I was reading a book which probes into the mind of a dog--how they think and thus a logical explanation as to why they do every single thing that they do, some actions more oft than not a peculiar sight for our curious mind. And an interesting food for thought that was raised was how we, as humans, have become attuned to anthropomorphisms. It has long been a natural instinct for humans to regard themselves as beings superior to other (emphasis on the word other because we are as human as we are rightfully animals by classification as well) creatures of the world and perhaps, we are not wrong in undertaking such a pompous attitude. It is incontrovertible that humans are intellectually superior to the beasts that roam our (again a sign of our assertive dominance) soil and that in itself counts for everything (what money cannot buy, intelligence will earn). Yet, the pinnacle of foolery is in our natural and inherent and almost inevitable inclination to associating what other animals do with humanoid behavior. It is simple to say that a dog is happy or sad based on basic observation skills, but of which, most of our deductions are based on how we perceive emotions from the point of view of a human. A smile is of course a representation of elation and joy or just simple satisfaction but a replica of that on the features of a dolphin may not necessarily imply the same level of jubilation or exhilaration since dolphins naturally smile. It is also posited that a chimpanzee's grin is a sign of aggression or stress, much unlike our typical association with glee.

Enough small talk about animals. My point here being that humans have the proclivity for enforcing our own standards onto others, and this is most apparent and stark in our treatment and (attempts at) understanding other animals, even dogs, who we have claimed to be "man's best friend" (under what solid grounds exactly, that remains to be seen). We like to think of others (and the discussion now being inclusive of other homo sapiens) the way we think of ourselves. We first perceive others (either in a good way or bad way) solely based on how we want them to be. When somebody does something irksome and it leaves a dull first impression on you, you inevitably keep a lookout for his/her other bad habits or perks that discredits his/her character even further. We like to believe that our initial judgement of someone was and is right, and this forces us into shaping people the way we want them to, rather than who they actually are. Rather than admitting that your dog may not necessarily be happy just because his jaw resembles what we call a smile, we rather believe that our dog is more than satisfied with the way it is being treated and that it loves you. Dogs lick their owners not completely (and perhaps not always) as a sign of affection; at times, it is to gain a better grasp of what you have just eaten or come into contact with. Researchers of wild canids--wolves, coyotes, foxes, and other wild dogs--report that puppies lick the face and muzzle of their mother when she returns from a hunt to her den--in order to get her to regurgitate for them. But of course the latter two alternatives have to take a backseat (they might as well be relegated off the charts anyway) since we would no doubt prefer these licks to be forms of "kisses" rather than a beckon for vomit.

Point is, there's always more than meets the eye but that cliched, we already know. What's wrong is that we blatantly choose to ignore it. We know that there's more behind the smoked screen, but we refuse to peer deeper. Ironically, we are the ones responsible for detonating that smoke grenade and creating this haze to create this ideal facade. But really, we are only misguiding one person and one person alone--ourselves.

It's time to stop domesticating others--physically or mentally.

Said, no more counting dollars
We'll be counting stars

2013 was a year of joy and receiving; 2013 was a year of melancholy and giving. It was a time used for making merry; it was a time used for making amends. There were days of immaculate purity, the radiant sunshine reflecting off our smiles; there were days of frozen solemnity, left in silence and somber reflection. There was something new in every direction; there was something old in any direction. There was a crack of laughter and the sound of vanity; there was a crack of thunder and the sound of misery.

It was quite literally so that it was the best of times; it was the worst of times.

But I've been thinking, and always have, about the wrong things. There are always two faces to a coin but nobody ever said you had to look at both. In fact, with our eyes that are only human, we can at best register the image of one side of a coin, whilst the memory of the other is cast aside in some unlit corner of our mind, overshadowed by unprecedented fears and instances of paranoia or just pure wishful thinking. Clearly (and almost literally), all that I needed to do was to clear my mind of irrelevant thoughts that taint the purity of memories that are meant to instill happiness and elation. Perhaps it is time to count my blessings.

I guess I can be thankful for many things if I just take a step back and reconsider how the past year or two have unfolded. The very fact that these words are being forged onto a blank canvas via digital ink is a testament to my most fundamental fortune of being alive and kicking. But 18 years and counting, that hasn't been much of a pleasant blessing and I have no deliberations in taking my life for granted. After all, in taking simple pleasures in being alive, we are merely degrading our lives to the point of life and death. The question of physical existence should not be the focal point of our living for it breaches the notion of establishing a life of quality. Still, there are other things that I ought to be thankful for.

