Hah, the erotic ennui. So many dreams. or pseudo-reality. night, legs, faintly brushing. little bristles, or vestiges of the fur we were one supposed to have.

"Ah, little prince! So it was, gradually that I came to understand your melancholy little life! For a long time your only pleasure had been to watch the gently setting sun."

I haven't exactly been updating everyday, which yes, I feel is unfair for my poor little journal. In fact, yes, before I probably grew up and was mature, there were so many thoughts that I left out. Sometimes, writing can be like a religion. You only turn to it when the chips are down. Lately, anyway, of course I've been worrying about my identity and my shortcomings. A lack of initiative, determination in some respects. I'd like to think things have improved over my years in junior college, and indeed, that have a little. Yet also I realise that I am also not half as spontaneous or fun-loving as I would like to be...probably because the year is drawing to a close and I lose the enthusiasm I always have at the start of the year.

And lately I have been confused. What do I want? I read in the news about this girl who succeeded by writing what she wanted on a piece of paper. Well, I wish I was that clear. There is such a bewildering array of choices out there. Do I wait for an illusory temptress to tempt me out, or someone spontaneous to sweep me away? (why do I sound like a girl. Will I find someone whom I find can understand me well? Or, have I in my vain hope in the future, unfortunately overlook the friends I already have who are all perfect in their own little way. Anyway, today was quite a classic case of Monday Blues. Little short shower at the start of the day, and of course, I asked for an OCP because i felt I couldn't trudge through another day of school. So I met Clarence, and we went off to Tanglin Mall to study. I had McDonalds, which proceeded to make me feel shitty for the rest of the day, because I've heard they try to upset your stomach so you leave quickly. Rumin was there too, always nice to talk to, although I was being very quite anyway. Three is a horrible number to be out in, especially if like me, you aren't good at conversing two people at once. So one is always left out. It's different in a larger group or on a one to one basis.

Incomplete shitty poem, let me get it out of my head first, i'll fill the gaps later

Urban Seasons

So you're born in February
the shortest month of the year
the card where you were incy-wincy
to make fun of you being such a shortie.

with no snow to tell the seasons by
just the haze, humidity, maybe the sun
moving slowly through the sky
to which you'd timidly reply

"i defy you star!", from the plays you've read
or would like to, if not for Social Studies
or other subjects which you dread
yet the meter and rhyme prove

Past March then, of waiting, in another year

the constant anxiety, constant fear
of being labelled unsincere

which makes the poet board the vessel
of his imagination with great caution
and rig his mast with his big sail
and the risk of being caught by label(sued for libel)

An April where some had left
and they drank a lot to send them off
sailors to a distant sea
from an island of prosperity

the luxury pleases me, i'd love the park
we walked through, to catch the bus
months later, to board that bus again
easy memories come through the dark

which turn to head-gnashing and regret
'O have i missed such beauty?'
yet peaceful still, i sit on yet
so many people i haven't met.

A May comes by, or is it Shall?
What ought i do, what ought I not?
I'll wait, patient as I built my wall
while others choke at my lack of gall.

June is here, let's play footie!
no she's not just another name
Bet your money, bust the bookie
want to win big cannot be so hum-ji

July sits there equally pensive
on the wood-panelled class benches
eyes that look yet so evasive
yet perhaps, it's a look that i misgive

August, does it feel like your year has ended?
The rose withered, the eyes now glare
not knowing how to treat those you befriended
where's the power that i needed?

with the rest of the months yet to come
thirty, or thirty-one days? count your knuckles
then crush them on some stupid sum
to take your mind off your sinful

The years don't matter, nor the days or months
We dust them from our dark recesses
Things to tell the passage by
so life then wouldn't feel so dry