welcome to my 89th post...
it doesn't feel that long since i started does it...?

mistakes mistakes mistakes...

i feel like you're all just waiting there... magnifying glass in one hand... huge red crayon in the other...

waitng to blast another error to cosmic proportions...
gawd i'm such a celebrity...
and all you pesky journalists just waiting for the latest scoop...

the weather's turning cold... and i actually quite love it...

it's refreshing and cool... and yes ironically in this country the breath of spring comes as the year dies...
but still...
and i like the night sky... boundless...
yet also a sanctuary...

i can't seem to write the hallmarky stuff that used to be so liberally found in my posts... i suppose that's an improvement...
as a matter of fact... i'm never writing as much as i used to...

anyways...
it's a bittersweet feeling... reading through all the old stuff that your own hand penned not four months ago...
it reminds me of days gone by... and yet it stymies me... i can hardly recognize the person behind the words...
have i changed so much in such a short time...? hmm...

i mean... i've gone from confessional... down all the way to insights on society... and finally... to top it all off... allegory...
the confessional bits... i have to admit... are the ones that are the most difficult to identify with... and at times... embarrasingly squirm-worthy...
yet i would not change them nor wish i had never penned them... it's a mark of passage...
perhaps it is not the person... but rather the mind that changes...
grows... i hope...

i suppose that it is now obvious that there are some people who turn to writing hysterically and manically when not in the best of moods... yet others who do not write at all...
and also... my kind... that writes pensive... even dark stuff...

maudlin... feels so weird a label on me...

but don't worry... i'm not depressed... nor upset...
just... haha... in a thoughtful mood...
not the kind that makes me study better...
quite the reverse... the kind that draws my mind away from intellectual pursuits...
to...
well... other stuff...

but that's a tale for another day...
i've gotta go now...

hello everybody...

besieged... besieged...
besieged... besieged...
besieged... besieged...
besieged... besieged...
besieged... besieged...

was that enough...?
or must i repent my error further...?

there isn't much to blog about nowadays... it's like oh today i did Measure for Measure...
Shakespeare's such a genius...
and oh i'm so looking forward to unravelling the mysteries of economics come tomorrow...

how lovely... pointed sarcasm...

sorry people...
no fun and laughter here...
yet again...

hello everybody...

my com's been beseiged... yet again... by spyware...
argh... i feel like screaming...

this is like coming home at 10.30 every night... and having someone tell you that the entire house has been redecorated... and in fact... shifted all the way across the island...
like candid camera gone terribly wrong...
like local candid camera... even if it's not gone wrong... it is so...
terribly...

argh...

yes i do not have faith nor much interest in local tv programming...

"and so it ends...?"

yes... Princess... and so it ends...

i have to say now that the Jester and i are totally different people... the narrative persona is not the author... the author has merely crafted a character that he feels he can identify with...
and in a way... externalize and exorcise his fears i suppose...

it's not the going and the rough and tumble that i don't like... it's what the entire exercise represents...
and i shall not go into it ad nauseam... i believe the previous posts have elaborated fairly well on it...

thus... i present my assurance to one and all...
it shall take more than a few mercenaries spouting vulgarities to have me forsake my spirit...
incidentally... that is my unfortunate impression of the military...

hear my sardonic laugh... ha...

on a lighter note... i think it's in the vincinity of an B-flat...
the A's are in 10 days...

actually that note's not very light is it...? ok...
so i heard wrongly... it's an F-sharp...

yes... that sounds more like it...

well i'm sorry but it's 11:38 now and i've been stuck in school studying about the wonderful history of my homeland and it's kinda inevitable that i'm not exactly in the sanest of minds...

excuse me while i play the madman...

in fact... excuse me while i go sleep...
zzz...

So the men travelled for a day and another, and they came to a rest by a forest. The King commanded the Jester to sing, and cheer the soldiers' tired spirits. So he did, but before long the soldiers, more used to rowdy scenes, chased him off and broke into a bawdy drinking song. So the Jester left the encampment, and wandered, admiring the silence and music of the forest. It was then that he heard a beautiful song, and he saw it came from a Wood Thrush, perched in a tree's branches.