I can be grateful to be able to grasp the world albeit not in its entire entity. Notwithstanding the fact that I am color-blind, I still retain the ability to hold the world but as the world and that is perhaps no more than I can ask for. The word 'color' has never been anymore integral or life-changing than in the context of being 'color-blind' for its absence might indicate a completely different life for myself. I am thankful to be able to witness the miracles in life and at the same time, cringe at the sight of inhumane and unearthly actions. I always imagine that every human being has to be diagnose (or in God's eyes, assigned) a set number of ailments/disabilities and the fact that I have been "gifted" with that of 'color-blindness' means that I am spared from something else that could be far worse. What's not being able to see a few colors as opposed to not seeing at all?

And maybe I can be grateful for having a family, even though I would give almost anything to uproot my life here and leave for (hopefully) greener pastures. As much as I hate being at home, having a family still leaves behind some sort of unspoken security--financially and socially. I guess it would be really different to grow up with no family at all even if it means growing up in a family you always felt you never belonged in. It is better to grasp the pain and loss in having one's leg amputated than to be born an inanimate object with none to speak of. Some might argue that there is no pain in not having something since you can never lose it, but having something that can be lost (or might already be lost) just makes it all the more precious and worth protecting. Ultimately, anything that can be taken away from us should not be taken granted (but is of course often done so) and being endowed with elements that shouldn't be taken for granted is in itself a fortune and blessing (regardless of whether we actually acknowledge their importance and rarity). By extension of logic, having my family in itself is good enough to be counted as a blessing.

Or even the fact that the pursuit of veterinary science after being born in an urbanized city like Singapore is a heavily blight prospect might be faintly considered as a blessing. For one, at least I know what I want to be when I grow up. Although that also means that there is a high chance of not fulfilling such a lifelong ambition, it might already be in my fortune to know what I love to do and to know that I want to do what I love to do.

Maybe these are just worthless consolations in a bid to fight off my incessant need to focus on what has gone wrong and what hasn't been right. But who's to say such a pessimistic mentality would bring about optimal outcomes? As long as we are counting the fallen stars with the intention of restoring their glorious position in the sky, all is fine with counting our blessings that have been stricken with disaster.

But it is an arduous and tiring process...

so very exasperating.

Ranch and BBQ, and just a tinge of ketchup mired in sweet(?) chili for the perfect aftertaste. The deluxe suite of dressings left in drapes and wire-thin layers coating your tongue. Just a tad too tangy for your liking but sensational enough to satiate your momentary desire and tingle temptation. Who's to blame for no one would have ever suspected that that extra overcoat of honey mustard would leave one wringing in despair and drenched in putrid regret. And that revolting stench, our olfactory's public enemy number one, permeates every part of you. It is in your clothes, sandwiched in the pores of your bones, and in your eyes; you can practically see the smell, and taste the disgust.

Honey mustard--what's not to like. Sweet. Tantalizing. Guilty of committing licentious acts with your taste buds, a crime of titillating fantasy and all so salacious. What's there not to like? 

What's there not to see?

Two-faced, obviously. You are either honey or mustard but someone decided to throw both together and coin a new mixture. Fair enough, but insofar as layman are concerned, nobody ever suspects what the name suggests. Honey mustard? Honey (and) mustard--just another incontrovertible truth not worth staging a debate over. Wrong. You'd damn well know that ranch sauce isn't as the name suggests literally but that don't leave us questioning our hunch over what goes into honey mustard. It is honey and mustard. Still fair enough. But just because we like honey, and just because we like mustard, does not necessitate the fact that we will like honey-mustard. That is the first mistake.

Honey. It's funny how something so sweet can end up being so sticky. Like glue, it camps on the roof of your mouth, and slides down your sugar-coated tongue in a painfully slow and dragged-out motion. For it's a fool who might even consider that this honey was ever going to slide down the back of your throat. It merely enters the cave of darkness, pitch black and undetected by your own senses, and it hangs there--cold and murky. And every time you take a gulp of saliva, you feel the fluid slide back and forth, up and down your throat, and you know it is there. But nobody believes you. Honey is honey and that's as sweet as it can get. Everybody listens to the lunatic forecasting the end of the world that is ostensibly nigh but of course, not a single soul could give a rat's ass about the poor man's soul that is haunted by honey mustard. Even the ones who predict the end of the world know who's lost their marbles for good. And it certainly ain't the men that are playing God.

What the hell did I just write? Well, if somebody had listened, nobody would need to question.

And sometimes I can still feel it there.

