Less than 12 hours away to my last production here at Raffles Players and even though I have been ironically reduced to a non-speaking character, I would give nothing less to just stand on stage and remember every single moment I have before, soaking in that atmosphere of euphoria clouded with overwhelming fear and a subtle sigh of relief.

And because I can no longer control my emotions or the urge to write a farewell message to the people I will sorely missed, I shall begin now. Perhaps a tad too early, but never a moment too late.

"I regard the theater as the greatest of all art forms, the most immediate way in which a human being can share with another the sense of what it is to be a human being." - Oscar Wilde

Above and beyond the intrinsic nature of drama as a subset of the arts, Players has been a home and family to my bliss and likewise sorrows.

It is always difficult for people to comprehend or even at the very least, attempt to understand, the trials and tribulations we undergo in the days leading up to a production. Days of understated toiling are often masked behind the true genius of our production and despite not always getting full-out recognition, I am sure we are more than satiated with the fruition of our hard work and the conceptualization of our desires. It is less so important for others to acknowledge the immense hard work each and everyone one of us contributes to the success of our productions, but more so that every minute spent painting, drilling, rehearsing, flicking the light board switches, shouting and even swearing at each other is a testament to our love for each other and our strength as a family.

And it goes beyond the work we put into productions. Just being around each other emanates a kind of warmth that is difficult to reciprocate with others. The image of us being caged within the TSD (especially my batch given that we've done that, with the presence of flies or not is out of scope) and just prancing around in the darkness and feeling our emotions through our voices and actions is something I would give up anything for. But rather than saying what I miss, I want to remember and reminiscent what we did, which can become a precursor to what we will do.

To my batch: We started off very much as individualistic strangers and as much as you might have neglected this, I'm sure we could see ourselves in one way or another through our juniors when they first entered. Plain lost sheep and really noisy sheep at that. Yet, amidst the cacophony of assertive voices and an undisclosed competition to be the most noticeable, we forged a kinship that has brought us together at one. It is crazy thinking how a plethora of inherently unique individuals (and as Players, the word 'unique' carries a lot of weight) managed to find a common identity in drama (perhaps a little skanky to begin with but nonetheless a common interest). The love of drama brought us together and when I look back on Players, I will cherish every production not only because of the hard work I put in, but because of the hard work we put in, as friends and family.

And while I have enjoyed all these aspects of living my life as a Player with you, I hope this feeling is mutual. I know not if I have done enough as your chairperson but I sincerely hoped I have. Forgive me for all the times I have been a sumbag (haha) or for whatever mistakes I made that has compromised the quality of my leadership. Nevertheless, I really enjoyed serving you guys and while it was once a title to tie me down with obligation to our CCA, it is now a testament of my pride in our achievements and a position I hope I deserve from your standpoint. It has been my pleasure being the chairperson of Players and I really want to thank each and every one of you for making my life so much easier because awesomeness was the lubricant to our once-rigid system. Either way, I hope our EXCO has served you well and let's not forget our place from here on. We may be leaving Players but we are not leaving our friendships behind. While it is important to let go, we must be select in what we choose to let go. Let us cut our bonds with the bureaucracy of the school education system but continue to strengthen the ties that have helped us weather the storms.

To my juniors: I hope you have had a Wilde start to your journey in Players and I would like to apologize for not bringing all of you together right from the start. Believe me, we tried very hard to create a more holistic experience for you guys but clearly the school bears a grudge against us. Hopefully though, you have managed to find this sense of belonging we were trying to instill in you whilst working towards this production. We are all really excited by the potential of your batch because not only do you have 28 people, you have 28 people with amazing character and talent just waiting to burst forth. Although we have known you for less than half a year, we will definitely miss you now that we are gone but we look forward to a really good farewell! Like really really REALLY good (Eugenia I'm looking at you!)

Simply put, I have always envisioned Players as a second home and family I turn to for solace and comfort, to give and receive life as it is. But I no longer need to foolishly contemplate such a possibility; I know now that Players has always been my family and will continue to be.

Thank you for always being there for me (:

Days like these just beckons for something to be written but with the advent of globalization sloth, there's hardly any arguments against blogging insofar as to conventional journal writing is concerned.

I know I've said this before (many times?) but sometimes, the blog post just fills itself. I had no inspiration of mine or any idea what I'm going to write (or writing) about but here goes:

Hi. I'm. Erm. Hi.

You make no sense.

Ha. Ha.

What the hell is so funny?!

Nothing ever makes. Sense. Ha. Ha.

Freaking autistic.

Well. To be precise. Autism is actually. A disorder used to describe...
Hello?
That's gone. Too.
Sigh.
Just you. And me then.
No one understands when I'm going. through my period.

I really don't know if that contained any substance but if I didn't include this line, you'd probably think so. But even now, who's to say there isn't.

Every dog has its day and every human, a period. in one's lifetime
where everything will (hopefully) start to make sense.

But nothing ever makes. Sense.

The ultimatum: to let it go and move on.

Then ultimately, things will crumble and you can't help but wonder if it's your fault and even your obligation to step forward and intervene lest the problem is exacerbated.

