Walking up the narrow cobblestoned laneway, a wee bookshop across the T-junction caught her eye instantaneously, like honey to the bee. Hurrying her step, feet tripping over each other two too many times, she gravitated towards the shop like opposite poles of two magnets. It wasn't just any ordinary neighbourhood bookshop like the ones at home - nice, cosy and intimate. This one was virtually the opposite - unkempt, messy and claustrophobic.

Outside, an old Frenchman slouched on an upturned wooden milk crate, sipping on his freshly-made espresso. In his other hand, a brown, dog-eared book, dotted with yellow spots, loose pages jutting out from the otherwise smooth binding. He looked up as she approached the entrance, smiled at her bearing his nicotined teeth and greeted her with a warm 'bienvenue!' as he gestured towards the books inside.

It was a maze inside. She found herself having to navigate over and around the books that pouring out from the dusty shelves, onto untidy but organised piles on the floor, beside and on top of the shelves. The book covers yelled out to her in European languages - French, Italian, Spanish, Arabic and Greek. She ran her fingers along the rows and rows of books, feeling the antique cardboard, fabric and leather bindings beneath her fingers. Up above, the shelves soared to incredible heights, like Jack and the beanstalk. It was an overwhelming and humbling feeling, being surrounded by so much knowledge in such small confines. Like a kindergarten child in an Ivy League university library. She ploughed through the aisles slowly and meticulously, lingering step after step, in futile attempt to prolong the experience before the time started to tick once again in the outside world.

Take care.

It started on a perfectly beautiful Sunday afternoon in July - the very first Sunday afternoon in July. Two or three chunks of cloud floated white and tiny in a distant corner of the sky, like well-formed puntuation marks placed with exceptional care. Unobstructed by anything at all, the light of the sun poured down on the world to its heart's content. In this kingdom of July, even the crumpled silver sphere of a chocolate sweet paper discarded on the lawn gave off a proud sparkle, like a legendary crystal at the bottom of a lake. If you stared at the scene long enough, you could tell that the sunlight enfolded yet another kind of light, like one Chinese box inside another. The inner light looked like countless grains of pollen - grains that were soft and opaque and that hung in the sky, almost motionless, until, at long last, they settled down upon the surface of the earth.

(The first paragraph of Haruki Murakami's 'A Poor Aunt's Story' in 'Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman')

Take care.

Three o'clock in the afternoon
He sat on the porch
Comfortably on the garden chair
Nose buried in the softcover

Behind the rose bushes
And the evergreen tree
The wheelbarrow budding with daisies
The bees buzzing but lethargically

The heat of the sun beat down
On the sweet, lazy fragrance
Of the green stretches of grass
And the calm serenading of birds

Green leaves they sway in the wind
They ebb and flow like the waves
It could've been Seychelles or Mauritius
But it was right here in the heart

Of home.

Take care.

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.

- Oscar Wilde

Lilac Man

He stepped out of the train, announcing his grand arrival with his vibrant lilac jacket and matching pants, his white poodle trotting closely in sync at his heels. Head held up high, he gazed through his black thick-framed glasses at the road straight ahead, as if looking for something but already knowing that it was not there. He reached for his slick wallet in his pocket and meticulously placed it at the Myki sensor for a few moments, whilst his shiny ring sparkled on his left hand.

He glided out to the side of the road where the zebra crossing was. His slick hair was carefully combed backwards, leaving no strand of hair astray. He looked right; he looked left. All the time, the white poodle was obediently sitting down at his feet. In proxmity close enough to declare their master-dog status, but not too close to leave any fur on his newly-shined black and white - and pointed - Italian leather shoes. When it was time to cross, master and dog floated across the crossing to the other side, turning all heads towards the lilac aura in doing so.

Take care.

It is far easier to find a reason not to love someone, than otherwise. Rejection requires only one reason. Love requires complete acceptance.

- Adrian Tan, in a convocation speech at NTU, 2008.

Curse

I want you to know that I don't think I'll ever be able to love again.

It was the single most painful thing that someone had ever said to her. It hurt at the time, it hurt more after the fact. In all its irony, he was the one who'd moved on with his life, whilst she - the confident one who'd sailed to faraway lands years ago - couldn't find the strength within herself to forgive. To forgive herself. After many restless days and nights, the concept seemed so silly to begin with because in the whole scheme of thigns, this was so punitive. So trivial. But everytime she saw him or thought she saw him, her heart still sank ever so slightly.