He approached the Wood Thrush, and said, "how do you sing so beautifully? Could you follow me and be my teacher? I am only a jester, but if you be my teacher, I could one day sing at the heart of the City, and I could become the Greatest Singer of All."

"I will not go with you, my place is within these woods," the Wood Thrush replied, "but come back to this clearing tonight. If you come tonight, I will teach you, and you will sing more beautifully than any jester. But if you want to be the Greatest Singer of All, come back three nights, and I will teach you all I know. You will then be able to go to the heart of the City, and be the Greatest Singer of All."

The Jester longed to be able to stay, just three nights, and learn the Wood Thrush's beautiful song. But he could not. He knew that if he did, he would never be able to return to the palace, and the maids would no longer care for his Kitten and his Puppy, and they would allow weeds to overrun the yellow Roses. He would lose the King's grace, and he did respect and love the King, for he had lived and served in the King's court for a long time. So he came back to the clearing that night, but for one night alone, and he sang. That night, he left.


By dawn the next morning, the encampment was no more, and the King and his men moved on. As the days grew longer and more wearisome, and the men approached war, no more could the Jester be easily seen amongst all the soldiers, for his belled hat, and his fool's staff, and his patchwork cape grew grey with dust and soil, and the Jester looked as the other soldiers did. The King, laboured with weary thoughts of war slowly forgot the simple pleasures of the Jester's song, and never again called for him to sing and bring cheer to the camp. Slowly, the Jester too began to forget about his song, and the song of the Wood Thrush, and his dreams of becoming the Greatest Singer of All.

The war came and went, and the King was indeed victorious. The Jester had grown accustomed to the whistling arrrows that flew past everyday, and forgot the gentle flutes that he hoped would one day accompany his song. He grew accustomed to the beating hooves of beast and warrior, and forgot the drumbeats that he used to dream his voice could dance around.

The Puppy and the Kitten, the Jester felt, were no more than distant friends, and he had no great longing for them, but yet he hoped that they were happy and content. And indeed, they were, for the palace maids did all they could to please them while they waited for the return of the Jester. The yellow Roses that were once his friends and audience were all but forgotten by the Jester, while they stood staunchly in the sun awaiting his return. They hoped that their subtle fragrance, weakened by the sun's heat, would still reach the Jester, and remind him of them. But they never knew that far away, the Jester was fast forgetting about flutes and drums, and his Puppy and his Kitten, and the yellow Roses. The Jester had become a soldier, the King's loyal man, and he had forgotten about his song. So two years passed, and at last the King returned once again to his palace. The maids sang and strew his path with silk and roses, and at last, together with the King, so did the Jester return to the court.


"My man, my loyal liege" the King said, seated upon his throne, "you have served me well, and I command you now to no longer jest, but be my Advisor. You have much wisdom, for you know the epics of old, yet have lived through the great battles of our time. You shall sit by my right, and your wisdom shall guide me, and my Kingdom."

The Jester felt little to be an Advisor, but he merely nodded, for he felt little for anything else now. So the King presented him with new robes of ermine, of such regal purple that only the King's own robes surpassed them. His wooden fool's staff was of no more use to him, and he was given a staff of shining silver, that was less dazzling than only the golden staff that the King held. He took off his belled cap, and was given a shining crown of silver, lesser than only the one that rested on the King's head, wrought of purest gold.


The Jester returned once again to his chambers, that the palace maids had kept exactly as he left it. The Puppy and the Kitten came to him, and they looked up, happy at the new glories the Jester had attained.

"You're back, my boy. You have done well," the Kitten said, "and now you are a great man, an Advisor to the King. We will never fear for our tomorrows, and before long, we may even look forward to new chambers, and still the maids and servants will care for us."

"This," the Puppy joined, "we owe to you, and we thank you. Always remember that we love you, my boy."

The Puppy and Kitten were happy to see the Jester once again, but he merely smiled, and lightly touched their soft heads. They were happy and content, and the Jester felt no more than just a passing, spiritless smile cross his face. He walked on.

The yellow Roses had been waiting for a long time now, since they heard the same hooves that once bore the Jester away again return. But he walked on, missing them for they no longer looked like the bright roses that he had left behind. They had stood long in the sun, and their yellows had long been tinged a parched brown. Still they bent their dry stalks to the Jester's gait as he approached, and waited for his song to once again be heard.