Let's talk about dreams. They make you wonder, and sometimes they make you quiver. That's not to say that nightmares are the only kind of dreams that haunt our sleep and derail us from a peaceful night. In fact, good dreams are dreams that contain articles or elements which give us pleasure in one way or another. But its pleasure-inducing nature notwithstanding, good dreams tend to challenge who we are and who we ought to be. It is an outright confrontation against our personality and our potential; the very fact that whatever 'good' we had dreamed of remains only a dream serves only to drive a wedge between reality and wishful thinking. Does it not come down to the pitiful fact that good dreams reinforce and highlight the miserable state of our reality?

And by logical extension, the biggest dream for everybody is to live the dream. There are many kinds of dreams that are possible to unfold themselves as reality. There are ambitions and passions which are dreams that manifest themselves as professions or something we could actually become within our own down-to-earth means. Their are outcomes of dreams that are attained by pure luck and hard work, such as acing a test or clearing an interview. But there are dreams which contain supernatural elements or heights which are simply beyond our capacity to attain. Not to be confused with pessimism, these are dreams that we instantly know carry the full nuances and notions of being a 'dream'--one that is distant and will forever be a wholesome desire on our part. For that matter, it is best that it remains merely a longing from the heart but not something that is within our reach or means of fulfilling. Those are the true dreams and those are the dreams we want to steer clear away from, or at least draw a clear line between them and reality.

We often think that living the dream is the ideal way to go but these dreams that fully stand out on their own as pure, untainted 'dreams' should forever remain as intangible as they were born. Dreams of being born in another family or dreams pertaining a warp or metamorphosis in personality should be stashed away in our realm of wonder and kept to moments when we ponder in solitude. These dreams keep us in check and clamp us down to earth. They remind us of who we are not so that we can continue to be who we are to the best of our ability. These dreams tell us that deep inside, there is an ugly desire to be something or someone else but if that dream really did take flight, who knows what else would. The butterfly effect is not simply a wild conjecture and it would be too late to retract such a bold accusation if one were to bring into effect a pure dream. Pure dreams occur because dreaming is the only avenue or means through which we are able to live that alternative life without creating new conflict in our reality. That special someone we always wanted to be with that has rejected you or that superpower you always wish you had--these are just a couple of the impossible things that inevitably yearn for. Yet the things that we already know cannot be possible in reality (at least without distorting our present life as it is to a great extent) can only materialize as a castle in the cloud. In other words, we reshape these desires into golden memories, framed into perfection and crafted with the most intricate precision. And the best part: everything occurs subconsciously. And for that few minutes or so in our deep slumber, we are given the entitlement to live the life we always wanted to but were never born for.

Perhaps the raison d'etre of dreams lies not in the fantasy but in our ability to confine such out-of-this-world thoughts into an intangible form. Dreams are a manifestation of our (unconscious) ability to separate what is real and what is false, and to distinguish what can be and what cannot and consequently should not be. It keeps us sane and alive and altogether just wholly human. And for that, we should never fervently pursue all forms of dreams. Sometimes, dreams are just moments for us to bask in and therefore our interaction with dreams should cease the moment we arise (which might reason the phenomenon that we forget 90% of our dreams 5 minutes upon waking up).

But if there's one thing that is consistent with both reality and dreaming, it is that you are the star of both shows and obviously, the connection lies therein.

As we approach the end of the year with just a week away from Christmas, I figured it would be apt to do a little rumination and reflection, this time a little more down-to-earth and less airy fairy than other concepts I am inclined to explore and rediscover. Truth be told, the need to do a little self-reflection and put my entire JC life into perspective and summation has been a constant bug in my brain over the past couple of days but my festive mood had rendered me lazy and unmotivated to sit down comfortably and write this piece. Now that I'm restlessly waiting to leave my house for a psychological interview, I guess it is (ironically) time to spark off a little retrospection.

Love-hate relationship.

That is how the past couple of years can be ideally and perfectly represented in just two words. A simple phrase that captures an oxymoron and an emotion, a thought and a feeling; a yes and a no. Now, don't get me wrong--the past two years has been more than just a "love" or "hate" relationship. Notice how the hyphen between "love" and "hate" is in bold. Indeed, love and hate are two contrasting emotions that have miraculously failed to filter themselves from each other and have come together to create experiences marred and mired in conflicting emotions, intertwined with self-gratification and regret. Tertiary education was more than just a simple, orderly chessboard or checker squares. They were not simply black and/or white, but there existed a gradient of colors, the world dancing with shades of grey, a corollary of mixing different proportions of black and white together. And so it does not help that one is born a color-blind, because everything comes off as a blur, and when I first entered this new realm on the same planet, I was overwhelmed by the "black" and the "white" at the same time; the love and the hate resided in me and thus began my JC life.

