaid, some relationships are best never recorded down, in ink and paper, through words and letters. For you can never take back these words.

Never confine the subjective humane to the objective records of history. Never write down that which you wish to change. Never record what you know will hurt. Never imprison yourself in words.

Today, I have accumulated enough abominable mental images to last me through this lifetime. And the next.

But it's been so long since I've laughed so heartily over such things.

I am no whetstone for your malice. Strike me without cause and I will grind you to dust.

Hmm. It felt like I was melting.

Suwee's back!
Whoopeedoo.

And here I am sitting at home coughing my lungs out. I'm so devoid of inspiration I don't even know what to blog down right now.

I hope this is the right thing to do. Call me what you want, but I really feel it is. On my moral checklist, this works out completely fine. Rather than give you reason to hate me in the perhaps-not-so-distant future, it is best that I halt what I myself don't seem very interested in. I need someone who makes me feel alive, who engages me and establishes a connection that is unique and personal. This sort of thing doesn't need time, it's either there or it isn't. I thought you might be good to open up to. But I realize that sometimes what's on paper isn't all its cut out to be. Its no one's fault, just a case of misguided intentions on a wrong impression.

On a higher level, perhaps none of this is ever meant to be. They can't fulfill what I need, a feeling of security, where I won't have to give anymore. It's accentuated by events in my life, but to put it simply, I need arms around me.

This FEELS like nonsense. I shall keep it as a draft.

Cryptic blogging is tiring and annoying. I hope I understand this when I read through my archives.