Tuesday, 17 January 2012
Precisely because I have a paper to take tomorrow (in seven hours) is probably the only reason why I feel like writing. An essay? No. My life? Yes. Maybe. As close to my life as possible. It is unbelievable that I have to take a history final considering the last time I did history was with an extremely hormonal bitch of a teacher in TK, and considering TK's insane fertility rates, she was probably also pregnant at the time. I dont know why I remember. Of all things I remember, I feel like I dont ever remember enough, like I cannot really remember how to write anymore. I forgot how it feels like to want to write about life. Lame attempts to console myself includes believing that I used to write about whining and whine about writing and because now there is nothing much to whine about I have forgotten the intrinsic ability to write about life when it is good. It is lame because life is not "good". I dont think life is "bad" either, but I don't really know what good is anymore. I believe everything changes and becomes so fucking different from what we think it is and what we want life to be, but I dont really have a solid perception of a good or bad life anymore. Is merely enjoying life good? Does not having fun mean life is bad? I used to think I knew the difference but I dont fucking know anymore. Having fun used to just mean life is awesome and having to work and study just meant life was bad. I dont quite know what it means now. Just because having fun makes you feel good, it does not always mean it's a good thing. If anything, I have learnt that most things in life that make you feel good are essentially extremely bad for you. Like maybe trolling ugly bitchaz on Facebook to make yourself feel better, is not actually a very healthy activity. Or like being a social ghost is incredibly gratifying but is inherently detrimental to your mental health. Or maybe my idea of feeling good is just so misaligned with the definition of good that both are mutually exclusive.
Honestly. I have lost all ability to process lucid thoughts and articulate them into riveting prose anymore.
See what I did there
Ok honestly. History. Finals. In. Seven. Hours. Die. Dead.
Thursday, 01 September 2011
If history serves as any sort of accurate indication of the future, I should seize every fleeting transient moment of contentment in life now, before every single joy is violently ripped from me before my eyes and replaced by the pain of forcing myself to do things I have to. If there is a single lesson I have learned after nine solid months of imbued existentialism, it would be that the amount of happiness you attain from engaging in any sort of activity is inversely proportional to the necessity of the activity. In every action which makes completely no sense nor purpose are the ones in which you derive the most pleasure.
Pleasure, my only pursuit the last nine months, has drawn to an almost perfect end, like telling me Because, Shuyin, you have suffered enough, I have given you a month of perfection, enjoy it, because it will be your last. (I envisioned that entire monologue in my father's voice, because whenever I think of The Voice Of God I actually always imagine my father dubbing it) Don't feel particularly ungrateful either because my life has been pretty fucking spanking of late but I am not telling because I have lost all ability to obnoxiously brag about how wonderful my life is. And also because I feel that if I reveal things that make me happy, I am releasing it and it will slowly disappear and never be mine anymore. Contentment, my friends, is a matter of secrecy.
God, I am getting boring. I am morphing. I am morphing into those people who do nothing but whine about writing. Write about whining. I find myself rather fluent at whining honed by the past months of continuous afflictions. I am morphing, I have changed. I find myself doing things and saying things I wouldn't a year ago. I don't know why and I don't know whether I like it. I don't like that I don't know. I have changed. I feel like I also owe it to myself to find it in me one day to write about my yield in my lifelong fight against profanities.
My (non) problems, including intoxicated incriminating accounts, a shortage of wealth to fund my increasingly hedonistic lifestyle, the pain of another piercing and, or tattoo and reducing my entire life's possessions to 40kg of luggage space. You know, the usual. The usual vapid adversities I face every day, the dilemma of Yes? Letting my roots grow out? No? Getting them touched up? No, seriously. I honestly spend an exceptionally longer than conventional portion of my day devoted to gravely considering how to improve my current hairstyle. You should be jealous though. Even I am jealous of me. An average day would consist of rolling in my bed, getting up to eat good food, enjoying good company, joining the ranks of my bffz as a legit driver, you know, an average day, getting my license~ No big. No need to ever use my ezlink card. Shrugs. Another average day in the life of Shuyin.