Help me let go. Truly.

Take care.

Moment of truth

"You existential little shit," came the abrupt call of how-do-you-do.

She's a mess she's a mess she's a mess she's a mess, Lady Gaga spat.

Enough talking and resoluting. I have no idea how I've gotten to this point, but I'm giving myself no other choice than to face my fears. So here goes:

I'm 65 kgs. Yes, vomit blood eat shit, I'm a heavy blob of a girl. I feel disgusted and embarrassed by how I've allowed myself to come this far despite the constant intention to keep fit and healthy and look the slightest bit confident in myself. I look shit and I feel shit, which has the most nightmarish compounding effect that plays evil games in my mind.

A few days whilst at Borders, I saw an old flame. When I say old, I mean, 11 years ago. He used to be the head boy at my school, and like any other teenage boppy girl with nothing to lose, I had the biggest crush on him. I became a prefect. I taught him music. I went to his house. I found every excuse I could to follow my brother to his brother's house. 11 years on, many countries away, I bump into him and all I could do was lower my head. In embarrassment. Not knowing what else to do to stop him from hardly recognising me.

But life is so much more precious than that, isn't it? I mean, I'm tired of hiding beneath baggy and daggy clothes, tired of pretending to be so absorbed in my work that I can't take better care of myself. It's childish and downright stupid. I want to feel proud of myself once again. Be the person that I know is inside.

Therefore, I have given myself a year. A year to lose 10 kgs. It's going to take every ounce of determination in me that I can muster, but I will squeeze everything out of myself if that's what it takes.

Because I want to raise my head again and say, How d'you do?

Take care.

Two trains, seemingly alike. In all but the directions in which they were traveling. The movements so sleek and smooth, one could hardly feel the rails. They swayed. From left to right. From right to left. Gently, subtlely, like a lullaby.

She looked up from her book to gaze out the window. He looked up from his book to gaze out the window.

And for a millisecond, their eyes met. Two pairs of eyes, both glazed and dreamy. In momentary sync, they kept their eyes locked on each other whilst the trains carried them on a magic carpet up and above the clouds.

If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.

- Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

Oh, the endless pool of knowledge that the world of books provides! I wish the earth could stop turning for two years just for me to catch up on all unread magical literature - my wishlist of books to read is growing exponentially by the minute!

And then I chance upon Rachmaninoff's opuses and Edgar's serenades... Oh, I wish the earth could stop turning for another two years so that my ears can soak up the beauty of classical music!

And I stroll around my garden in the gorgeous spring sunshine, taking in whiffs of perfumed flowers, listening to the tweet-tweeting of the friendly doves and admiring how quickly the rose bushes grow... Oh, I could do this forever!

And I get a strike of inspiration from all the wonders around me, and wish I could pen the moments down. But I am overwhelmed with another strike of inspiration that leaves me wanting to just be - to just soak up the moment with no care nor agenda in the world.

Oh, there's so much to do, so little time!

My new venture

So I've quit my job. Again.

Shock-horror, not again??!

For a variety of reasons, I have finally decided that the time has come for me to move on.

Needless to say, working as an advocate in child protection has opened my eyes to a whole new level of society. Those who live in such impoverished and unfortunate circumstances. Children who grow up with Fear, Anger and Confusion constantly by their side. Children who do not realise that it is not normal for parents to be shooting up heroin and drowning in alcohol. Children who think that domestic violence exists in every household, and that they are doing a good deed by playing traunt from school to be around to see their mother being assaulted by their step-father.

Indeed, it is a whole other world of society. One which many of us acknowledge, but do not know what to do to help. One which the media highlights only when it makes a good story in the press. But it is a genuine, ingrained problem of society that would keep getting worse if we all put our heads down and minded our own business. It pains me to see that these children - the future of society - are growing up deprived from opportunities that many of us take for granted as 'given'. Without knowing better, how are they to strive to be different from the generation that brought them up?

Upon discovering that my next move is to be an Associate to a judicial officer, many asked me if this was the precursor to becoming a barrister. 'Ahh, the million dollar question, to which I have no answer,' I would reply. I'd like to think that it's simple: at this point in my career, I do not know what I'd like to specialise in yet, and there's an expiry date after which job-hopping would not be looked upon favourably.

