I'm in a stitch.
There're things that need to be done, and I know I'm not in the mood for doing it; I'm just not in the mood for doing anything now, honestly.
Best part of all this is my lack of reason for this inertia.
I'm thirsty, but I ignore the parch; hungry, but the I starve the urge; restless, but I slay the instinct.
Guess I'm stuck here for awhile.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Something Out Of The Blue
It hit me while I was on the bus on one of those early-morning-bus-rides-to-work that I've grown to hate so much. I know they say when work becomes uninteresting you should just walk away, but I've got other things to worry about. Maybe one of these days I'll leave and just serve people coffee while I slack the day away.
Maybe one day, but I digress.
I was on the radio, trying to forget the fact that nothing is worth going to work for, and it came - this song I've forgotten.
Now that I've come to think of it, I dont' remember the song now... But it was there, playing in my ear and forcing its way into my memories. But sure as hell it made me remember.
It was the month of August 2005. Just a normal day at work for the rest of us. I was serving NS then, and it was one of the most unfulfilling positions you can find yourself in at anytime.
Guys reading, don't deny it - that period of time when you're inside sweeping up after everyone and being screwed inside out every single day - not fun. Whatever 'experience' you took out of it isn't worth shit when you go out into the work force and see other people from your batch in school (namely the women) already getting work experience while you're still stuck at "Erm... I did journalism for the SAF?"
Reality check - go ask around and see if any emlpoyer will even bat an eyelid about your NS experience.
The only thing, in my opinion, that was worth it would be the company of like-minded souls stuck in oblivion with you. Kudos to all the people who spent it with me - BMT, HQARMCEG, PNR, and BMT2 - t'was my honour to have met you.
So the story goes - I walk into the office that day, and the other NSFs were busy chatting in the artists' room. It's our usual fare of bitching about the boss and wondering what the hell we're to do to spend the day at the office. I joined in when they picked up on the slacking members of the community, and that's when the phone call came.
Someone whom I haven't met for a long time was over the phone. It sounded bad. There was this sorry tune in his voice, like he's stole something from my cookie jar.
"Do you know Adrien Seow?"
Fuck.
That was the guy who showed me what it was like to have a buddy in the army. We did everything together - I was the new guy and he protected me and showed me how it all fit together. Times in the office were bearable because I had his company. We shared secrets and promises, chatted our days away and slaved for superiors when we weren't chatting.
"He committed suicide yesterday morning."
He broke our promise.
"We don't know what happened. He left a note for his family."
He said we won't ever do it without telling the other person.
"We are carrying out investigations now. I'll let you know when the funeral is."
Silence. The dead tone of the phone stung my ears.
I remember now. It was Michael Buble. He was always wanting me to teach him how to sing. I never did - told him that I didn't know how to teach it, it was just something I could do. He'd get angry and kick up a fuss about how I was selfish and go out smoking. One day he came to work and told me he got a Michael Buble dvd so he could practise singing.
I never did say goodbye. Maybe it was just too hard.
Adrien, I remembered. And I'm sorry.
Maybe one day, but I digress.
I was on the radio, trying to forget the fact that nothing is worth going to work for, and it came - this song I've forgotten.
Now that I've come to think of it, I dont' remember the song now... But it was there, playing in my ear and forcing its way into my memories. But sure as hell it made me remember.
It was the month of August 2005. Just a normal day at work for the rest of us. I was serving NS then, and it was one of the most unfulfilling positions you can find yourself in at anytime.
Guys reading, don't deny it - that period of time when you're inside sweeping up after everyone and being screwed inside out every single day - not fun. Whatever 'experience' you took out of it isn't worth shit when you go out into the work force and see other people from your batch in school (namely the women) already getting work experience while you're still stuck at "Erm... I did journalism for the SAF?"
Reality check - go ask around and see if any emlpoyer will even bat an eyelid about your NS experience.
The only thing, in my opinion, that was worth it would be the company of like-minded souls stuck in oblivion with you. Kudos to all the people who spent it with me - BMT, HQARMCEG, PNR, and BMT2 - t'was my honour to have met you.
So the story goes - I walk into the office that day, and the other NSFs were busy chatting in the artists' room. It's our usual fare of bitching about the boss and wondering what the hell we're to do to spend the day at the office. I joined in when they picked up on the slacking members of the community, and that's when the phone call came.
Someone whom I haven't met for a long time was over the phone. It sounded bad. There was this sorry tune in his voice, like he's stole something from my cookie jar.