It is somewhat surreal that September is here. Three weeks is all I have left before life changes forever. I will meet new people, eat new food, go to new places, breathe new air and have a new life. I am excited, I am scared. I want to go, I want to stay. I want my life to change, I want it to stay the same. But oh well, what I want will probably like everything else I want in life be completely irrelevant anyway.
Hopefully I will remember how to feel like writing and return for a farewell post.
Tuesday, 09 August 2011
I did not feel like writing when I went to bed tonight. I did not feel like doing anything quite requiring any ounce of brain activity, much less putting together coherent sentences. I did not feel like doing anything but lighting up a lovely pink glittery candle by my bed, listen to a busking band off the streets of Portobello Market and lightly entertain my nightly dilemma of finishing Dorian Gray or watching another recently torrented movie, but already having decided on Ghost World before going to bed, I pretend to drift-decide in my head to make myself less guilty for abandoning Wilde for another night. I did not feel like writing when I went to bed tonight.
Listening to people you love as their hearts break do a certain something to you. I've never heard the sound of heartbreak so raw before. I wish I could hear the sound my heart makes when it breaks.
Doesn't it usually do something to you? Like you feel like you need to protect people from the things that hurt them, don't you? But at a high time in your life do you? Do you feel like you still need to fiercely fight every adversary? Or is it only when you too feel as afflicted you instinctively take their burden upon your shoulders because it's easier to fight when you're in a fighting temper?
Is it you though? Or is it me? Is it me, not being able to fight back for myself that makes me not want to fight for you, my invisible enemy? Is it me, too weak to fight for what I want that I feel the need to fight you? Is it me, too proud? Is it me, too loud? Is it me?
Of all things I fight for, I never dreamed of not fighting for what I wanted most. Because it is so much easier to lie. I say that my life is pretty fucking perfect, and I truly mean it, but I forget the lies I make and I break to keep it perfect. Does that make my happiness fleeting lies? Or am I fucking brilliant for being able to still not let anything rain on my parade while I go out and live my life even if I have to Pinocchio day in and out?
I am being theatrical. My life is pretty dandy. I lie to keep it spectacular. It stays excellent. I have fun. It does not matter how I derive this "fun". This "fun" I obtain from life may or may not be legal. Its legitimacy is none of your business. That is all.
I did not feel like writing when I went to bed tonight.
Sunday, 31 July 2011
Of all the life lessons July the month of painfully wise has imparted to me, one I will never cease to forget will probably be to have low expectations. Or expect nothing. Or to expect less than ideal outcomes, because then when things do turn out for the better, you can act like you are pleasantly surprised and not have to hide how naive you are for thinking that things will turn out exactly as you wish. Like maybe if you were expecting to pass your tp, and then being nastily surprised by what a thin margin you missed the passing mark by, you probably would have coped better if you didn't expect anything at all, and probably wouldn't have pathetically started histrionic weeping the minute you found out you failed. Or like maybe if you don't expect things to get any worse after you fail your tp, it probably will. And you will get food poisoning. And approximately have diarrhea about twenty seven times and puke about fourteen times for at least two days before things start looking marginally better. And maybe when things do start improving exponentially, i.e. consecutive days of watching super fit professional water polo players watching even more fit more super professional water polo players (and yes I do mean watching boys in trunks who are watching boys in trunks) strutting their junk in nothing more than Speedo trunks, you expect life to maybe take a dramatic turn for the better. Yes, because the manifestation of an inordinate amount of scantily clad fit boys in my life can only indicate the beginning of an exceptionally magical season. So maybe when you expect nothing of the next fine boy you meet to be nothing if not maybe being a decent human being, expect to be sorely disappointed. I guess expecting painfully flirtatious good looking strangers to behave in accordance to conducts of a gentleman is too much to ask. Because you expect good hearts beneath equally dashing looks, you expect a heart too much and you learn that lush boys all turn out to be motherfuckers except in different better looking variations of each other.