But wondering is the thought of not acting and the act of just thinking.

It's very much like instinctively pulling out the wrong block from an UNO tower. In that moment before the collapse, profanities dash into the corners of your mouth and a frantic motion of gesticulating for a chance of redemption. Of course all that is too late.

And then you are left with two choices:

1) be a sore loser and leave just so you don't have to pick up the mess.

2) just stay and don't pick up the mess.

Well you have more choices but somehow the way the game is played, it seems there are only these couple of choices. More simply,

leave the mess alone

and let go 

and move on.

Then what?

A boy
and a gift from God.

To possess telepathy and be able to wield it for good and peace
and hear the silent echoes of the meek, reverberating off every river and creek.

So he would hear the pleas, the whimpering cries
swiftly across the plains and under the clear blue skies.

A mental utopia, and still a deserted wasteland
reeking of death, that pungent and putrid scent.

Send forth the dew and into the heavens, a moment of solitude
for the boy crumbles with each new found victory, now a broken fortitude.

We all know good things never last, and this too a lesson in the past
when we see how the world remembers not the works buried in the dust.

Because people don't know what the little boy sees, 
the pain he feels like a thousand stings by bees.

They celebrate his accolades when their pain is alleviated
but in other cases, things spiral out of control and his pain is elevated.

Witnesses to him crying and writhing on the floor,
they wait till he struggles for freedom no more.

And back to the cycle of relief and regrets,
and still they don't remember, they can only forget.

But the boy having sworn his tongue to secrecy
is now faced with a choice of utmost indecency.

He cannot confess the pain that he endures
but there was a way out, that he foresaw.

And so the boy took a trip in search of a gun
and he knew not much longer he could live in this sun.

The sweltering heat and blistering sores
the world can now hold him in their silence applause.

And as they took in the sight of his fall
they knew not what it meant once and for all.

Their bitter cries and undeserved shouting
made him realize that this was his calling.

And when he pulled the trigger the shot did so silently
get drowned out by the crowd and their cries oh so valiantly.


Once witnesses to him crying and writhing on the floor,
they see that he struggles for freedom no more.

It's difficult to upkeep (ostensible) perfection because there is an inherent fear of stumbling with every giant leap you make. Yesterday you went to the moon but you forget you need to make the journey back as well. Sometimes we forget; life isn't a one-way trip to success and fanfare. It is a challenge to sustain your achievements amidst the tsunami of emotional wreckage filling the holes in your heart.

And when you look at a report full of distinctions, it comes as no surprise that one would be devastated by a 7th percentile. That moment of folly, recollecting what went wrong then and how no one ever anticipated its imminent arrival, the thoughts that seem so surreal flood the city lights and drown your  inner voice as you search for immediate recuperation in solidarity.

But this isn't about grades per se. We all know life is full of stumbles and it cannot be more true to say that the higher you climb, the harder you fall.

It really comes as a stumble to experience that feeling of screwing up. When your life is filled with perfections and you still know you fucked up. Literally crumbling into the monsoon of emotions, thrown and whirled away because you are afraid to sift out the real feelings and those that you artificially injected to bland the musky smell and rigid taste to it.

When life gives you failures,

you know there's no going back.

Fear
gives you clarity
and just a tinge of reality
when you realize everything you fought for is gone

Fear
is the root of insecurity
wears the mask of false sincerity
only to break your  bones with stones and dart the heart

Fear
the heart of bestiality 
a wild so extreme that breaks this parity
the perfect balance between life and death

Fear
the rule of insanity
set to incite lost hope and kill all free-
dom, left to cuddle in your own pool of charity.

A broken ball.

Seeking to return to itself in all entirety; to be whole again; to be fat and round; to ease around the tension of friction and frolic about aimlessly, moving in tandem with the force applied to its cushy surface.

Much less to hope for, much more to miss.

Now but a broken ball, beyond a shape recognizable and therefore stripped of its deformity. It has since been abolished from the class of its once-comrades and now it lies alone, the air sucked out of it. Deflation has never hit worst since the Great Depression (or was that a recession now?).

Flattened by societal's pressure, the ball only hopes to be reinstated its ostensibly lowly position as, well, a ball. To be kicked around in the fields and chewed on by beastly creatures, to be left sulking alone in the rain only to be retrieved by that irresponsible kid upon request by the incessant nagging of his mother, to be thrown into the cage with his friends, forced to be side-by-side with things he didn't like and yet grown to accept.

Because now, the bitter things that made life distasteful actually gave it a taste to remember. And it is still too late to reminisce about all these because the blandness of nothing-to-come has slowly gripped it in fear and helplessness.

Like a batter without a cake to become, like a court without kids to play and fight in, like a home without a family to hide in.

Like a life without a reason and a lie without a truth. What good is there in being a half-ball if there is no reason to be half-not-a-ball.

We get lost in our journey back to where we started. We forget why we are who we are and we only think things are going to get better. Perhaps not then.

Truth is, sometimes the beginning is always the best and when we realize it, it's far too late to journey back.

The only way is forward.

That is not to say you can't make a full circle.

It just takes balls.