"Do you know Adrien Seow?"
Fuck.
That was the guy who showed me what it was like to have a buddy in the army. We did everything together - I was the new guy and he protected me and showed me how it all fit together. Times in the office were bearable because I had his company. We shared secrets and promises, chatted our days away and slaved for superiors when we weren't chatting.
"He committed suicide yesterday morning."
He broke our promise.
"We don't know what happened. He left a note for his family."
He said we won't ever do it without telling the other person.
"We are carrying out investigations now. I'll let you know when the funeral is."
Silence. The dead tone of the phone stung my ears.
I remember now. It was Michael Buble. He was always wanting me to teach him how to sing. I never did - told him that I didn't know how to teach it, it was just something I could do. He'd get angry and kick up a fuss about how I was selfish and go out smoking. One day he came to work and told me he got a Michael Buble dvd so he could practise singing.
I never did say goodbye. Maybe it was just too hard.
Adrien, I remembered. And I'm sorry.
Monday, May 15, 2006
The start of a new week...
... brings hope to many, dread to some, but to most of us, it's this feeling of stagnancy that we all have come to accept as part and parcel of our uninteresting life.
Monday morning, and the boss says he wants a meeting with me. Only thing is the asshole ain't in the office right now, so I'm reduced to ranting my ass off and hoping he gets an eyebrow twitch out of it.
Besides that, I'm pretty psyched that it's Cupcake's first day at work today. I hope they're treating her well, or there'll be more eyebrow twitches to go around.
The office resembles the dull, boring image portrayed by tv sitcoms and written books, only less interesting. But if there's any one medium that brings to life the wholesome dead-ness of it all, it has to be the indy-films.
Imagine this -
A dry grey day with a morning haze coming down upon the denizens of a developing country. There are people walking all around as the camera tilts down - they resemble the bits of litter on the floor; going with the motions of the air current.
As we get a closer look at the people moving to and fro, we see upclose their clothing and faces - cookie-cutter expressions on cookie-cutter fashion - all in-sync with the morning hue. The sound of their heels is drowned out by the traffic - amazingly loud cars that scream for attention.
We zoom into an alleyway, forgotten and ignored by the busy people rushing off to be unimportant. The litter seems to drifts out from there and onto the streets, but there's always more to spare from the alley. It once had a name, but years of neglect has torn its identity asunder, leaving no trace of it but a rusty lamppost.
The haze is not as rampant here; the warm damp of the scablands has since lost the need for polluting. The wet floor corrodes the cardboard boxes and litter, but there is simply too much to get rid of. Grime on the walls are waterfall in paradise, seemingly alive as it swirls its way down to the muddy floor where insects and pests come to die.
The first sign of life in the alley comes as a cough - cold and dry like the morning haze - as it echoes across the long valley and dissipates into the river of suits and taxis. More coughs come with every breath, and that gets lost in the mindless stream.
He looks constantly at the people passing his alley, thinking nothing of them as they do of him. He used to be one of them, but circumstance forced him otherwise.
What's more useless than useless? Well, it often depends on who's asking the question. As he sits in the corner at the end of the dingy alley, he wonders how much longer it will be before someone else forced by circumstance will take his place.
Traffic, heels, nameless faces, drifting litter - doesn't it all make sense now?
Monday morning, and the boss says he wants a meeting with me. Only thing is the asshole ain't in the office right now, so I'm reduced to ranting my ass off and hoping he gets an eyebrow twitch out of it.
Besides that, I'm pretty psyched that it's Cupcake's first day at work today. I hope they're treating her well, or there'll be more eyebrow twitches to go around.
The office resembles the dull, boring image portrayed by tv sitcoms and written books, only less interesting. But if there's any one medium that brings to life the wholesome dead-ness of it all, it has to be the indy-films.
Imagine this -
A dry grey day with a morning haze coming down upon the denizens of a developing country. There are people walking all around as the camera tilts down - they resemble the bits of litter on the floor; going with the motions of the air current.
As we get a closer look at the people moving to and fro, we see upclose their clothing and faces - cookie-cutter expressions on cookie-cutter fashion - all in-sync with the morning hue. The sound of their heels is drowned out by the traffic - amazingly loud cars that scream for attention.
We zoom into an alleyway, forgotten and ignored by the busy people rushing off to be unimportant. The litter seems to drifts out from there and onto the streets, but there's always more to spare from the alley. It once had a name, but years of neglect has torn its identity asunder, leaving no trace of it but a rusty lamppost.