I guess the main turning point in my life came when drama fluidly entered my life. Drama had always been at the sidelines of my day-to-day doings but it blended so perfectly with who I was and what I did that I took scant heed of it. I had always shown an innate and vested interest in drama and if I had not undertaken the risk in auditioning for Dramafest 2012 at the ostensible expense of compromising on my pursuit of the President's Scout Award, I might not have ended up in the place I both detest and revere at the same time. It is no doubt that one thing led to another and when push came to shove, it was no doubt a difficult decision for me to cast aside my dreams for the PSA (which had always been burning bright until then) in exchange for something new and fresh. And so there was love; and then there was hatred, for betraying my what I was bent on achieving right from the start, and turning my back against my peers and teachers at the breaking point. Perhaps I had always been waiting for an opportune moment to turn down the pursuit of the PSA in view of my fears and pessimism with regard to ASPIRE, and so came along the opportunity to undertake the helm as the chairperson of Raffles Players. It was simple an opportunity then, but it is only in retrospect that I know it shone like gold and no matter how many times I would have to make this choice all over again, I wouldn't alter my decision that I had made just a year ago. Because I love how things fell in place nice, and I love how what I hate only reflects the imperfections that make this CCA family and less so of an ideal haven to seek comfort in.

I hated being in a new environment, forced to interact with a bunch of extroverts (or at least people who were trying to come across as such... I know I was at first). There is some sort of stereotype or expectation, to say the least, that the nature of a drama CCA entails and the nuance of being able to act leaves one to exude confidence and affability to others in a way strangers might feel inappropriate and awkward. It was certainly so for me, a stranger in an entirely new realm, rid of discipline or any form of hierarchy. In drama, everybody can be who they want to be, as per your imagination. So there I was, torn and ripped away from the society and system I was so comfortable with, where simply raising your voice meant that the job would be done with perfection (in other news, there is always the alternative of whipping out physical punitive measures) and certainly-not-subtly flung into a new environment with people I felt uncomfortable with and ostensibly with no rules; no law and no order. It was a dog-eat-dog world but I was a cat, meek and unfamiliar in this new surroundings. But I loved drama, and that love was enough to quell what I hated or disliked at first. And it's really interesting how things seem to unfold one at a time and ultimately bring you to where you are today once you consider things in retrospect. It was uncanny that in spite of how uncomfortable I felt dealing with strangers (much less aliens who made it a point to interact with you) and that I had entered the CCA with the initial intention of showing up whenever I was free (or just felt like it), I volunteered to be a stage manager, and that got me interacting with people, to an extent that I would have otherwise sought to avoid. I guess it was the innate part of me that loves organizing and managing that led to me this new pursuit but again one thing led to another, and I was offered (you could even say placed on a silver platter) with the opportunity to head the CCA even without having expressed an interest to join the EXCO right from the start. And I hated the dilemma. But I loved the outcome. And I loved the things that transpired from there. The various productions that I've been through, the queer nature of residing in the company of 19 other wacky drama students in a tiny black box, and how neatly and appropriately things seemed to fall in place albeit everything could have gone in an entirely new direction if I had just made one different decision. Perhaps I might have been at the Istana a while ago receiving my PSA from the President himself (which I always envisioned to be such a glorious event, and I would whisper carefully into the President's ear that this had always been my dream). But then, I might not have known how it is like to love and hate something at the same time. How you can love and hate people; how you may love certain people and hate others at first, but you only start to realize that it is precisely because these people come across as family and behave as intimately as you would with direct kin that you know why hatred stems naturally as well. And when all things become clear, you love how you hate the imperfections, you love how you might have loved others more than some and maybe things never worked out fine, but there's no reason to hate what happens but to only love what couldn't have been.

It is already tiring just reminiscing about the contradictory emotions that flooded my entire JC life. Of course, I only went insofar as to describe Players (and still barely scratched the surface) but my entire experience has really been a love-hate one. I love how I can come out of the closet with the gayboiz and that 6 years of friendship has transformed us from just scouts to brothers in arms. But I hate how we don't spend that much time together and how different we continue to be in terms of our dreams and aspirations. But I love that we are different and distinct, and how a small group of 6 can bring so much versatility and liveliness. I hated my class for being a bunch of nerds and having gone through 4 years of education as an 'ugly duckling', I was more than prepared to spread my wings and emerge as a glorious swan in a fresh new environment. But I love how things worked out the way they were supposed to, because at heart I am a nerd and it made sense that I was in a class that could appreciate a different kind of humor and I love how blessed I was to find new friends who I could relate to and find joy with. I hate how love never seems to work out for me but I love that I actually got to try it.

