all hail the wind that blows before me
swirling from the inkpots of the dark hate
cold is the breeze that confronts my footsteps
whose firm echoes flee into the shadows of the rear

it is a cursed path on which i tread unforgivingly
of which evil intent rises sardonically as light falls
walking with my hands folded gently in my pockets
for fear of the bitterness
head bent low as though the air around me were sheets
of thunderous rain or frosted snow

the warm breath i exhale is blown back on my cheeks
returned as fleeting slaps, or calm caresses
it is a time at which a hooded cape might well fit my description
a dark figure passing by at night, to whither lands?
my business is my own.

the dark shape scurries across the path, down and up the drain
into a depression in the grass previously unseen
a mouse, might it seek refuge in better places

The book by Jostein Gaarder. The one released before The Orange Girl. just some interesting paragraphs which caught my attention.

Pg10
And then I began to cry. Perhaps I cried for a whole hour. As always, it was my mother who comforted me. I didn't cy because the story was sad. I cried because I was scared of my own imgination. I was also afraid of the little man with the bamboo stick. He'd been perced on the Persian pouffe during my narrative, looking at my mother's gramophone records, but now he'd begun to pace about the room. I was the only one who could see him.
The first time I'd set my eyes on the little man in the green hat had been in a dream. But he broke out of the dream and since then he's followed me all my life. He thinks he's in charge of me.

Pg10
I'd never had any difficulty telling imagination and reality apart. The problem has always been to distinguish between recalled fantasy and recalled reality. That's quite another matter. I always knew the difference between what I was actually observing and what I only imagined I was observing. But gradually, as time went by, separating actual occurences from experiences I'd made up, could get tricky. My memory hasn't got special compartments for things I've seen and heard and things I've simply conjured up. I've only got one memory in which to store both the impression and imagination of the past: in glorious unity they combine to form what we call recollection. Despite this, I sometimes assume that my memory is failing when I occasionally mix up the two categories. This is an imperfect descriptino at best. When I recollect something as really experienced, that in truth was only a dream, it's because my memory is far too good. I've always felt it as a triumph of memory that I'm capable of recalling events that have only taken place in my head.

Pg44
"This analogy puts me in mind of Ernst Junger who wrote in one of his wartime diaries that one shouldn't grieve over a thought that gets away. It's like a fish that gets off the hook and swims down into the depths again, only to return one day even bigger... If, on the other hand, one lands the fish, guts it and chucks it into a plastic bucket, any further development of the fish has clearly been curtailed. Precisely the same can be said of the idea behind a novel once it is written out and set in more or less successful aspic, or even published. Perhaps the world of culture is charaterised by too much catch and too little release."

Pg46
"Or as Mephistopheles says as Faust dies: What matters our creative endless toil, when at a snatch oblivion ends the coil."

11.10pm 23rd December 2004

I sit on the bus, speeding silent and fast into the night. It is a quiet bus. From the purr of the engine to the pale whispers of the few passengers. Outside darkness passes silently, barely penetrating in.

The bus had arrived quickly, far too quickly, no doubt it was meant to be. Tonight is the night for me to take this bus, to return. It is tonight.

Everything is silent. My eyes hurt a little less now. But it hasn't been lessened from the gentle hands of a healer, rather it fades through the numbing coldness of death's chill.

This story might be long, but there will not be many more, I promise. Maybe it will even be the last. Bear with it, s'il vous plait.

Eight twelveths of an hour ago, the phone clicked shut. Shut with the abruptness and silence that I had known it would, with the predicability that I hoped for, and hoped against. And which was my fault. the click simply heralded an inexorable silence, binding the icy coldness, speechless silence and stinging red eyes with the seal of finality. And with that I bid a quiet farewell, pciked up whatever little posssions, and took my leave. It was an exit from the harsh white lights, from the painful conversation, to a neverending darkness, to a peaceful silence, to nothingness. The path was more deserted than normal. The toads and crickets were silent, the snails were in hiding. There was literally nothing Living on the path now; It was a different path. In my
accompanying shadows I could feel the Dead flanking me, Shadow Hands and Mordants ever closing in and ambushing their prey. They travelled in the familiar shadows which I have been so accustomed to. They have always been here, but only now is the time. And so on they escort me, through the zigzag, down the short steps, past the railing. They cross the road too, fleeting feelings of existences on the brightly lit road. They slip like invisible shadows up to the even brighter parade square. I walk on alone in my painful solidarity, a purpose to finish with. There appears a slim cat in front of me, who swiftly disappears when I have turned my head back. The floodlights shine as they have for years. But now the grounds are naked, devoid of the
gleaming guns peering out of the garages, of the row of black vehicles bristling with signal antennas, of the barbed wire ever waiting to be pulled aisde, of the young fellows which I once was part of, still infused with spirit and gusto. But it is all bare, and distant fond memories come to life in my imaginative eyes.