The haze is not as rampant here; the warm damp of the scablands has since lost the need for polluting. The wet floor corrodes the cardboard boxes and litter, but there is simply too much to get rid of. Grime on the walls are waterfall in paradise, seemingly alive as it swirls its way down to the muddy floor where insects and pests come to die.
The first sign of life in the alley comes as a cough - cold and dry like the morning haze - as it echoes across the long valley and dissipates into the river of suits and taxis. More coughs come with every breath, and that gets lost in the mindless stream.
He looks constantly at the people passing his alley, thinking nothing of them as they do of him. He used to be one of them, but circumstance forced him otherwise.
What's more useless than useless? Well, it often depends on who's asking the question. As he sits in the corner at the end of the dingy alley, he wonders how much longer it will be before someone else forced by circumstance will take his place.
Traffic, heels, nameless faces, drifting litter - doesn't it all make sense now?
Monday, May 08, 2006
It's a hot cold day, and I'm on my way.
Air raid sirens sound as the planes fly in from above, their whining engines threatening to implode. On the grounds below, pilots and technicians rush to their grounded planes, each one of them praying that they would live the next five minutes.
Bombs screech, and bullets fly, hot knife through the butter of terrified troops running in all directions. A furnace erupts and mushrooms the airfield. Plane and human parts mix in a cauldron of chaos. Dark clouds ensue and rises, watching the destruction and waiting for their comrades to lurk above the battleground.
A few planes manage to take off, but are soon sent cockscrew back to the flaming ground. More screams, more blood, more chaos.
Death and destruction - my last salvation.
***
"Wake up asshole!"
A slap to the face brings new meaning to kiss of sunshine. I wake up and find myself in a room facing three brutes with medals - their faces show nothing of their intention, only the lines on their face contorting as they breathe in and out from the death sticks in their mouths.
I watch them exhale - a silver dragon flies from each of their mouths, battling and then merging to form one giant cloud of white death.
They try to make me one of their ugly club members by pummeling my face to the table, not saying anything.
"What? No apology?"
They reply with more blood.
"It must be my lucky day. You bronzes come here to beat me up personally and all..."
More pain, this time I blank out. They speak to me, but I only get echoes from the back of my head. They punch me again, their knuckles moving in slow motion but connecting full-on with complete special effects.
"Ya know, I bet you got better things to do."
"Shut it Balluchi. Shut up and sit down!"
One more punch. I'm done with them trying to take my balls away. I lunge forward and take out one of the monkeys with a bite to his neck. I taste blood that's not mine, and I get high. Nothing's going to stop me now.
I break my chair with the other guy's face, but it takes more than one try to do it. I gladly oblidge.
Two left, and I'm on a roll.
The prison officer to my right has been pretty good to me so far, and I repay him with a skullcrack - quick and easy. My forehead stings a little after that, but it's all going to go away once I get rid of them and get some rest.
The last guy is nowhere to be found.
I let my guard down. Pain follows. He slipped behind me like the slimeball he is and took a shot at me. He unloads a few more times, taking out my legs and arms. I can feel the hot metal burning my flesh as it bores deeper and deeper to the bone.
One more shot and I drop to my knees. I finally did what he told me to.
***
I can taste the snow from the cell. It's that time of the year when it gets all frosty and freezing. It's a good change from the blistering heat and boiling floors, but I wish I had a winter coat to stop the cold from killing me.
I notice someone in the cell with me - the same person who shot me in the back. I try lunging for him again, but they got smart and chained me down this time. I fight the chains, but they lacerated my wrists. The wounds from the gunshots stung, and I bellowed like the captured beast I am.
Time to settle down. He looks like he wants to talk.
"You can start by telling me who the fuck you are and why the hell you shot me in the back."
"My name is not important."
The moment of silence makes the wounds hurt even more.
"And I'll shoot you again if I have to."
The grunt starts walking around the cell, taunting me with every step he takes. He's out of reach and he knows it, taking his time and staring me in the face with that disgusting scowl. There's something different about this guy, something that makes me feel less like ripping his balls out.
"I don't know why they chose you, but I have been ordered to ask for your help."
"After you shot me in the back? I don't work for pussies."
"You were out of control. You killed an officer and injured two more."
"Tell the two I'll come back for them once I'm done with you. It's going to be long and painful."
"Shut up and listen."
"Let me go and I'll show you my way of listening."
"I can set you free, let you taste the sweetness of the world outside these four walls."
The words hit me like a ton of bricks. Sunshine, rain, rivers, clouds, snow, moon and stars. I've missed them all.
