This time I think I've really lost it.

I think I've lost the zeal for singing. Or more aptly put, I've lost the zest for life. Have you ever had the feeling when you wake up one day just feeling different, and then that feeling carries on for the rest of your life? Or like that time when you just woke up and suddenly decided that you like fish?

That morning I think I just did. Was looking at the scores of the past while packing up my room, and suddenly they all seemed like stale fish - utterly repulsive. It's almost as if I don't even wanna see another note in my entire life. Ever. Singing just isn't that fun anymore. Nobody feels for their singing anymore. Sure, you can deconstruct and engage in a wonderful discourse about the tune and music, or maybe you can sing it in the 'right' way as interpreted, but who actually sings to enjoy the music anymore?

Everyone just wanna be an idol these days. Choral singing is just an economic way for people to learn singing, and once they think they've acquired enough, they quit. It's like taking singing classes for free. NOBODY wanna sing for THEIR music anymore. Or maybe they just wanna stay in hall, or maybe cos their friends ask them to accompany them, or even the more classy culture kind would wanna sing cos they like a particular composer or song, but there's simply NO ONE who wanna sing for themselves anymore.

Or maybe I've just been flooded with a barrage of lousy singers with overbloated ego so much that they're turning me off. So much so that they're turning me off music completely. I dun mind bad singers. In fact, I enjoy singing with lousy singers if they truely enjoy what they are singing. At least they've got the courage to do something they truely enjoy even though they suck at it.

And they're singing for themselves.

I HATE incompetent singers, who don't know their music and wanna be primma donna but lack the ability to do so.

I HATE people who tries to tell u so much about what they THINK they know about dynamics when they can't even pitch or hold a note. "It's suppose to be a p here". "We're suppose to be legato there". SURE, that's what's written, but did u notice how the notes are also written in a G here, an F# there, so why don't you try FUCKING SINGING THAT NOTE FIRST BEFORE U TELL ME ABOUT THE DAMN WORDS IN ITALICS AT THE BEGINNING OF EACH BAR OR THE 'P'-'F' LETTERS FLOATING IN BETWEEN?!

I HATE people who plaster their faces to their scores and tries to sing every thing written on that damn paper, note for note and rest for rest. SURE I know you know what rubato is, but can you FUCKING TRY TO SING IT? And not with yourself but singing it WITH EVERYONE ELSE INCLUDING THE CONDUCTOR?!

I HATE people who are lazy but lack the means to catch up on the spot and yet persist on doing that. I know I'm lazy too sometimes, but I also know that gimme a gd pianist and I'd sight read for you the song in about 3 runs.

And I'd still be better than the fucker who's burried himself in the pages trying to find the exact note where that decrescendo stops.

I HATE people who thinks just because they have a grade 8 in piano and knows music more than me and think that they'd automatically know more about singing than me.

There's no joy in my singing anymore. I dun feel my passion, my jubilance, my enthusiasm in the voices anymore. In MY voice. Everything I do is so mechanical. So what if I have a voice for singing? I don't seek to improve it anymore. I don't strive to become better. I don't even care if I lose my voice and have a performance the day after. I'd just lip-synch.

I don't want to be the wedding singer anymore. I want to be the groom at the wedding that crones to the bride, or the son at the funeral who sings for his dad. If singing's my life, then I'd say that I'm truely dying right now.