So here's to hoping August will bode better brighter days, my absolute favorite time of the year, moon cakes await me and minorities fasting for twelve hours a day for a whole month? There is nothing about less people fighting with me for food to make me anticipate the coming month with joy. Nothing can cheer me up better than the lack of kampong spirit in my life, no more kampong school and kampong job, I am officially kampong free for the last seven weeks I have left here, rejoice! Embracing the last day of July's life lessons will find me preparing a meal for my dearest father on his birthday and I have learnt enough to expect nothing and if anything, to expect disaster because then when (emphasis: when) the meal turns out spectacular, I can be pleasantly surprised. But who knows, I am expecting too much already.
Monday, 13 June 2011
Yesterday at work a lady asked me if the Avril Lavigne cd we stocked was the newest album, and because I had no clue, she seemed surprised. "But you look quite... young...? Don't you listen to music?" The urge to answer that Avril Lavigne is not music was smothered by the fact that I now possess a reformed sensitive personality (at work) and also because I have no right to judge. I listen to (and enjoy) the Biebz. After I told her I don't listen to Avril kind of music, she genuinely wanted to know what kind of music I listen to.
And as much as I hate it when people ask me that, it probably is kind of my fault because I personally have no idea how to describe what kind of music I listen to. And when I dont know an answer to a question, I automatically hate the question. Which probably isn't that fair, but truly, how do you condense personal music taste in a single word genre or at least in a manner accurate enough to describe what kind of music you listen to and at the same time concise enough to not lose their rapt attention?
I mean I can discern my music into three basic groups of separation,
» Music I love listening
» Music I hate listening to
» Music I generally listen to
Then a million other subgroups can be segregated from each main branch group.
» Music I love listening to and love to say I love listening to (music I honestly adore) like Stars, The Weepies, Phoenix, Vampire Weekend, ABBA, The New Pornographers, Freelance Whales & others
» Music I love listening to but hate to say I love listening to (because of the judgment and then having to explain myself) like Justin Bieber, Flo Rida, Nelly, Chris Brown, David Guetta, Kanye West & others
» Music I hate listening to but hate saying I hate listening to (because of the judgment and then having to explain myself) like Death Cab for Cutie, Paramore, Arctic Monkeys, Kaiser Chiefs, The Scene Aesthetic, Arcade Fire, Broken Social Scene & others
» Music I hate listening to but love saying I hate listening to (music I honestly hate) like Faber Drive, Simple Plan, Tokio Hotel, McFly, Owl City, Anberlin & others
» Music I listen to just to set a mood like Ingrid Michaelson, Rooster, Nicki Minaj, One Republic, Elliot Smith, The XX, Ben Lee, Phantogram & others
» Music I fucking love to death like Passion Pit, Edward Sharpe, Trey Songz, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Killers, Taylor Swift, Imogen Heap, Bon Iver, Cobra Starship, The Beatles & others
» And everything in between like music I listen to but don't have fierce opinions like Bruno Mars, Echo and the Bunnymen, MGMT, Au Revoir Simone, LCD Soundsystem, Muse, Feist, Michael Buble, Angus and Julia Stone, The Pierces, Tinie Tempah, Julian Casablancas, The Naked And Famous, Diplo, Keane, Metric, Iron & Wine, Soko, Weezer, Katy Perry, Neutral Milk Hotel, Rilo Kiley, Adele, Rachel Yamagata, Coldplay & others
» Overrated music I never admit I like because it's too wannabe indie phony, Joy Division, Lykke Li, Florence + The Machines, Belle & Sebastian, St Vincent, Regina Spektor, Mumford & Sons, The Bird And The Bee, Noah And The Whale, Miike Snow, Animal Collective & others
There is simply no way to answer the question what kind of music do you listen to, in a single word genre or in a stilted cordial conversation. People who do either suffer from a severe lack of imagination or are probably lying. Much like the questions, where are you from, or how are you doing? They dont beg the truth. Strangers never beg the truth. You simply string generic words together to make as minimal sense as possible without lying.
I told the lady I listen to depressing music. "Sad, depressing kind of music. You know, emo?" She nodded and smiled extremely patronizingly and probably decided instantly I had "issues" with life. And I however, for the life of me, have no idea what the fuck emo music consists of. But whatever, happy songs sad songs crazy songs funny songs wild songs sex songs love songs all send me spiraling into a vortex of depression anyway. It counts.