"All you have to do is deliver something for me. Once that is done, you're free to go."
"You know what I've done. I'm in this prison for a reason."
"It doesn't matter once you're out. All your records will be erased and you'll be given a new start."
"Erased. New start. Freedom."
The next morning, I was facing the metal gates that once had me bound, taking in the fresh air of freedom for the first time in twenty years. The sun's blazing but I don't care. It's melting the snow around my feet and I'm like the first green shoot of life, bursting to go and ready for anything.
And all I had to do was deliver this letter.
Bombs screech, and bullets fly, hot knife through the butter of terrified troops running in all directions. A furnace erupts and mushrooms the airfield. Plane and human parts mix in a cauldron of chaos. Dark clouds ensue and rises, watching the destruction and waiting for their comrades to lurk above the battleground.
A few planes manage to take off, but are soon sent cockscrew back to the flaming ground. More screams, more blood, more chaos.
Death and destruction - my last salvation.
***
"Wake up asshole!"
A slap to the face brings new meaning to kiss of sunshine. I wake up and find myself in a room facing three brutes with medals - their faces show nothing of their intention, only the lines on their face contorting as they breathe in and out from the death sticks in their mouths.
I watch them exhale - a silver dragon flies from each of their mouths, battling and then merging to form one giant cloud of white death.
They try to make me one of their ugly club members by pummeling my face to the table, not saying anything.
"What? No apology?"
They reply with more blood.
"It must be my lucky day. You bronzes come here to beat me up personally and all..."
More pain, this time I blank out. They speak to me, but I only get echoes from the back of my head. They punch me again, their knuckles moving in slow motion but connecting full-on with complete special effects.
"Ya know, I bet you got better things to do."
"Shut it Balluchi. Shut up and sit down!"
One more punch. I'm done with them trying to take my balls away. I lunge forward and take out one of the monkeys with a bite to his neck. I taste blood that's not mine, and I get high. Nothing's going to stop me now.
I break my chair with the other guy's face, but it takes more than one try to do it. I gladly oblidge.
Two left, and I'm on a roll.
The prison officer to my right has been pretty good to me so far, and I repay him with a skullcrack - quick and easy. My forehead stings a little after that, but it's all going to go away once I get rid of them and get some rest.
The last guy is nowhere to be found.
I let my guard down. Pain follows. He slipped behind me like the slimeball he is and took a shot at me. He unloads a few more times, taking out my legs and arms. I can feel the hot metal burning my flesh as it bores deeper and deeper to the bone.
One more shot and I drop to my knees. I finally did what he told me to.
***
I can taste the snow from the cell. It's that time of the year when it gets all frosty and freezing. It's a good change from the blistering heat and boiling floors, but I wish I had a winter coat to stop the cold from killing me.
I notice someone in the cell with me - the same person who shot me in the back. I try lunging for him again, but they got smart and chained me down this time. I fight the chains, but they lacerated my wrists. The wounds from the gunshots stung, and I bellowed like the captured beast I am.
Time to settle down. He looks like he wants to talk.
"You can start by telling me who the fuck you are and why the hell you shot me in the back."
"My name is not important."
The moment of silence makes the wounds hurt even more.
"And I'll shoot you again if I have to."
The grunt starts walking around the cell, taunting me with every step he takes. He's out of reach and he knows it, taking his time and staring me in the face with that disgusting scowl. There's something different about this guy, something that makes me feel less like ripping his balls out.
"I don't know why they chose you, but I have been ordered to ask for your help."
"After you shot me in the back? I don't work for pussies."
"You were out of control. You killed an officer and injured two more."
"Tell the two I'll come back for them once I'm done with you. It's going to be long and painful."
"Shut up and listen."
"Let me go and I'll show you my way of listening."
"I can set you free, let you taste the sweetness of the world outside these four walls."
The words hit me like a ton of bricks. Sunshine, rain, rivers, clouds, snow, moon and stars. I've missed them all.
"All you have to do is deliver something for me. Once that is done, you're free to go."
"You know what I've done. I'm in this prison for a reason."
"It doesn't matter once you're out. All your records will be erased and you'll be given a new start."
"Erased. New start. Freedom."
The next morning, I was facing the metal gates that once had me bound, taking in the fresh air of freedom for the first time in twenty years. The sun's blazing but I don't care. It's melting the snow around my feet and I'm like the first green shoot of life, bursting to go and ready for anything.
And all I had to do was deliver this letter.
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