The Question

Some people ask

why
when
how

Some people ask

for knowledge
for truth
for a chance

Some people ask

to start
to end
to move on

I don't need to ask

to know
for what
the answer

I just need the will

to ask
the known
and be reprieved

Nice

I'm nice
You're nice
Everybody's nice

But I don't know you
You don't know me
And neither do I

Oh how nice of you to drop by
We'd do a little curtsy
And then have our little goodbyes

"Oh good morning Harold! And hello Daisy!"
We'd greet out friends in the morning
And then go on with our little lives

Oh thank our Lord in His most almightly grace,
We'd say our prayers befor we eat
And then carry on with our little lies

But then I'm different
I'm genuinely nice
No God. No friends and
No one to drop by

And when they actually do
God. Friends and
Anyone

They'd say that I'm nice too
Simply for the fact that
I have no personality

I LOVE AH NAIR

I really really do. I'd love for her to be dead. Burnt alive. On a stake. From her arse through her mouth. And even so, I'm sure she'd still be a living dead. Right after the fire has ceased, she'd still be staring at me with her maggot infested sockets and laughing scarabs out her mouth. Enwrapped in the worms crawling out her arse, she'd descent from the totem, flinging charred skin at her perpetrators and singeing the earth with each step she take.

I'm positive she the reason why Salem happened. And she survived. The facade of rebonded hair nor multicoloured power suits doesn't do much to change that fact.

Ok I concede. That was a tad childish. But I feel so damn secondary school kid right now. Unnoe the feeling when u hate your tutor and so you don't study his/her work, and then the exams come out and u fare like shit, and the tutor won't even flinch an eyelid, but at the same time u'd feel accomplished 'cos you've gone ahead and done something that u set out to do?

I am the tontie master!! In case you're wondering, this is tontie.

Prayer

Goddess of gods
Be my guide
Grant me thy audience
Let me surrender my soul
completely

Goddess of light
Grant me thy brilliance
And lead me through the labyrinth
to your heart

Goddess of might
Grant me thy strength
So I may carry you through
the longest nights

Goddess of sight
Grant me thy vision
To see you through
the end of time

Goddess of flight
Grant me thy wings
For me to fly by you
above the highest skies

Oh Goddess of mine
Grant me thy grace
That my prayer reach thee
and be answered

For you are
My Goddess of all
And I really need you
right now

Whore

Down the streets of perdition
she walks
Wasting her life away
indulgence in wanton pleasures

Aimless
Without purpose

Other than the addiction
to riches
Of wanting
more and more

Such
are my thoughts of you


I think I'm on a self-destructive streak here. I haven't been concerntrating, and neither am I progressing anywhere else. It's less than 8 hours to my first paper, but here I am, deconstructing myself and blogging rather than to study or rest. Like the whore who doesn't choose her profession, I don't choose to be in my current state of mind too.

How Long

How long can I last
being alone

without you

How long can I last
before my mind runs awry?

to you

How long can I last
until my next glimpse

of you

How long can I last
the distance

with you

As long as it takes
As long as I'm worth it
As long as you want me to

...And after much introspection and self deliberation, there's really nothing more to my cognitive dissonance other than this.

R.I.P. Goh Sin Tub (1921 - 2004)

As people would have known, I grew up browsing the shelves of the Sg section in the NLB since my uniformed days in Pri Sch. Back then, I had no Nancy Drews, and hardly any Hardy boys, since I didn't have much money and buying stuff remotely related to survival and staying alive wasn't very much the family culture.

Hence, before I picked up the Bonny Hicks (who incidentally has passed on too), Kampong Chickens, Fistful of Colours, Or else the Lightning Gods, there was always G.S.T. In fact, now that I think about it, the very first real book that I bought with a book voucher for being 1st in class (that was a LOOOONG time ago) happened to be his book - Ghosts of Singapore. Yes, cheesy I know, but hey, everyone's young at some moment in time. Plus I think the Russell Lee series SUCK big time.

The absence of an overtly bombastic language in a very local setting makes his books reader-friendly. Perhaps, for a shallow fact that we both share the same surname, coupled with all the lousy psychometric aptitude tests (taken since young) blaring at my face telling me to be an author kind of make him some kind of role model to me. And he was so old, even then, which gives him this aura of reverence that I truely respect. His books felt very personal and informal, almost like a blog - if there ever was such a thing back then in the first place.