"Will you not sing for us?" the yellow Roses asked, with gentle expectancy, "your song will hearten us, and turn our petals yellow again." They turned their blossoms towards him, and waited.


The Jester looked hard at the yellow Roses, and saw only dried stalks with weak blossoms. Yet their hearts had not yet been touched, and they still bloomed bright yellow, even if only deep in their blossoms, where even the sun's heat could not reach. He saw them, at last, for the yellow Roses that he had left behind. It reminded him of his forgotten song, but it was lost from him, and the memory was but mist over a summer's pond, gone with the slightest breath of wind. The Jester felt a twinge in his heart, a mandolin string pulled and tightened, but before it was plucked and could sing, it snapped, and was lost to the Jester.

"You are all beautiful yellow Roses," he said, "but I will soon leave these chambers for new ones, and someone else will come here to stay. Your colours will brighten his days, and he shall care for you, not let the sun parch your petals, nor let the rain drown your roots. You all are, after all, delicate creatures, but I have done little to care for you, and I have almost forgotten you. Wait no more for my song, for I no longer sing." He looked lost, and for a moment fell silent, but he continued, and finally said, "I am sorry."

The yellow Roses fell silent too, and turned pale. They let bleed their last yellows, and it was fast lost into the ground. Their blossoms turned away from the Jester, and soon they too lost their voices. Indeed, they eventually became beautiful white Roses, shining coldly like moonlight, and distant stars. And away into the night, the Jester went.

hello...

i will continue the Jester's story... so don't worry...
but if you think it absolutely has to end in a certain way... leave a comment... and maybe i'll be like Dickens...
pander to popular opinion...

or i might not...
hmm...

to be honest i have an ending in mind... but i'm not too satisfied with it...

ah... ten days to A's... time never seems enough does it...?

and oh yes... have i already mentioned...? come december eleventh i will be no longer writing here as often as i like... my love for the country compels me to serve it with unswerving loyalty...

actually no it's chapter 93 of the enlistment act but that says go or be thrown in prison after trial in martial court and but never mind now...

where was i...? oh yes... unswerving loyalty... thus i shall cast off all passion and forsake my art... take up arms... be a man...
mere spilt blood and wasted violence... that is the legacy to which i shall answer to and to which i shall perpetuate... the entire senselessness, needlessness, stupidity and vapidity of humanity's tendency to violent resolution of conflict shall rest upon my shoulders... and those of my compatriots...

by no desire of mine...

lovely innit...?

There was once a King, and he ruled well and fairly over his virgin land, and his people were happy and content to be his subjects. He had many to serve him in his palace, from his generals and their footmen, to his courtiers and maids. But one man, above all, was prized in his court, and that one man was the King's Jester.

The Jester was often seen at the side of the King, and he too was happy and content, like all the King's other loyal subjects. The King, too, was pleased that he had in his entourage his Jester, who told great epics that could move men, and dazzled all in court with his tricks and charm. But most of all, the King loved him for his song, that made all that heard it smile and laugh, for it was light like the breath of Spring, warm on wintered land.


Under the contentment, however, the Jester always felt that he wanted to do more than sing for soldiers and provoke fools with his song and belled hat. He longed to one day jest no more, but instead learn under the great masters of the stage, how to sing, and act, and dance. He longed to exchange his belled cap for the wigs of the stage, his fool's staff for a wooden lord's sceptre, and his patchwork cape for one of deep sackcloth ermine. He yearned to be able to be King, Villain and Hero, all in a day; he yearned to be able to always hear glorious music; he yearned, above all else, to one day sing at the great hall at the heart of the City, where all the people could hear his voice and not laugh, but exclaim in wonderment at its magnificence; and finally see that the Greatest Singer of All lived in their land.

This silent wish of the Jester's heart he did not tell many, save for the yellow Roses that grew in his chambers. The yellow Roses had neither hearts of men, and thus cared not for great epics of courage and bravery, nor eyes to see the sleight and charm of the Jester's tricks. All they could do, and that they did best, was to listen enraptured to the Jester's song, and hear him speak of his dreams of being the Greatest Singer of All.

