I was doing my usual routine again tonight. Work, talking on MSN and Facebooking. You know, I have to admit that life has been VERY different since Jayden and I had a fall-out on April 1st. You probably would have noticed that right after that, I haven't been updating frequently as I did.
It's weird to hear, and highly patronizing of me, if I were to say that I found absolutely very little reason to do what I used to do - blogging, photoshopping, researching and plurking or whatever. But, for the record, everything's okay now, and we're talking again.
For a period of time I went around looking for something to fill up this empty space where my drive was. Along the process, I found new friends, did some new things and had a bit of fun. If there were anything good to come from this fallout, it would be that I've found a couple (or a few, rather) of people I really enjoy hanging out with.
I'm almost a year into National Service, and in one year I've made major decisions that I may or may not regret in life later. I've made decisions my parents would kill me over and I've made "hard decisions" that, not surprisingly, I took very lightly. In a year, I've moved on to the other extreme of the spectrum.
But I can't help to think that I've let my reigns go too early, too fast. I don't think much about philosophies or creative projects anymore. No. I've lost the mood to do all I did before. It finally dawned on me, today, that I don't feel like a complete, functional, intelligent human being. I've, instead, become a gossip queen with a plastic mask and synthetic leather shoes. A knock on my chest and you'll hear it hollow and thin.
There are times I feel I've crossed the line and rolled over some of my dear friends in our conversations or my approach to them. I barely listen or read intently as I used to. Impatient and disorganized. If you, my friends, are reading this, and agree, and I have offended you, then, please, forgive me.
My biggest regret, really, is that I've lost quite a bit of my skill in writing and English. My thoughts are highly disorganized now and keeping to time is getting unbearably difficult. Maybe I've spent much too long in my comfort zone. Or maybe I'm OUT of my comfort zone, and I'm struggling with my feet to find a place.
I wish there was a reset button. I really do. Reset back to September of 2008, when I was fresh out of BMT and lining up to read my listing for SISPEC, and spotting Jayden lugging his bag around.
I wonder, really, what I would be like if I stuck on to SISPEC.
Who am I?
Hey, my readers.
I've been wanting to this for quite a while, and I guess it's the logical way to go - I'm converting this blog into a photoblog.
Sounds all well and good, but apparently I have no idea where to start. Gone with the sidebar (moved to the footer) and that leaves ample space for hi-res shots to be put in. There have been quite a few shots I've taken that I'd like to share but sizing it down to a width of 500px doesn't do justice to the details that I'd like everyone to see. Come on, digi-cams record in HD now, too!
Also, I'll be catering to wide-screen monitors... seeing how EVERYONE has a laptop now and every other emokid has a Macbook.
Oh I'm joking about emokids having Macbooks. Put your apples down.
I know my writings are crap, and I'm listening. So that means less blabber-writing and more mastur-snapping.
But, of course, I love writing. I mean, that's why I'm so annoying on Facebook, so I've set-up another blog purely for text. Due to privacy concerns (can't let my parents nose around), I've hidden the link somewhere on this blog. Happy searching!
I'll be back with a new layout.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
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I'm tired.  Not exactly. I'm awake. Alert. But tired.  I've been meaning to blog regularly. And I have been writing. Honest!  But I lose the mood whenever I get home. My handwritten work, chucked aside.  Maybe it's the mess in my room. Dusty, insect-infested, a vomit of colors strewn about. Clothes I never use hang lethargically in my cupboard. A sweaty bed. How ugly to look at.  I hate my room.  I want out. I need to get out. I need to kick everything away. But, no. I can't. For the witch would screech down from the clouds. And she'll get nosy. And perform an act of flattery towards me. And I'll lose my drive again. Please. Let me be. I don't need to be patronized.  I sit here on this sticky chair in silence. It's 2am... I light up a stick. A regular signal; I'm heading to bed. My finger taps the mouse. I think... I wish... one day I could bring a friend into my room and not be ashamed.  But that's just a wish. I'll clean the room someday. Hopefully, with help. No more dusty tables. No more dust balls on the floor. Aesthetic uniformity.  The witch is coming again. Remove her, please.
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Audi
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The floors are wailing again. They won't shut up. So much pain under my knees. Rocking, and rocking.
I don't want to get up.
My god. What's that. Behind the shadows, I see your face. Bright. Glowing. No... I cannot. Shyly, I turn away. Don't touch me.
But let me touch you. I strain a breath as my fingers glide over yours. Fuck you. Fuck you for making me nothing more than an object. A carton box. A broken chair. But, please. Don't move. I'm not done yet.