I was never a fan, and never will be I suppose. I can't tell you about the stories he's written, save maybe a few titles that I always see on the shelves (like the "Nan Mei Su Girls of Emerald Hill" - always liked the title for some reason), but for some reason, I have this weird sense of attachment to him. Like the glance from a passerby that connects; like the pondskater that waltz across the surface of the pond, briefly - but surely touching my heart.

As a tribute to the passing of a local great in the literary scene, here's one of his stories - Home For Grandma. Enjoy. A search on the www and this came up too. Seems like I'm not the only one with the weird sense attachment with him too.

As usual, ST sucks with a paying archive, so here's the news report in ultra-fine print. Happy cutting and pasting, should anyone bother.

Writer Goh Sin Tub dies after stroke
By Tanya Fongand Clara Chow
ST 17th Nov 2004

PROLIFIC short story writer Goh Sin Tub, 77, died yesterday morning at Mount Alvernia Hospital.
The former civil servant banker was also known for his contributions to his old school, St Joseph's Institution (SJI).
'We have lost a storyteller who told the Singapore story from the common man's perspective,' said Mr Alex Chacko, Mr Goh's publisher.
The writer's death came about a month before he was to celebrate his 50th wedding anniversary, on Dec 27, with retired doctor Sylvia Goh.
'In fact, he designed the invitation cards himself,' said Mrs Goh of her husband, who was busy with his 22nd book. 'He was printing out all 100 of them on Friday morning.'
The next morning, however, he was felled by a stroke. After a brain operation, he went into a coma from which he never awoke.
Mr Goh's youngest son, Dr Patrick Goh, 44, said his father had been diagnosed with myeloid dysplastic syndrome - a condition where blood cells in the bone marrow are not normal - in September and had a growing blood clot in his brain.
Earlier this year, his 65-story Walk Like A Dragon was on bestseller's lists.
In it, he writes about how he had a hole drilled into his skull to drain another blood clot last year.
He worked in the education and social affairs ministries, reaching the post of deputy secretary to the health ministry before he joined the banking sector. As a property management director, he handled projects such as the construction of OCBC Centre, the Tangs shopping complex and UOB Plaza.
But in 1986, after retiring as general manager of UOB Property, 'he wanted to do only three things - help build St Joseph's Institution, see its transition into an independent school and to write', said Mrs Goh.
Writer Suchen Christine Lim called Mr Goh 'a great storehouse of stories about our colonial past and the Japanese Occupation, stories which he retold with compassion and understanding'.
Said Mr Chacko: 'I guess he was aware that he didn't have much time, so he worked as hard as he possibly could.'
Second son, publisher John Goh, 45, focused on another side of the man: 'He would probably want to be known most for his work with SJI.
'He came from a Hokkien working-class family and was always very grateful for the education he got in and from the school.'
The couple have another son, Austin, 48, who works in the IT sector.
Mr Goh was the first chairman of the SJI Board of Governors, holding the post for 25 years. When the school went independent and moved from Bras Basah to Malcolm Road, he raised more than $45,000 for SJI through sales of his book, Battle Of The Bands.
For his contributions to education, he received a Public Service Star.
Last night, his family were in mourning at his bungalow.
The wake will be held there - 1, Padang Chancery Road - until Friday. Mass will be said at the Holy Spirit church at 3.30pm before the cortege leaves for the Mandai Crematorium.

Anger

Engulfed in the waves of
Burning within the flames of
Banished beneath the depths of

Silent screams

Blown away to
dust
Torn apart to
shreds
Desecrated to
pieces

Over and over
Me.

Swimming in the whirlpool of
Wandering in the desert of
Locked up in the tower of

Scarred inferences

A shield of
distrust
A wall of
distance
A mirror of
fear

Over and over
You.

Not
Because you're trying
Because I'm appreciated
Because you're worth it

But
Because I'm futile
Because you're scared
Because

I'm not worth it.

I am appalled. Just for the record, the intellectual property presented here - the prose, poem, lyrics, thoughts, etc, unless otherwise credited are all MINE. Like I dun pretend I'm tagore when I'm obviously not.

