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I was, when the earth was hurled out from its fiery rim. I shall return with the earth to Father Sun, and still exist in substance when the sun has lost its fire, and disintegrated into infinity to perhaps become a part of the whirling rubble of space. Why fear? The stuff of my being is matter, ever changing, ever moving, but never lost;

When staying up, I think the first things to go are the censors to good taste. Yesterday I chose not to sleep and well.. what happened was horrid stream of consciousness writing on my notebook (like, real honest to goodness paper notebook). Also couplets so cheesy you can taste the cheddar.

I choose not to censor/edit this for your enjoyment/cause I'm a dumbass. Think of this as lessons in the consequences of not sleeping.

People might call me smart but I'm not sure myself. For example here I am alone, dumbstruck with phone open, unable to articulate a word. An ashtray with a dead cigarette, not mine but I can't help inhaling the third hand smoke loving how dead embers smell when they interlock in embrace with the sweet armoas of the tea that stews before me. A red ant, big as anything dances across the table

The same seat has been occupied now by two women of oncommon beauty. I don't long for them but I do yearn for a return to the days when their stories would flash full fomed in my mind. It would take away my own fear of telling my own story as I delve into the deep fissures of their story revelling in their flaws instead of wallowing in my own

Sometimes I feel the story is not worth the telling

On second thought, thats probably a good place to stop the blather. I want to get a good post together chronicling the PyWeek game soon. Here's the hilariously cheesy not-quite-couplet:

Oh please let this be but drunken revelry

For if my heart beats not with your yours by the morn

My eternal grief shall be aborn

FFS, I really need to write that PyWeek post to redeem myself of this cheese factory now.

My days of education are now behind me. Days spent in labs with barely enough sleep, a bottle of red bull in one hand while I agonized over my grades and a girl. Somehow it simultaneously felt too short and too long. I'd like to think that at the end of all this I've grown as a person but I'm not sure I have. Sure I've grown in knowledge perhaps in confidence too but the world still feels far too big for me to take on. There's a dearth of warm places, people I can anchor my soul to.

It's been five years. I don't know how to celebrate it this year, coming back to the Philippines. It didn't hit me to remember the day, April 1. I was too exhausted after the pressures of the exhibit. Traveling on the skyway one day made me miss Singapore so much. Leaving school, I don't know if I really have many friends. No one to celebrate that last bittersweet day with. It's my fault I know, never made much of an effort. It was far easier to cocoon myself with studies rather than dealing with people.

I say I hate people but secretly love them.

I miss the sensation of writing, forming words into tangible moments of beauty. The following is rescued from my notebook.

A book is more than the words, thoughts, feelings that it conveys. It is the entirety, the whole, a sensual experience rather than mere intellectual exercise. You begin with searching the shelf, eyes gazing across an expanse of words. You are overwhelmed, feeling like a soul drowned out by the homogenity of the human race. You reach out for another that can fill you, so is like the sensation of finding that book, the one that is yours.

And so you reach for it, snatching like an eager lover or slowly savouring the moment. Fingers play over the cover, tactile proof that perhaps your search is over...