"I do not want to wear my belled cap, nor bear my staff, nor don my cape anymore," he said. "I shall be an Angel, and be soar with trumpets proclaiming, and wear upon my back cloth wings. I shall be the Devil's favourite emissary, and roar like the deepest volcanos, and upon my head carry paper horns. I shall be a Great Hero, a Lover, a Villain, and I shall be no one's fool." The yellow Roses knew not of such human affairs, but heartened then they heard he could sing songs that could evoke such images. Their stalks bent towards the Jester, and they blossomed as far as their delicate petals would allow, as he continued speaking.

"Everybody shall say, "O! How beautiful this fine angel sings' when I play an Angel, and everybody shall cover their ears in fear when I roar like the Devil does. I shall be Jester no longer, instead all shall see that I am the Greatest Singer of All." The night quietened as he fell silent, and as a breath of wind stirred, so did he. He sang.


But his song was hardly finished when he heard soft padding steps, and turned to see two creatures that he held dear stand before him. His Puppy and Kitten looked up at him, and both held in their eyes a look of tender worry. The Kitten had its brow furrowed, as if it had just realised that in a great palace such as this, there would be no mice for it to catch, no food except that which the Palace Cook allowed it. The Puppy had its eyes on the ground, and merely pawed at a pebble sadly.

"You sing beautifully, my boy. But why do you dream such dreams?" the Kitten said, and deep inside it felt it loved the boy more than anything else. "A Jester sings well, and that is enough. Why do you want to be the Greatest Singer of All?"

The Puppy came to the Jester, and licked his hand, that had fallen limp and sad. "You sing beautifully, my boy. So sing for the King, for us, and for the yellow Roses, and that is enough. If you go far away to learn to be a great singer, who will care for us? The yellow Roses need only sunshine and rain, but we need someone to feed us, and play with us. Once you are gone the Cook shall not give us food, and soon the Butler shall chase us onto the streets. What shall we do then?"

"And when you have seen the stage and been on it once," the kitten continued, "you shall never leave it. We will wander the streets calling for you, but you, lost in the blasting trumpets and cracking mandolins, will never hear us. This court is good enough a stage, is it not? Stay here and be content."

The Jester wanted to say all the words that he had said to the yellow Roses, but did not. He knew that the Puppy and the Kitten loved him dearly, and so did he love them. Thus he kept his dream to himself, and only spoke of it to the yellow Roses when he saw the Kitten and the Puppy asleep, and even then, as quietly as he could.


Such were his days, until one day the King summoned him to his court, but bade him not sing, nor charm, nor tell his great tales, but for once listen, as the King had grave news. The kingdom that had enjoyed peace for many years now faced a new threat from the Southern Land. The King from the Southern Land had grown tired of his small palace, and the people, tired of their small country. Thus they sought to conquer their neighbour that lay to the North.

The King had to leave his palace to lead his army into war, and thus also called for all able men to join in the fight to preserve their fatherland. He looked upon all his courtiers, and commanded them to leave their ladies and become soldiers; he looked upon his butler, and commanded him leave his pantry and become a captain. He looked upon the Jester, and though he was loath to command him to take up arms and fight in the war, he did so.

"My subject, my loyal Jester. You have brightened my court for many long days, and yet, I now fear that we will come to a time that can never be brightened. It is war between us and the Southern Land, and you shall jest no more." The Jester's face, often powdered for it made many laugh, looked as if it was powdered with ash.

"You shall give up your belled cap, and bear a helmet instead. You shall break your fool's staff, and in it's place carry a bayonet. Your cape shall instead be a wooden shield, and you will ride with me into battle."

"But my lord," the Jester said, "I know nothing of war and bayonets! I can only sing and charm and tell stories. In the heat of battle I shall be of little help to you, and the soldiers shall laugh at me for I cannot fight but only sing, that I cannot kill, but only charm. Let me stay here, with my yellow Roses, and my Puppy and my Kitten. And I cannot fight and I will be caught."

"No, you will not stay. Perhaps you shall leave the palace and be my Minister? You will live among my people and be their leader. You will prepare them for war, and teach them to always remember their allegiance lies with their King." The King pondered for a moment on this new idea he had, but continued again.

"Or perhaps you can be my Ambassador? You shall go to the Shah in the North, and the Emperor in the West, and you shall tell them to bring their men and soldiers to our aid. Your voice will persuade them to do just that, and we will surely win the war."