In retrospect it DOES look as if I've plucked them off the air and shared them in my personal palette for personal peruse. In a way, I suppose I should feel flattered that they reflect some standards in my work, since they're good enough to pass off as someone else's rite?

Whatever. Everything I write is personal, and if i ever get anything published, it'd only be for MY religion.

After all, art is meaningless in the absence of the muse. And that is my personal quote-of-the-day.

A poem, by the Nobel prize literature laureate, Rabindranath Tagore. Translated into chinese AND english from unknown sources (to read chinese, change the encoding to: unicode UTF-8). The english translation sucks though. I loved it instantly when I'd chanced upon the first stanza of it in some book; I never knew who it was by, and how there was so much to it. Simply poignant, and my sentiments exactly. Always. And that is why venus is always that elusive to me. So near yet so far.

世界上最遥远的距离

世界上最遥远的距离
不是生与死
而是我就站在你面前
你却不知道我爱你

世界上最遥远的距离
不是我就站在你面前
你却不知道我爱你
而是　 明明知道彼此相爱
却不能在一起

世界上最遥远的距离
不是明明知道彼此相爱
却不能在一起
而是　明明无法抵挡这股想念
却还得故意装作丝毫没有把你
放在心里

世界上最遥远的距离
不是明明无法抵挡这股想念
却还得故意装作丝毫没有把你
放在心里
而是　 用自己冷漠的心
对爱你的人
掘了一道无法跨越的沟渠

－泰戈尔

The furthest distance in the world

The furthest distance in the world
Is not between life and death
But when I stand in front of you
Yet you don’t know that
I love you

The furthest distance in the world
Is not when i stand in front of you
Yet you can’t see my love
But when undoubtedly knowing the love from both
Yet cannot
Be together

The furthest distance in the world
Is not being apart while being in love
But when plainly can not resist the yearning
Yet pretending
You have never been in my heart

The furthest distance in the world
Is not
But using one’s indifferent heart
To dig an uncrossable river
For the one who loves you

- Tagore

The Dance

It started off slowly
just you and me
Acquaintance from strangers
enchanted
by the music

Shuffling of feet
weary from the past
In search of the right partner
we moved
timid and trepid

Would you dance this dance with me
Would you last this night for me
Waltz down that trodden path of life
We'd swirl to the beat in the gentle breeze

Was never good at this
both you and me
Moving out of sync but
bewitched
in the rhythm

Probbing the floor
of space and time
In search of the right answers
we moved
cautious and chary

Would you dance this dance with me
Would you last this night for me
Waltz down that trodden path of life
We'd swirl to the beat in the gentle breeze

Would you fall in love with me
Would you in your heart want me
Waltz through the sea of faceless people
We'd be together indefinitely

This song is ending
But I don't want it to stop
Would you retreat to your seat or
would you keep dancing

For us
For love
For eternity.
============================================
Now all it needs is a tune...

Stealing

What happens when some things are missing and you can't seem to find it, no matter where you've searched? It used to be in that secret hiding place, shrouded in secrecy, but it's just - gone.

I think they're probably stolen.

Not that it's anything expensive; in fact, it's a miracle that anyone would want anything like that in the first place. It's old, uncouth, and empty for most parts, and unfathomable to myself, let alone anyone. I'm not blaming anyone for it, in lieu of my messy and disorganised nature. By the time I realised it's already gone.

Kudos to burglar though. Slowly but surely, more of it goes missing everyday. The thing, although generally meaningless (unless u assign it one) is usually guarded and protected by me - for sentimental reasons if anything. After all, when you've owned something this long (for as long as I can remember), some form of attachment is bound to form.

I'm not putting the blame on anyone; such theft usually occur for no reason. I'd gladly part with it to you, as long as you find some good use for it and hopefully need it more than I do. Just as long as you're not kleptomanic. It would be quite an insult to me if something that I'd value so much is being reduced to the status of a mere playtoy.