And I love how I know that ultimately, JC hasn't just been about a love-hate relationship. It has been about loving what you hate and hating what you love because you can't do it all over again. You love the imperfections and the mistakes that you made because they remind you that you are human and are often a great source for self-reflection or just cracking a joke. And I love my JC life for that. And I hate that I might never get to experience such a meaningful couple of years ever again. But that don't mean I don't love every minute that has passed.

Because when love and hate coincides, you learn to cherish.

The froth--it blankets the deep dark blue.
Pristine and virgin pure, still tainted with twisted lime.
The shadows creep at noon and cast a dirty deed; a heinous crime
against the facade of a muted silence, lost in space and time.

The waves--they beat in harmony, bathed in solemn blue,
crashing into the emptiness of its vast reflection;
a mirror-esque moment framed in imperfection,
witness to its clandestine tranquility that masks the suspicion.

The sun--truth-blinding whilst dancing on the surface of blue,
and in the heat of the moment, the callous fool
bares his soul to the world, for the lady is his world too,
and then cowers behind the glare; "hide your face so the world can never find you".

The breeze--they sing, in symphonic elation and a miserable blue,
for they know your touch and they hear your heart,
so they chime to the melody of being ripped wide apart;
bask in the wake of delusion and pretend this has yet to start.

They really aren't. Memories are a figment of our imagination brought to life, captured in elements such as photographs or the sounds we encounter as we perform our mundane chores. They are so real (perhaps almost so, but really not safe to say so) that we are cajoled into believing so. Because of that, these memories are but the things that capture how we feel and interact with a particular thing or person(s). It is the very determinant of the way we behave and attempt to understand the people whom we think we know but quite frankly, memories are a reminder of what has been and never what is to come. We all know the cliched that change is the new constant but we are so fixated with such an idea that we have reduced change to a predictable and rigid concept, insofar that we have lost its main and most fundamental essence--change is made and never merely recorded.

Memories are forged so we can look back and remember how it was back then but it is not a symbol of culmination, as it is often taken as such. It is merely a marker, a checkpoint in the whole length of the journey that we are not even halfway through. What is the point if we make memories but choose to hold them as such; precious and golden because they are crafted intricately the way we wanted them to be. That momentous picture after having taken it 5 times over just to capture the perfect lighting and the timely flash. But all that for naught. We look back very so rarely and in due time we will only hold on to these memories (and perhaps the back stories) but there is nothing more.

I am not saying to discard these memories for all is lost; rather, I am asserting that the emphasis on memories has taken a toll on what we choose to do with these memories. As passive individuals, we are inherently inclined to just bury these memories and reminisce the times once in a while, shed a tear if you are melodramatic enough, but after that we sit that admiring and basking in the same memories repeatedly. But we never seem to question ourselves: what next? After all, there had to be a first memory before your second and the second would have been the precursor to the third and so on (as long as your list of memories go on). When we choose to end that final memory with a photograph, we have decidedly severed ties and cut off whatever possibilities we could have embarked on if the friendship prevailed and the memory, not just simply preserved, but relived. It is such that I wonder whether memories are simply there to relieve our guilt in forsaking some of our relationships because it is certainly not wise to devote all of our attention to every individual equally; some are no doubt more important but this does not render the rest any less precious or worth treasuring. Perhaps, it is in such instances that memories play an important role in fossilizing the past through print and imagination; passive but nonetheless occasionally (mentally) active.

The bigger point here is that the more you cherish a particular memory, you more you should never let it end as a memory. Continue to hold on to that relationships and build on that and make more memories. Memories aren't simply built to last; they are built as a foundation for even more solid and grounded occurrences that will stay rooted and entrenched in our heart and soul. Memories pave the wave for us but it is our decision to either encapsulate these into a simple photograph stashed away into a secret compartment we revisit from time to time, or loosely throw that memory together with the rest in the growing pile because there is little need to hold on so tightly to what has past and you are still alive and kicking and ready to make new memories. The past can always be easily relived with the people itself rather than staring blankly and aimlessly at a digital screen, hoping someone could feel your emotions through your tweets.

Point is, don't whine or complain about how memories remind us of the past. They only hurt and drive melancholy when the memories serve as a final marker of our journey; instead, they should be used as a driver and stimulus for furthering more memories, and for paving the future. So cherish the memories, but don't let it end there.