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.


Friday, September 19, 2008

It felt like one of Calvino's train stations. Those neon lit stations that remind you of some indecipherable past. The train is unspectacular. I sit alone in a cabin. I get the feeling that I'm a long way from the front.

It doesn't matter.

The spectacular happens anyway. The train careens off the tracks into a desert. It keeps travelling, without a railroad beneath it. This goes on for days.

All day outside my cabin window, all I see is dust. I wait for hours to see some sky. At one point, I imagine the desert as a narrow strip, like a beach. A narrow strip of sand, animal bones, buried treasure and pale yellow shrubbery.

After a few days, I forget where I had been headed to. Perhaps it was a terminal in the city. A crowded station where the teenagers slept on the benches and the turnstiles believed they were the cogs that moved the city.

Perhaps there was nobody at the station.

As it turns out, there was no station. The train lumbers to a stop with its first two cabins submerged in a gaping hole where desert sand used to be. People took photographs. They took turns to take photographs. They smile and show peace signs to the cameras. One of them put his hand on the wreck and gave a thumbs up to the pointed camera, believing as it clearly did, that the train was some relic.

When a train wrecks, nobody remembers where it was going. People only remember where it fell over. They arrive with their keen senses of journalism. And they report.

This is not my report. This is my port.


Genusfrog [ 12:02 pm ]


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