I stomp up the steps and enter the room, intruding on a petty thief spinning the combination on the safe. He sees me not. or chooses not. or simply can't. I exit. I go back up to my room and gathers more belongings. There isn't much left. Much which means anything. I say my farewells to another person. The lights are off, the locked is turned. Down the empty corridor again. The stiffling echoy corridor which once held much noise. The doors that stand ajar, spilling their darkness and empty white bedframes. What lives in them now. It is a grave of a building. I approach the stairs, stairs fit for a Ju-on movie, stairs I have seen so many times and always wished for the white lady to appear, both out of fear, and hope. She never does. The concrete
echoes with my footsteps, doors leading to nothingness.

I exit onto the path again, the Dead rising to the new pace. My escort never ceases. He must be keeping a good watch on me. I walk past the stadium track. It is as dark as before. Devoid of lights. Was it months, or even a year ago, when I, when we used to run on it. In the darkness. In the night. A shadowed soul floating past in the darkness, into the darkness, and then back into view much later. The eeriness and creepiness got to me. It was scary, but we did it. No longer. They are mostly gone. There are few who appreciate the fear of the dark night, and with that, the fears means nothing any longer. I wonder if anyone would run on it in the darkness again. Perhaps it might pass on as a legend.

I walk back past the work place. It has grown darker since I left it awhile ago. Darker than normal. I approach the gate. The two listless souls guard against the outer limits. We of the night know the meaning of Death. We who watch dusk fall and are unable to run, but count the Dead that fleet through the night, waiting time for the crack of dawn. "Thank you." "Goodnight."

I pick up my pace, feeling the cold waft of the currents in Death. I let it carry me along now. Now that I am going in the opposite direction, away from Life. The waters bring me towards the First Gate. There is no more weariness in this path. No more oppressing humidity, no more sweaty heat, no more noisy vehicles, no more crowds. Everything grows silent in Death. The Journey to the Ninth Gate seems effortless, I do not struggle against it any further. It is like a fastforwarded movie, or maybe reverse. It speeds past like a blur, without sound. I am making the Journey to my doom, called by the necromancer who strives to put all wandering to rest.

My eyes hurt so much, my crimson eyes dried of tears. My nose, stuffed with the effects of weeping, breaks down. The will of sorrow saps my strength and breath away, leaving me barely to have kept alive so long. It is a silent for the ears have long since gone deaf, and the mind registers no coherent thought. It is silent for the tongue has none to direct it to move and the breaths of sound have been exhausted. I pass on along the roads, there is not much energy, but I move on.

Life has passed on. And now I am waiting for the bus again, the bus which arrives so soon and speeds so fast. It shall bring us away, while the hand scrawls these last words on the long unused paper. There might not be time for the entire story before I reach, but I try.

It is ending tonight, the party. It is my turn to take my leave, perhaps someone will come along and explain why. Amongst these Dead Marshes might the answers be. Do not try to pull me back, the tingling of the silent bells are sufficient to hasten me along. The current grows swifter, or is it me who is weaker. No matter, I am past the Third Gate now, it will not be long. The Greater Dead await me down there now. I knock into something, flies into a spin, and does a big splash. The Seventh sounds close. Before I pass the Ninth Gate into oblivion, I woud like to turn back for a last glance, at Everything, at Everyone, at Everytime. A pity, only those who have walked in Death know the feeling, but it is not for me to traverse back and forth.