The Jester fell silent. He knew nothing of great men's affairs, nor affairs of the state. He only wanted to be the Greatest Singer of All, and so he said, "my Lord, I cannot help you there. Let me go with you to war then, but I will not fight. Perhaps when the nights are darkest and the men are tired my songs will cheer them again."

"So be it then. We will leave tomorrow," the King answered.


The Jester returned to his chambers, and told the Puppy, the Kitten and his yellow Roses of the news. Deep inside, the Jester felt saddened, as he knew that if he went with the King to the war, he would never be able to learn to be the Greatest Singer of All. His songs would turn to warcries, and the smile he ever painted on his face would soon turn to a scowl. However, he did not want those he held dear to worry, nor be sad, and so told the news as if it were of no consequence, as if it made no difference.

Still, the Roses grew limp and pale, and their stalks drooped, till their blossoms faced the soil below them. "Will you be back one day to sing for us? If not, our blossoms will never be yellow like the sun shines again. Instead, our petals will become touched and brown, and before long we will wither away."

The Jester could not speak, but merely smiled at them. He wished he could tell them that he would be back and his song would again find its captive audience, but he could not be sure. He turned to the Puppy and the Kitten.

"This is good news, my boy. You will tell all the maids that you will be travelling with the King, right by his side, perhaps even closer than his trusted Captains. They will fear your word and anger, for you are so close to the King, and you can tell them to take good care of us, and feed and play with us, and they will."

The Jester did all that, for he loved the Puppy and the Kitten, and wished them no misfortune. So at dawn the next day, he took his staff and donned his cape, and left. The Puppy and the Kitten followed him out of the palace, and stood by the road till the King and his entire entourage could be seen no more. The Roses craned as far as their stalks allowed, and even when the sun shined hot and dried their petals, still tried to catch the distant sound of hooves upon the hard road, for one of those horses bore the Jester.

hello everybody...

everything's over... school's out...

so marks the end of my school life in this lovely education system...

whee.

how depressing...

argh...

My words today will be in honour of the men who suffered tremendous mental and physical trauma at the hands of overzealous trainers aiming to expose their wards to genuine warlike situations. It will be, as well, in memory of one wasted life, one lost gem. These men were picked and thus groomed to be the future defenders of our nation, our first line of defence. This is an indication of not just their physical calibre, but also a testament to their mental and analytical prowess. Can we condone such brutal treatment? For what purpose have they been tortured? One man died in this senseless excercise of military excellence.

One defence of the trainers who enacted and oversaw this exercise was that it had the primary function of exposing these men to honest, brutal, warfare conditions. It was necessary, as such, to deny the unalienable human rights accorded even prisoners of war, and violate the Geneva Convention in order to expose these soldiers to the true horrors of war, and thus prepare them. The question that arises, then, is that is this not an indictment of our military service's willingness to defy the honoured Geneva Convention? By arguing that genuine war has no ground for such civilities, are we, even in peacetime, contemplating the possibility, even inevitability of such flagrant abuse of basic human rights? If this be the case, I regretfully express my disgust at this hypocrisy and callosity; that we may so openly proclaim our enlightened state, yet never waver in our willingness to trample on human lives in the search of military superiority and excellence.

Another offer made in defence of the overseers of the exercise was that, ultimately, the soldiers had the right to at anytime stop the proceedings. Through this they hope to escape liability and censure, and claim that the responsibility for this tragedy lies in that the soldiers could and should have stopped the exercise when they felt it going too far. The very premise, however, of the exercise was one of suspended reality. They have had to give up their reality and place trust in their trainers to put them through a course to strengthen them. These men had to believe that they were helpless prisoners, and their trainers their captors. I believe that they, in their terror and confusion, took illusion to be reality, and had neither the clarity of thought, nor indeed the emotional and mental facilities to make a conscious decision to call for a stop. Can the abused hold reasonable belief that a calling for help would result in a cessation of abuse?
I acknowledge that speculation weakens the prior argument. It cannot hold in a logical debate. Thus I present another. These men preservered; and in one case, to a terrifying end. Do we, as a result of their admirable and utter tenacity pile judgement on them, and wrest fault from negligence? Do we fault them for seeking to be the best that they can be, and thus testing their limits?

