Inspired!
I believe by now no one has not heard of Susan Boyle.
I am not going to blog about the girl at 1:23 or the middle aged lady at 1:35 who scorned and smirked at Susan's dream because I knew they must be hitting their toes with a hammer every morning in regret. In fact, I feel a little sorry for them because there are so many who scorned and yet they were spared from the merciless capture. Neither am I going to get on with how we should not judge a book by its cover, how body is only a shell (that is so not true, grooming is important) and yadda.
Instead, I would like to ask all of us to learn from Susan, not so much to pursue our dreams, but to have the little faith that each of us so rightly deserve. The courage to stand up for herself, to continue singing despite the earlier snubs by the panel and mockeries from the crowd that she so badly want to sing for... Seriously, how many of us can hold on to beliefs about ourselves. Like a thin and miserly wick, at the end of the day, it is the wick that keeps the flame going, that same wick that has the ability to melt the wax that stubbornly and protectively wraps itself around the wick.
If a body cannot even get recognition from its owner, is there a point in its existence? Do we not deserve happiness because we are far from having a perfect body? Suddenly, it seems like there is no link in there. Build on your theory if you find there to be a link: "I must not be happy because I have flabby arms" or even better, "My wobbly tummy disallows me from being happy" or try this: "My small eyes prevents me from smiling"... and the list goes on as you find these statements increasingly ridiculous. Unless you are a masochist, break away from it.
The wild geese have no intention of casting their reflection. The water does not intend to receive their image. It is what we interpret ourselves that makes us who we are. Love yourself if you want love. Respect yourself if you wish for respect for if you don't, no one else will.
Jacqueline
10:39 PM
I was suddenly filled with a sense of indescribable pain. It wasn't a pain within me, but a pain that came into me. I went to Mt E. yesterday for my practicum and spent a day in the behavioural ward. I witnessed patients going through ECT, and I wondered what went through their mind. While Dr Tan mentioned that they were just knocked unconscious because of the anesthetic jab, I can't help feeling the urge to see what was on their mind, what lies in the memory.
Memories are the second precious thing that we hold on to next to the experience. They can actually be tangible when I get really imaginative. I was just submarining on Facebook when I saw a friend's profile. A long-time JC friend. There was this weird feeling in me when I saw the profile. It seems like he is in pain and is hurting real badly. Of course, that is not my business anymore, or rather, not my business. Still, I felt uncomfortable.
I have been thinking for the past few days on what love means. It could be stress, but I feel myself extricating from it on a subconscious level. While I have no call to complain or feel even the slightest tinge of disatsfaction, I find myself panicking everytime my imagination runs wild. On one hand, I worry about getting hurt. On the other, I worry that my worry hurts people. Then, I worry that the very worry I feel is what that will bring me to where I fear. And I realised I have more than a pair of hands and my hands carry more than they should be carrying.
Like what Edgar Allan Poe said, we loved with a love that was more than love.
And that is the scary part.
Jacqueline
9:19 PM
Cherish
Sometimes, even memories cannot capture the essence of life-at-that-moment.
I was doing up my blog at the same time reading some of the past entries, entries as early as 2003 when I realised that while focusing on the 50% change in me, the 50% that did not change was just as obvious. Change has always been the attention-seeker, but this time round, it is what remained of me that captures my attention. I can't say I am not happy with the revelation. At least I know some parts will always stay.
I started blogging 2000, early in the millennium. For almost 10 years, I have been reliving the dreams of wanting to be a columnist. They say, when you really want something and cannot attain it, you find means to. Blogging was and still is my alternative although I would never have thought that it could be a topic in my blog apart from the very first entry. That reminds me of how I always thought goal (life's goal, not KPIs) attaining to be something intriguing. It is interesting how people can die with their eyes closed only after they have seen the person they want to see or have their last wishes said (or so I thought. Afterall, that was what they show on TV). It is as if our system is programmed biologically to achieve something and then self annihilate upon success. It is somehow a morbid thought, but I am loving life as it is now.
We need to work and see all kinds of nonsense and bigtime idiots. But look, who is getting the pay at the end of the month? Yes, the idiots get higher pay, but they are idiots probably because they had too much nonsense in them. That justify their pay. And as I am typing, I telling myself not to be worried with what I have just said because idiots don't know IT. Nano knows.
Sometimes people think I am always at peace with myself and the world, and I wonder.
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I watched Marley and Me yesterday. Wow wow wow, it was a pleasant surprise. I was so tired after work yesterday and thought that Marley and Me was those kind of chick flick girl-meets-guy because of cute doggy or girl-hates-guy and then girl-loves-guy after helping him to manage his dog movie. I decided to just sit and laugh or sleep in the theatre. The pace of the movie is slow, but consistently slow such that you grow old with a family rather than boringly slow. It shows no cutie dog, but one that is quite lethal, yet harmlessly lethal. If you just draw rearing children and a dog to a parallel, there is little difference. Marley was reared like a child, a rebellious one, yet loyal. And despite the numerous trouble he got into, the responsibilty to rear him and the love the couple had for him dissipate all ill feelings that came from stress and worry from all aspects of life. I cried in the theatre and I head lots of sniffs. Not one to be seen crying in public (even though it was dark), the movie did give a little plesant surprise.
Do catch it when you are free or get the dvd when it is out!
Jacqueline
11:30 AM
Lights always bring a strange kind of comfort to me. It could be the very superficiality of its attractiveness that works its magic on me. It could also be the beautiful distraction it brings, acting as a mode of escapism. With lights, the world ironically, becomes more like a fantasy, a little less real, a little more comforting.
My earliest recollection of my passion for lights stems from the old days when my Malay neighbors hanged tiny light bulbs attached to a wire (the similar kind we use to decorate Christmas trees) around their window, or even railings at the corridor of their apartment. I would try to sell the idea to my parents about making our apartment as easily identifiable, as majestic. I remember trying in vain to convince my parents and coming up with a silly plan of coloring papers with highlighters and stapling them to a long piece of paper to hang during the day. That, for my elder brother to execute.
Things were so easy then. If you like something, you like it anyhow. I can’t say much for myself now. If I were to have that mangy bulb of paper-wires, I would just stuff it into somebody’s mouth.
I think life is a bell curve of which the x-axis is lifetime and the y-axis stands for complexity. As we grow older, things become increasingly complicated. We need to account for more actions, take up responsibility and handle more issues. Then things become easier somehow. Perhaps one is seasoned, things are taken more easily. They say ‘take things easy’; I will say it comes with age. And someday somehow, we realize that we have become the old fogies with lots of stories to tell. When we were young, scraps were treated like a treasure, kept with love and a sense of inquisitiveness. When we are old, scrapes were treated with reverence, kept with fond reminisces
Jacqueline
10:40 AM