So, with options in mind and youth on my side, I now venture into the court system in Australia. I hope that this new venture will give me more perspective into what I'd really like to be doing, and how I could continue to improve myself to be the best person and/or lawyer I can be.

Hello

I saw you online yesterday, and for the first time, I felt like talking to you. Not to reminisce on old times, nor to tell you how much I miss you. Because I don't anymore.

I felt like talking to you just to say hello. Not to ask you how life is and how work is and how your family is anymore. Just to say hello, and for you to say hello in return.

I'm thankful for everything that you've been to me, and sorry that you weren't the one I would share my life with. We would've pulled each other's hair out if that were the case. You weren't my prince, and I wasn't your princess. But you'll always be a part of me, even though you may not realise it.

That's it, really.

Take care.

They can take everything away from you, but they can't take away your mind.

The truth in that sentence rings so loud, it startles my gut. The mere thought that things so precious to me can all be taken away from me in a second sends shivers down my spine. My family. My friends. The silver lining, though, is that stripped down to the bone, they cannot take your mind away, because you are, at the end of the day in control of your thoughts and your self.

Or are you? Is there a God that is ultimately in universal control?

And if there is, doesn't being in control of your mind really mean having the faith that God will preside over all else?

Take care.

Pitter-patter

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. The raindrops splash onto the windows and slowly drip their way down to the panes. Occasionally, the minute outward splash that bounces off the panes makes its way onto the window sill. The aroma of fresh rain fills the room with a pale yet distinct blue, like the blue of a cloudless sky on a bright summer day. The hush-plush of tyres on wet tarmac ebb and flow, its rhythm picking up speed and and slowing down constantly. Hush-plush, hush-plush.

Outside, the lights of the 'G' reflect against the low clouds, lighting up the night sky like a spotlight in a dark auditorium. A train far away rumbles from east to west, its passengers spotting the illuminated windows. Along the pavement, a solitary man walks hurriedly against the direction of the traffic, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his thick fur coat, his neck huddled into his scarf. Head down, so as to avoid the increasingly heavy rainfall and chilly wind.

I close the window and snuggle under the covers, thankful for the warmth of my bedside lamp. I open my book to the page where the Musei Vaticani bookmark was last placed, and my eyes find comfort in a good story whilst my mind slowly drifts away to a land far, far away.

Take care.

My hiatus

As much as it pains me to say it, I am going to attempt to articulate as best I can the reasons behind my writing hiatus over the past year or two, and in doing so, am adamant to overcome this incredibly barren spell.

Many a time during this hiatus, I have tried to write - sitting with my fingers perched meaninglessly over the keyboard - but the words were trapped. Trapped in a maze chock-a-block with varied and confused emotions and ideas, yet so empty and sparse like the desert sand in a dust storm. I struggled immensely with articulating my thoughts on paper, a process that once came to me so fluidly, even though I had much to say. During this period, I questioned my motives for writing to a mostly-unknown audience: the internet. I questioned why I'd previously written annonymously. I wondered where my inspirations came from and who I was inspired by. I queried why writing used to give me so much pleasure.

Finally, I came to a conclusion that I need to write. Writing provides me with a way to articulate my thoughts and also my speech. It helps me to focus my energies into something positive, and to channel them into an arena which I am familiar with. When I write, I let the random words and ideas weave their way onto the page into coherent sentences. I don't necessarily plan what I want to write or how I want a piece to be structured - I just write. The sense of accomplishment it gives me is truly wonderful, and, if I may say so, addictive.

But first, I need to overcome my current verbal constipation. Oh, I have so many stories to tell you, and my plan of attack is simply to keep writing. So, please forgive me if much of it comes out as literal garbage, for I have faith that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Take care.

They never told us, in law school or otherwise
That it would be so difficult
But you're unhappy, he said
Humans are never happy, I replied

Hence revolution and modernisation
The constants in progression
That's how we've come so far
That's how we've become so fucked

How it feels to have chased a dream
An interest, a passion
To have come so far only to find
The pain has only just begun

But I must persevere, I must
I've come so far and given up much
The pain is only temporary, and
I have faith that everything happens

For a reason.

Take care.

Fragility

...that no matter how great; how important; how rich nor how underserving we may be, the morbid bells of Death strike whensoever it chooses to.

My prayers are for you, dear friend, and your family.

Take care.