Because i'm stuck in singapore,

T in the park what the fuck.

All falling into place

everything must, and everything will. that is the comfort that i build my life upon. everything must eventually make sense, based on the assumption that everything happens for a reason. there will be a rational explanation, because people are ultimately rational, with discernible motivations and desires. because i want everything to make sense. because then the world is a much easier place to tread upon. because if everything means something, then one doesnt have to worry about things they cannot understand. then there will no longer be an mysteries. the magic of not knowing will be no more.

the only two shows that have captured my imagination so far is house and chuck. and well, once i really think about it, yes, it makes perhaps sense. it always does.

Today i fell asleep in the train and embarrassed myself.

yes, lets not talk about our feelings.

i have lost the sense of wonder. nothing fascinates me anymore. life is duller than jabba the hutt. the routine is killing me. the endless cycle of waking up when the world is still asleep, working, working, working. i'm nowhere near ready to start working.

i'm learning more and more about myself. and about who i want other people to see me to be. obviously that sentence was so grammatically incorrect. its all about appearances. there's no running away from that, if not one would be living in self-denial. deny oneself, and deny all else.

there's nothing exciting anymore, especially in this loneliness.

Silent scream for help

i'm probably thinking too much and too deep into it.

but i realise that i need to accept the fact that everyone is different than me. and i'm not going to find people of similar wavelengths. its time to dive into the depths of my own weirdness, and command the circus that is in my head.

Building

i am often jealous of people who can write well. it is a joy, reading a piece of writing, perhaps about nothing at all, and yet it still makes you smile. that's good writing for me. it brings colour to an otherwise dull bunch of words. and lets face it, that's boring. black and white, over and over again. the world should be a more beautiful place, and not filled with cynical fools such as myself.

no, i am not having an existential crisis.

i guess i just want an avenue away from all the work. work is drowning me in a sea of responsibility and frustration. i miss the comforts of freedom. i'm twenty. and i feel old, only because i'm not having any fun. everyone's moving on, and i'm still stuck here waiting for december to come.

there are so many things i want to do. so many things.

cutting up the edges, creasing all the pages.

who's tearing apart this paper universe?

twenty.

oh dear.

happy birthday to me

BEST NIGHT EVER

Ecstatic Fantastic

MUSE IN LESS THAN 24 HOURS