Logic holds another argument. If these men suffered and broke, then they cannot survive a true war experience, and thus do not measure up to the necessarily high standards needed by the protectors of our nation. It needs but a blunt rebuttal: the exercise is a test of mettle and a means to achieve greater improvement, not a vessel to eliminate lesser soldiers.

To the men currently recuperating I wish to express my hope that they shall eventually return to full health, and that neither psychological shadow nor emotional darkness remain. For the bereaved family, I know that few words can be of any worth and pertinence now, but I express my hope that his death may yet be not in futile waste. It may engender a safer and more fruitful experience for the soldiers to come; this shall with good hope be his legacy. As for the accused, I hope that I may still persist in my belief in intrinsic human goodness. I shall never know if this belief is misplaced, but that is of little consequence. The essence, ultimately, lies in that work be done towards ensuring that such a tragedy has had its place in history, and no more.

i want to whine about the day but i shall not because it's a pointless exercise...

anyways...
i've been playing cards these few days... and i've come to appreciate the beauty and meaning of their design...

did you know the court cards of Spades always face the right... while the other court cards face the left...?

and did you know that the King of Hearts is always seen with the broadsword behind his head... hence his nickname, the suicide King...?
the King of Diamonds bears an axe... while the other two Kings hold drawn broadswords...

of all the court cards... only the Jack of Spades and of Hearts are shown in profile... giving rise to the term "one-eyed jack"...

the Aces were originally of the lowest denomination... but with the French Revolution... they were moved to the top to symbolize the rise of the downtrodden people... overthrowing the highest classes... the nobility and ecclesiastical classes...
the Ace of Spades sometimes has the ominous title of the Death Card...

how interesting...

yes hello people..

"To kill the emotions and so live on to old age, or to accept the martyrdom of our passions and die young, is our fate." - Balzac, in La Peau de Chagrin

innit lovely...?
and to top it off... it was written in identification with the artists of the 19th Century...
romantics... just my kind of people...

anyway...

the story goes that a sucidal Valentine obtains a mystical donkey pelt... one that allows him his heart's desires... but with the provision that his lifespan shall diminish in proportion to the intensity and volume of his wishes... his acceptance of the ill-fated deal marks his entry into an excruciating examination of the nature of happiness...

what an interesting analogy of the artistic process...

the deeper you look inside youself for artistic beauty... knowing that it is in the deep recesses of the soul that yields the greatest inspiration...
the closer you come to self-annihilation...

wow...

hello everybody...

there's nothing to blog about...
my life is so uninteresting...
and yes i realise boring is a less awkward word to use...

the fog people came by again today and thanks to them my history notes are imbued with mosquito repelling properties... wonderful...

i just realised a while ago that my dreams to enter into the music profession hve been put on hold... frankly... since i decided to enter a JC instead of NAFA... lovely...
and now i'm truly afraid that it's been too many times i've said oh no the opprtunity will come again... and it's really blown...
lovely...

i'm not blaming anybody here... neither do i expect anybody come give me reassurance...

There is no consolation for a disappointment, no, a fear such as this. Men approaching their prime harbour no thoughts of a life in banality; musicians approaching the stage abhor dreams of mediocrity. I may speak and say that a life far removed from glorious music is one I can contend with, and that may yet be truth. For now, to even think of an eternity in banality and to take my passion and make it a pastime, it is a horror.

To the ear of the seasoned and the wise, these words are but bombast outpourings of a mind entrapped and blinded by childish passions and musings. Yet it is my mind. I am neither seasoned nor wise, so let me rave in my madness, and drown in my fury, for be it pain or not, iniquity or idiocy, it is my life. Those truly wise will accept this and allow my fate to pursue its due course to my utter failure and destruction, or my awakening and mere acceptance.

Yet even as I write these words my mind, and more starkly, my heart, questions them. How can I ever accept a life far removed from the stage? One may say that profession and passion need not be one and the same, and that the pursuit of one need not impede a dissimilar other. I cannot be content with a weekly embrace, nor can I be satisfied with a yearly vacation; I need to be ever accompanied by my mistress. The meaningless burning passion of youthful love this is? It may be so, and perchance it may die out before long. Yet in the now, in the instance of the present moment, it consumes me. No young fool can love with the patience of wearied wisdom; and none of the ancients can embrace with fire in their souls.