Morever, stealing is obviously wrong,
especially when it's your heart, mind and soul that's been stolen.

Disciplined, diligent bastard. That's what I wanna be. Henceforth, my timetable shall be as follows:

0000-0400h: Study
0400-0800h: Sleep
0800-0900h: Eat
0900-1200h: Sleep/swim
1200-1300h: Lunch
1300-1800h: Library
1800-2000h: Dinner
2000-2200h: Library
2200-0000h: Jog/Gym/Rest

And by the end of the month, I shall be the fittest geek with the biggest pair of eye-pods. Or I'd be dead. It would either be the end of the regime or the end of me.

Venus is leaving the building. Not that anything's happening now, but I can almost feel it. Or maybe the temple's just closed for maintenance. Since when have I become so insecure about myself anyway? Damn I HATE mid adolescence and egocentrism.

Of Penchant - A Late Autumn Morning's Dream and The Nearness Of You

"It's not the pale moon that excites me"

It was dawn. The early morning cast the room into shadows of blue. But all was serene and peace.

"That thrills and delights me,"

Enwrapped in my arms, she lay in sweet slumber with the innocence of a baby at rest. MY baby at rest. I stroked her gently, running my fingers along the contours of her arms in rhythmic caress with each silent breathe she drew.

"oh no It's just the nearness of you"

An empty room. A congregation. I don't even know what we were waiting for, not that it mattered - as long as we waited together. Then the music played - in our heads - and I asked,

'Wanna dance?'

"It isnt your sweet conversation
That brings this sensation,"

Four left feet in motion isn't exactly a pretty sight, but who cares, as long as we enjoyed ourselves. We tripped, she giggled, I laughed, and we spun the world around.

"Its just the nearness of you"

Flashback to that morning.

"When youre in my arms and I feel
you so close to me"

Connected hearts, separated by the veil of fabric, undulated our bodies in synchrony.

"All my wildest dreams come true"

In that epiphany, time, space and us were an entity; inseparable in that moment of eternity.

"I need no soft lights to enchant me"

Then she stirred, like a lost kitten and peered to awakening. I just melted.

If you'll only grant me the right
To hold you ever so tight"

And then I awoke, and morning has broken.

"And to feel in the night the nearness of you."

I've never really been a dreamer, but I've been dreaming alot lately. And it's not helping by the fact that it's happening 24/7 - be it awake or asleep. But at least it was a beautiful one. Still trying, and still failing miserably.

Once again, the time comes for my semester-al projection of grades, and a guage of the kinds of effort I've put in this sem:

Translation and Interpretation: B
Logic: B+
Adolescence Psych: B
Group Dynamics: B-
Language and Cognition: B

Overal score: 3.5

And there goes my 2nd upper dreams. Well, they don't call it a dream if it requires u to put in some effort instead of just fantasizing about it.

13

trying
but failing miserably

with thoughts
cycling 13 times

because
it's your number

All Man are poets in the face of their muse, and all poetry are senseless in the absence of them.

Something academic and less introspection for a change, on war and logic.

Candle

A chill
A thrill
A flicker

And then it's gone

Love burns
But is it enough
to melt her heart?

Who's that special friend?

All my friends are special. Personally, I do not see the point in distinguishing between my 'best' friend, 'special' friend, 'normal' friend, etc. To accord that status of 'friend' is special in itself, anything beyond that and I'd consider them 'family'. The rest of the people I know are just 'associates'. Thus in conventional sense, THE special friend would be that someone that borders between 'family' and 'friend' - J.

