Youngest kid of six with an inferiority and black sheep complex, but determined that God saves not just his soul to heaven but the remainder of his manic-depressive life, so others won't say he became a Christian and remained a jerk.


On identity
i won't be transparent before i'm opaque. and you'll get to know me starting from the small things: who my favourite bands are. what kind of movies i like. who are my heroes.

On Christianity
I’m convinced that when confronted with sincere, real love, the Jesus factor will become obvious. But let’s not plant the cross before we carry it. I’m not trying to con you.

On dreams
Some dreams are meant to be achieved. I know that. But maybe other dreams are meant to drive us, privately. Never known to anyone but ourselves.


On melancholy
It is a sadness that, when choosing between crying and sighing, will choose sighing. I'd almost say that melancholy is being sad about sadness itself.

On memory and nostalgia
It saddens me when life moves forward and people decide that certain things are worth forgetting.

On language
I've learnt that the word irregardless is filed as a non-standard word in the English language. That's a lexicographer's way of saying it's not a real word.

On politics
Crowds are fickle things. So when we stand in the thousands and cry against the present government, do we know who we're actually crying for?

On society
People always want the best for themselves. But I want to sometimes take second or third or fourth best, just so that the loser down the road doesn't always have to come in last. It must feel like shit to always come in last.

On growing old
Leasehold property make me feel sad. It doesn't matter how old the family photos are that you put on your wall. It's your family but it's not really your wall.

On philosophy
I ask you, if God loves everyone, and if God is also incapable of loving evil, how can there be such a thing as an evil man?

On a daily basis
One line quips, like this.


Monday, June 05, 2006
Maybe this is just a dream. Maybe i'll wake up from this as a Colombian druglord, with one of those moustaches, a name like Marquez, two bodyguards outside my bedroom door and Miss Colombia lying next to me. Maybe it'll be like a nightmare, all these hounding editorial problems crept into my night's sleep because, perhaps, just prior to falling asleep, i was reading a newspaper story that misspelled my name, and while turning the pages of that newspaper, i came across the cinema listings, and just because of that, i fell asleep and dreamt up a life as a Malaysian 25 year old working as a fulltime subeditor/part-time filmmaker subbing stories about people who run foul of the law and making movies about people who get mysteriously killed. Maybe i'll wake up as soon as i hit "Publish Post" and find myself in this bed, large enough for five, with cheap liquor on the bed-side table, a ceiling fan slowly swirling above me, and the yellow Colombian sun casting weird venetian shadows on my yellow mansion walls. There's a rifle within arm's reach. I can feel my moustache. And as i bat my eyes and realise that the 25 year old Malaysian experience was just a dream conjured from some exhausted slumber, Miss Colombia rustles in her sleep, whispering "Marquez, Marquez...", and i realise that everything, for now, is ok.

Click "Publish Post" now.

Like... now.



Genusfrog [ 1:15 pm ]


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