It is my prerogative.

Yet there is worse. I see now my folly laid out bare before me, mocking me. I have turned and decided that the chance would always present itself, I have imagined I could pick up lost embers and breathe them to great fires. I was wrong. There is no one to blame but myself.

So the greatest fear still remains. Can I take a life where dreams are but dreams, and no more?

i don't like what i just written... sounds stupid and raving... looks like my estimation that the formal mode would salvage the savage teenage emotion within was a gross miscalculation...
but i shall keep it...
because i'm too tired to fill up that space with other meaningless fluff...
because i don't dare to delete it all and see my effort go to waste... once again if i may say...
and perhaps...
because it's true...

goodnight people...

and no i'm not going to jump so don't go calling my house asking if i'm ok because yes i am and sickly enough i will still be drearily trudging to school come monday.

hello everybody...

yes...

IT'S a FAT E... the final grade for my history paper...
luvly innit...?

and no IT'S not FATE... IT'S a FAT E...

and no it's not fate... the future is in my hands...
it'd better be...
i wish...
please...?

ah... the futility of it all...
i am tempted at this point to write voluminous amounts of what some friends have called my "hallmarky" wrting...
if i become famous one of these days...

extracts from
Critical Analyses of 21st Century Writing
Chapter 27: Tan Tuan Hao - 'Muses'

"The period known by many critics as Tan's 'Hallmark' writing is largely characterised by a cooler mood and tone, and generally bleaker, darker themes. Common threads that can be seen are that of despair, futility, but also, the sheer beauty of life, and perhaps as a unifying bond, that pain and the brevity of life are that which also enrich it."

... ...

'Stars' and the 'sea' are common images used in these sections, accompanied the major technique of prose written in a largely poetic mode, a fusion of sorts, 'the essence of one in the vessel of the other'."

... ...

"One may contrast this to Tan's more common modes of writing, which he has himself professed to have undertaken for the sake of and to pander to the tastes of 'his audience'. The main subjects and themes of the prose written in these sections are often plebian and parochial, reflective of the common tastes of his readers. For most part, education, and the delusion that it stands for and espouses, stands as a major theme of his 'common writing'."

... ...

"The major characteristics of Tan's technique in his 'common writing' are that of the use of comic hyperbole, especially in the context of death, mental illness and suicide, and sardonicism and sarcasm, especially in his dealings with the theme of education."

... ...

"While many see the lack of poetic imagery and dealing with surface issues as an indictment of the literary worth of the common prose pieces, or 'posts', of Tan, the underlying key feature that marks them as worthy are that they stand as an interesting and insightful commentary of education in his local context, and the utter failure that he believed it to be. One must without doubt take his words with the proverbial pinch of salt, as the bias and subjectivity are clearly evident in his writing. Furthermore, one remembers that he was after all writing for the specific purpose of, in the case of his 'common writing', entertaining his audience."

haha... talk about fuelling my ego...

well... 'nighty then...

hello everybody...

ah... it's been a long time now hasn't it...? bloody computers...

i now have twice the space to store junk on my computer that doubles the chances of me storing something that's gonna trip up the system again... apparently the repair shop thought that was the way to go...
so they rip out my hard drive and stick a new one in...
haha...
the irony of the situation impresses itself upon me...
hear my sardonic laughter...
haha...

anyways... i have the whole of sunday and the remainder of today to enjoy before my results in the "recent preliminary examinations" are released...
or should i say...
unearthed...
revealed...
the consequences of which would be exceedingly dangerous to my mental health...

i slept at three and woke at six... post meridian... and now i'm in a floating mood...feel like i'm a-floatin' around...
this has thrown my entire sleep cycle out of whack...
maybe i should relinquish mortality and become a vampire...
dress in black leather...
wear cool shades...
always wear an overcoat...
have a palemoon complexion...

hmm... not really...

according to anne rice... vampires can't enjoy the pleasures of the flesh...
wouldn't give that up now would i...?
(leerily winks)
anyways...

i'll be off now...
'nighty people...

hello everybody...

ooh and ahh over the new background while i settle my computer... just back from the repairman...
while i slog away for the A's...

but for now... while i sleep...

'nighty...