J and I were classmates since 13, but he was always the introverted-Asperger's type, high in academics but low on spoken words. J was the sort of typical late bloomer you would see in a mono-ed school; it was only 2 years later that he started opening up and socializing - branded apparel, styling hair, shopping, acne-pimple creams, girls - basically all that associated with the self-image-conscious and girl-crazy phase. Back then, I was (still am) the extroverted kid who thinks he is too cool to be hopping onto the bandwagon of puberty and desperately clinging on to the remnants of childhood. We belonged to the group of students who loved being in school for its post-schooling hours - sitting around in the classrooms, playing ball in the courts or the field, roaming about the neighbourhood market. For me, schooldays since primary school ended after 6, regardless of lessons.

But somehow, we talked - and clicked. I was never a 'phone' person and I guess I never will be. I can never fathom how people can just pick up that 'thing' and rant on relentlessly about anything and everything under the sun. I'm more a 'people' person, where I simply do and if you happen to be there, well I'm thankful for your company. And we are as different as anyone can be. He's 'I', and I'm the big 'E' (In MBTI sense). He's smart, I'm lazy. He's athletic, I'm the choir boy. I'm indifferent, he's amoral. I'm "933" while he's "987". He doesn't drink coke and I ingest anything that's sweet and/or salty. We are only similar because of the ways we want to be different. In the developmental era where people crave to be different, we define our own alternative and our attraction for the Arts. We were always the 'cool' dudes, the ones that dared to be different, and too snobbish to follow the mainstream adolescent 'coolness' of the cigarette-smoking rebel.

In a way, we are both special to one another. Outside school, we are perfect strangers. He would go do his own thing and I would go on "singing my bollocks off" in whatever time I have in my ECA, spending the rest of my time with 'le choristes'. The only common factor we have was a love for movies - the more obscure the better. I grew up watching 'cinema cinema cinema'; fantasizing and creating own plotlines to the numerous shows that I was too young and poor to watch. I never really knew the reason for his penchant for films, not that it matter. And it definitely helped that there was a functional neighbourhood cinema that we would go once every blue moon. Like that time when we caught 'ID4' with the cinema all to ourselves, plucking on the peeled leather for seats as the action on screen heat up.

Then came junior college where we got divided (unfortunately) into neighbouring classes, mine with the boring brainiacs and his with the funky all-rounders. And our times together just got less and less. By then I was a full fledge amateur singer and barely had time for school (not that I was interested anyway). But each time we meet - by chance - it's as if we've never left. The two and a half years of conscript soon came and went, and we never spoke a single word to each other. Not until a chance meeting on the streets in one of the rare weekdays towards the end when we were both clearing leave did we reconfirmed our existence in the lonely planet. And we were out playing pool 2 days later.

So now he's in the aNUS (that's "a" for "americanised"), doing time in chemistry engineering while I'm the lowly F.Arts student. His penchant for the alternative has now moved on to Indie bands, while I'm more into obscure band sound/European jazz (NOT the likes of Diana Krall). Our contacts now are limited to mainly online, where we trade songs, movies, or just girl-bashing in general. In fact, the last time we went out was for a B & W indie flick called "coffee and cigarettes", which seemed more theatre than film.

Our relationship is like every commitment-phobic's dream. No hassles, no frills, no strings attached. There to call on whenever in need. In a way, we are bordering on taking each other for granted, but is it not every relationship built and based on trust? Time may make us drift apart, but the bond (we believe) would always be there no matter what.

To quote, anonymously off the internet, "People say true friends must always hold hands, but true friends don't need to hold hands because they know the other hand will always be there." Holding hands are for girls and Bangladeshi workers, and we're way too cool for that.

How would you describe your family?

Like many adolescence of my generation, I fall 'victim' to the 2-child policy advocated by the government in the 80s, being the younger offspring behind my elder sister. Together with my blue-collared-made-it-big father and homemaker-turned-florist, we form the standard nucleated family structure, like most other households in Singapore. We stay in HDB, my father drives a pickup, my sister just bought her own car; life couldn't be better nor more normal.