I'm getting used to the dark.
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Audi
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My Life
I used to shoot films to impress my lecturers. I used to write in an air of arrogance and absolute.
I used to work in the horrid conditions of a film set. Nothing more, but for the money. And for fame.
Something must have changed me somewhere. And I'm enjoying an up-turn in my life. A vast difference than the dense air of depression of February. But I'm taking life lightly, laughing off every mishap and celebrating every little success. I don't carry the weight of the world with me anymore.
Every step I take is filled with the rhythm of an orchestra. Every turn I make is a dance on the stage. And every smile I give carries a thousand words with them.
I clinch on to that night. The night we held hands. Vivid, it was. Those slender fingers and a touch filled with intimacy. I remember those hands. They once filled my heart. It's not the same person anymore. But it felt so familiar.
I buried these feelings so deeply inside, I forgot what it felt like. When these hands brought me over, my heart sank into the abyss. Waves of bittersweet feelings wash upon the walls of my chest. The feeling I had between my lips, they became familiar again.
But I know, this was just a dream. And it will last as long. The good-bye hug. And the farewell kiss. So lightly as it was. I know this could be our final one.
For tragedy is the god of my life.
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Audi
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Saturday, March 07, 2009
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I was reading a Digg article's comment section just now. I came across this heart-wrenching story user Hal90000 shared. It's worthy enough to be shared.
Here it is:
I had a friend like that once. Thing is, the ending wasn't so cute, or great.
I was young, three or four, and living in Milwaukee. My dad was mowing the lawn, my mom was inside doing laundry and watching my little brother as he slept in his crib. It was cool outside, and I was in the driveway laying down. I noticed a green snake in the grass, and I slithered over to him, because that's how he moved. The little green snake slithered over towards me as well, and we met each other on the pavement, near the grass. I talked to the snake for several minutes, and played games with it. He was my little buddy, that snake, and we had lots of fun.
Days earlier I had noticed that gum did not stick to my shoe when I walked over it, and this intrigued me. I thought I'd step on the snake, because I figured it would be a fun game, and nothing bad could happen. I stood up, and put my right foot over him, and sure enough, nothing happened. The snake was fine, he slithered onward, and seemed to be having a great time. I stepped on the snake again, assuming all was well, and would be well. Only this time, I felt something, and I heard a small crunch. I jumped back in horror, and looked down at my s shaped pal. He was red now, and he stopped moving around. Though I did not know what death was, I knew instinctively that something horrible had happened, and my immediate reaction was to run inside and pour water on the snake, to make it heal. I was sobbing at this point, and I could have filled the cup with my tears. Instead, I filled it with water from the bathtub, as it was the only thing I could manage to reach.
I ran inside and out, pouring cup after cup onto the snake in the hope that it would come back to life, and keep on slithering. I figured if I could make the red go away, he would be alright again. But he wouldn't be alright, and he'd never play any games with me again. Instead of washing the red away, I washed away my first friend. He washed down the driveway in a rush of red colored water, and his grass green color slowly turned dull. I stared in disbelief, and sobbed at what I had done. I wanted to play a game, and I thought I knew it was safe. I kicked off my shoes, and ran inside to mourn alone. Below my right small white shoe was a middle arch, and a red stained heel.
I'll never forget that day. I don't know why.
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Audi
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Wednesday, March 04, 2009
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I saw the rainbow last week. I was on duty that time, wet from the shower earlier on. It was pretty magical, really. The rainbow formed right in front of my eyes, and I had a good view from the top of the hill. I saw the end of the rainbow, or the start of it. It was there, right on Pioneer JC's tennis courts. No pots of gold, though. Only wet rubber pads.
The rainbow grew. And it grew really large. Now that same end of the rainbow was over on the KJE expressway. It was a magnificent sight. I felt so small. So tiny. I looked at it, stared at it. And they looked like ribs that hold up the sky, never will it shatter onto Choa Chu Kang.
I rushed for the guardroom's camera. And I stood up there on that hill. I've been on this hill many times, looking out. And I snapped away - my rifle hanging across my chest. It seemed pretty useless because there's no way the pictures are ever going to leave camp. But something tells me to take it anyways.
 It was pretty surreal. The sunset behind set a dramatic ambience against the dark clouds in front. The night guards gathered on the road and cars stopped on the hill. Some would take a glance, roll their eyes, and walk on. As if time has its cold grip on their throats. Others would smile, give a comment, and move off. Most, though, would stare in awe. It was only an illusion of light. There's nothing to it.