Farewell I go now, it is almost peaceful.

my black psycho box, with the greyish boring bag. and the nice black bottle!!! with the spray tube still unattached.

hehe, my Calvin Klein paper bag with the white balloon i stole.

my new book, from my favorite author.

haha. okay so matthew din complain about my expensive tastes this time round. what an exception. [but i know the reason why, coz he also ate expensive stuff on his birthday..] bleh. what a fun weekend!

thurs Marche dinner
fri Meritus Mandarin dinner
sat met Bmt gang but couldn't stay with them for dinner. then went to Raffles Town Club for Beatrice's 21st birthday celebration. had another delicious buffet spread. [im so glad of the few days of food that I consider nice.] HC tbone section. siao-on people. Beatrice has the same birthday as me. but no party for me. got a nice present, Calvin Klein CK Be water. in some mini-tour bag. it's my favourite black bottle. so so nice. and the bottle has a vunderful texture. *drool* but it was wrapped in white. it's my first parfum! shocking.
sunday went Safra Yishun to play for entire day with another family.

list of presents:
one small cute red bottle, red coloured Choya Herb liquor.
one nice expensive hardcover Jostein Gaarder - The Orange Girl book
with a Foot-painted birthday card containing a Episode 3 advertisement by someone who refuses to reveal his identity and also a cheeky illustration of a yet constructed Henesys Love Park.
one CK-Be parfum with bag
with a monkey looking birthday card with a magnet
two big paper clips with angels on them. given free by Marche Restaurant by the cashier, who only gave me, and not the rest of them. no doubt the devil told her it's my birthday.
one slice of Mint Truffle chocolate from Marks and Spencers, which was fabulous.

*smile*

amusing. surprising. intriguing. the feeling of being 20, at last. after an entire year(almost) of rightful denial. in truth, i do always feel like i'm a year younger. all year long i insist so much that i'm 19, that i do feel like i'm 19. 20 doesn't seem associated with 2004. and im barely 20 before 2004 ends and 2005 starts. it's been one leap year cycle since "welcome to the new millenia".
i spent yesterday, 161204, thinking, wondering, trying to reason, whether it's been 365 days since my last birthday, since it's a leap year. i dunno what conclusion i reached, except that it's just a quirk of the bugged gregorian calender. so what if i'm 19yrs + 365days and 1 day more to go. just a qian-da thing to say.

and then while im wondering about 20, people are no doubt already fantasizing about their 21st party bash. and greedily thinking about all the wild things they can now do. it has always been a pleasure for me to exit NS 3/4 of a year before i'm 21. [i always wonder abt those old pple in NS, and wonder whether they're bored with life moving so slowly.]

i'm glad abt 16th dec. it turned out quite a nice day and night. 16th and 17th both birthdays, for those who are in the know.
by some coincidental arranging, somehow i managed to persuade a dinner outing from the camp people, who no doubt only obliged because of my birthday, and which included a late movie, and which we went back home like normal people.
it should be my first birthday party in 15 years. but an unofficial makeshift one. bleh.
thank you gerald, thank you bellopheron, thank you xiaocowbow, thank you qutegurl, thank you hongyi,
for the nice cake, for indulging me. too bad gerald couldn't go for Comme Une Image, hope hongyi wasn't too bored by it.
thank you all for the presents too. i really wasn't expecting anything for birthday coz there's usually nothing much. =p

today went to Marina Mandarin to eat. wow the food is so nice. another hotel restaurant buffet thing. it's just very well cooked. and that's coming from me, okay. one of the best things is soup containing vegetable roots(eg carrots and the lot) and chicken. cheap ingredients but really well balanced taste. perfectly done. that just oozes class. damn impressive. the had some duno-what lobster soup thingy, i cannot describe the taste, simply that it's alien and incredibly inedible. most of the food just have this great taste. it feels like old recipe, sensible taste, well balanced, not overpowering, and this nonchalance and familiarity towards the high standards. they've got Mashed Potato with cheese gratin. looks great. Salmon and spinach lasagne. which looks like a mess, but taste great. then baked crayfish. which is about the only seafood that i never reject. some grilled lamb that looks stir fried with vegetables. and others. dessert was like my goodness. apple strudel, which my sis refused to eat. mocha mousse cake. lemon chiffron pie. and gelato. Gelato! instead of just ice cream. i almost couldn't believe it. i dunno where they get Rock Melon flavour though. gelato... i felt like eating double of everything, but my stomach is too hopelessly small. matthew is gonna complain that i have expensive tastes, but nvm. actually he eats more expensive stuff than me. and their xmas and new year gala dinner menu looks real sickening. each dish can be the zao-pai-cai for some lousy eatery.

happy birthday to me.