I have been blessed with most of the essential needs required of a healthy and fulfilling childhood: a comfortable life - with the occasional trips overseas every now and then, enrichment lessons in the arts - without being overwhelmingly heavy, and most important of all, freedom. The ample room to grow, explore and embark on a journey of discovery at my own pace. Since 9, I've been coming home past 6-7 independently, consistently everyday, and not a whimper of complain or reprimand from the authoritative figures. I suppose it did not hurt to be academically consistent all this while too and being streamed into the top class of the school assured them the calibre of my friends. There was simply no cause to doubt the assumption (which was true) that I would be loitering around in school playing or just hanging out with friends.

The word 'curfew' simply did not feature much in this household. It is either the shrewd conditioning or luck since young that there really was no reason to rebel or 'test the system'. Save for the occasional shouting matches amongst siblings and family every now and then, my sister and I were generally obedient kids, and my parents liberal enough to not keep a tight reign of things. The unwritten rules simply changed as I grew up. 'As long as I was back in time for dinner' in primary school became as long as I was back AFTER dinner in secondary, and it soon became as long as I was back before the last public transport. By the time I was in doing time in the conscript, there were times they did not even know if I went home or not. And not that it mattered - to us. The level of trust was already established, and I was on my way to becoming a responsible adult.

That is not to say they were not caring nurturing parents either. The successes in life do not happen by chance, and I my pre-school years were highly protected and enclosed. That means no playground (which may account for my lack of athleticism), and my playmates rarely had the chance to come in my house and vice versa. During playtime, we would be separated by the grilled gates, as my friend sat on concrete and I sat on parquet. The fact that there was never any domestic help in the household meant more time with my family; I can still recall fondly of the storybook times cuddled in my mother's lap, or the prancing about with my sister atop the coffee table and sofa, of mythical tales and legends.

My sister and I are worlds apart. I am extrovert and she is introvert. I am tall and she's not. She comes to me for advice and I dispense them. Sometimes, in a warped kind of way, I feel more like the elder sibling - looking out for her, bossing her around even, and she is nice enough to let me have my way with her most of the times. The passage of time has left us drifting further apart however. I'm staying in campus and she sleeps at 12. Some days when I am home for the weekend, I hardly get to see her. But I'm not pushing the alarm button yet, you know how the saying goes, "good friends don't hold hands because you know the hand's always there". Although we run risk of taking each other for granted, burying ourselves with social and academic obligations, is it not all about trust in a long distance relationship? I trust I'd be there for her and vice versa, and that to me is good enough.

That is not to say this picture-perfect world is not flawless. I know for a fact that the relationship between my parents are not exactly lovey-dovey, but they're not exactly at the stage where they are 'keeping it together' for the kids either. Sometimes, I get the feeling that they would be wondering why they got married to each other in the first place. But then again to be fair, most people end up marrying one another on the facade of love, only to find that not to be the case. Some marry for sex, some to have children, some for companionship, but in the case of my parents, I suppose she said "yes" simply because he asked. Romanticism was not really in vogue back then, and people simply did what they got to do.

My mother is the purist's traditionist. She rejects all novel ideas, hates milk and chocolates and is a closet racist. When it comes to my dad, anything goes. He is like a big kid - we trade favours, drinks, even lewd jokes. And every year, they'd never fail to go on an overseas retreat - to quarrel. So much so that in recent years I've given up being the mediator and give the trips a miss, however enticing. I would not even describe it as a 'love-hate relationship', since I certainly sense no love between them, and definitely no hate either. Does it mean that at some point of time that everything becomes mechanical and people remain together "for sentimental reasons"?

In assigning an appropriate descriptive for my family, 'dysfunctional' would just about sum it up. My parents love me but not each other. I love my parents but I do not miss them. I love my sister but we do not talk. In a way, we're similar like the rest of the pigeon-holed communities within the blocks of flats, and yet each unit has his own story to tell. A manifestation (of sorts) of the personal fable maybe, where I'm unique – not necessarily in a good or bad way, and so is my family. Then again, I'll bet other adolescents feel the same way too.