Zee, sadly enough, the majority of the pics in your thumbdrive are corrupted.
Since then there has been no further communication between them, and he had built up within himself a kind of sanctuary in which she throned among his secret thoughts and longings. Little by little it became the scene of his real life, of his only rational activities; thither he brought the books he read, the ideas and feelings which nourished him, his judgments and visions. Outside it, in the scene of his actual life, he moved with a growing sense of unreality and insufficiency, blundering against familiar prejudices and traditional points of view as an absent-minded man goes on bumping into the furniture of his own room. Absent - that was what he was: so absent from everything most densely real and near to those about him that it sometimes startled him to find they still imagined he was there.
- The Age of Innocence,
Edith Wharton
i) I am a hermit. Been one since I was a kid. Back at my grandparents' house when all the cousins gathered to play, I sat in a corner in an armchair and read the entire day away.
ii) I have an amazing threshold for pain. Once, a nail dug into the side of my thigh in the pool and I swam a couple of laps before realizing that I was leaving a trail of blood behind.
iii) I used to be an atheist but now I'm not too sure anymore.
iv) I have never been in love.
v) If I ever have kids, I'll name them after my personal heroes. My daughter after the amazing Maude in Harold & Maude, and my son Seymour after the tragic hero of J. D. Salinger's Glass family.
I'll tag Zee, Stacy and Vanessa alright?
Balcony Guy is a projection my friend (who shall remain unnamed) has. He has unkempt hair that grazes his shoulders, which he usually ties up in a ponytail. But in the snapshot of him in her mind, his hair is down, bedraggled. It is dawn and he is out on the balcony, taking long, contemplative drags on his cigarette. He is leaning against the low wall, his lanky arms outstretched. Taking a last drag, he stubs it out in the ashtray (which used to hold hairwax), strides over to the bedside, kisses her eyelid, and says, "morning."
Friends, friends, you wouldn't believe how many projections have been plaguing me. They have been living in my head, walking, talking, like real people with autonomy (do we?) and doing as they pleased. I'm only afraid if we continue to live in our projections, life is going to waltz right by before we know it. Or have I surrendered long ago?
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He stopped in mid-sentence, knowing there isn't a point in following up with it. Something banal that didn't mean much when he thought it, and had meant even less when he voiced it. What he is now thinking is whether the time has come for a confrontation. He is tired. There hadn't been time to grab a cup of coffee to go because they had overslept and the train was scheduled for 07:40. He turned on his side to look at her face-on. Her eyes had that glassy countenance which reflected all but revealed nothing.
He only saw his own reflection in them. "I'm sick of talking to myself. We can't even have a proper conversation anymore," he said, halfheartedly. "You just disappear into yourself. It's like you're not even here anymore."
Trembling fingers are a mystery. Untangling the earphones, they shook so violently, I was afraid the guy sitting beside me on the train would think I am a recovering heroin addict.
We're in the middle of a heatwave right now in Singapore. It's been putting me in terrible moods. Mel Tormé wrote The Christmas Song in a blistering hot summer in a bid to feel cool. I just found this amazing video for King Of Convenience's Know How (Feist sings at the end) that someone made for a school project, and it's making me think pretty thoughts.