Then again, music is only mathematics in motion.
It's different nowadays. I've stopped writing anything for a very long time. My guitar is propped against the wall. My camera lays dead. It's sole purpose now is to fill up a bag that I carry around every time. A dead weight.
Maybe I'm uninspired.
Or maybe I've lost it. I've lost any inspiration to do anything. Right after I went back to being a 'professional'. It's the curse of money, I suppose. And it's been a burden on me forever.
I find that once I've been offered a paid job, every ounce of creativity or ideas I've ever had magically disintegrates. I fall back on rigid rules of 'creativity'. I fall back on elitist ideals of what is, and what isn't. The end product is rarely anything I've ever been proud of. Part of the reason why I rarely ever 'charge for (my) services'.
But what can I say?
I've only 3 dollars in my bank account. Soon enough, I'll have to bite the bullet and sit through a ton of discomfort... for survival's sake.
Maybe, along the way, I might just like it.
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Audi
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Wednesday, February 11, 2009
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I sit on the stage with posters of me laid in the dozens of rolls. A person walks up and I stand up to shake her hand. A picture is taken and I smile. A signature is drawn and the next one comes. Repeat.
I've led quite a life to sit on this stage, high above the heads of the people, but never too high for cameras pointing down at me from the balcony. I've made music that made fathers cry and children dream. I've written books that inspire and change a person with mere written words. I'd left my gun in the ground in exchange for security found in a pen. I've touched the lives of the people around me with seemingly mundane actions like a conversation or a single picture taken at the right time to forever cement that special moment of their lives for the rest of time. The very words I speak have been delicately plucked from my library of life experience.
 To some, I am everything. I have all the money and fame anyone could every enjoy.
A little girl walks up. She's young and impressionable. I stand up to shake her hand and I could see she's overcome with fear and anxiousness. Yet, she yelps in excitement at our meet. I sign another poster, unrolled without much thought from the stack, and take a photo with this girl. I thank her for coming to the event and shake her hand. She is moved to tears. I am like a god.
"Oh..." she shyly covers her little tender lips. "... is there anything you cannot do?"
I thought of that that question and I smiled. My posters hang all over the building, gently waving with every gust of wind.
"That's a very good question," I said. "I'll have to think that through. And I'll answer it in my next publishing. I'd love to know the name of this beautiful girl who presented me with this question."
Lisa, was her name. And I wrote it down on paper. I kept it in my breast pocket and patted it to assure her. A nod goodbye and I turned to the next person. What a humbling question.
Is it possible for a man to still be unhappy with himself even though he's done so much good and lived such a rich life?
Is there, really, nothing else I could do at this point of time, with all my wealth and satisfaction? If yes, then, I ask, wouldn't it be better to live in a ball, with no perception of the world outside. Surrounded in a lie of blindness to the senses with nothing to compare anything to.
Wouldn't everybody be happy, that way? After all, isn't this how most of us live our lives? In our little ball created by ourselves. What we cannot relate to from our experiences in life, we shun away. What isn't in our knowledge, is impossible.
A man who has seen death everyday will think nothing of it than a man who stares at it for the first time. A man caught up in the machine sees nothing else than the perfect machine, even if it's obsolete.
Is our bubble too big? Is our bubble too small?
Is this man happy because he dreamed of little in life, or is this man unhappy because he dreamed of too much? This man believes there is no such thing as the color blue because where he comes from, his family, his underground home, there is no such thing, and it's absurd to think there might be a color in this spectrum of light. In fact, questioning this itself grants you a ticket to the noose.
Have faith, we have it all covered, they say.
How would you answer Lisa's question?
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Audi
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Sunday, February 08, 2009
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It seems there's very little I find amusing in the material world. While others gawk at my camera, or the colorful things I produce, my reaction isn't similar but, rather, the opposite. Sadness. For the few things I feel I should be commended upon lays right in front of them but is unseen.
This camera, this guitar, these videos are nothing more but an extension of a busy convulsive mind that's raging in silence yearning to be heard across the world. Can anyone ever look at these child-like photos and say there's a reason I took this, without all its aesthetic rape?
Is this, really, a matter of perception? That my countrymen are mostly superficial idiots attracted to pretty colors, flash and bang, and casual intercourse and see nothing beyond that? Can this be extended to the rest of the world's current population?
Or is it, really, that my countrymen are highly intellectual and that they see no need to the let the world know of their musings? The things in their head, they keep to themselves, and no need to be the village savior?
In effect, this makes me the superficial idiot, doesn't it?
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Audi
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My Life
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Reflections
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