I'm supposed to be an introvert and all, but sometimes my life appears to imply the opposite: the entire week, I was out and about either for work or social engagements and sleeping little. I was so exhausted and depleted that I finally and utterly crashed the whole of today. Slept the entire morning away, missing my Arabic exam, and now I'm finally spending a day proper at home, and couldn't muster any energy to get out of the house. Luckily, my scheduled events for the day (other than my missed exam, gah!) were cancelled.

Seriously, S, somehow, someday, something has got to give.

I have actually started a separate journal to reflect on my lifestyle, and work on my daily healthy and spiritual habits. Apparently, it takes an average of 66 days to develop a habit. Please, God, I have to learn to strike a balance.


Re-watched this movie today: He's Just Not That Into You.
I have decided it's one of my favourite romantic movies ever.
This is romantic realism, if there is such a thing.
Watching this movie feels like being doused with cold water,
but then being held to the sunshine after.

Yes, a lot of real life isn't romantic, and a lot of the romantic stuff or fluff we see or read or believe will never ever be true for us. but! there are still exceptions to the rule. And though being smart means you understand that you're probably the rule, perhaps living happily means you still hope despite odds that you can be the exception.

one of the best stand-up-for-women scenes in a romantic movie!

and then we have this satisfying ending for this pair in the movie (:

and here Gigi wraps it all up happily for us 💜

It's been a while!

Here are some videos I've been watching:

Some thoughts:

This whole being the author of your own story -- I mostly agree, but I've felt in recent times that the analogy is slightly off. As I discussed with a friend the other day, we're not actually the author, we're only the protagonist. You have no control over the setting of your story, the characters of your story, and the plot twists of your life. And in so much as you are able to direct the movement of your plot as the protagonist, that's the extent of control you have in your life. Little, in reality. Or not very much, at least.

As the protagonist, you then start to understand that your role is being the best protagonist you can be; not to force your hand on fate. The plot twists are not up to you. You won't be able to help it if a war happens, or if someone you love dies or leaves, or if you contract a terminal disease. You just try living life as the best human you know how, no matter the weather, event, or music, and pray that your author treats his protagonist kindly (and thank God, we are not Lymond and Dunnett our writer, because how Lymond suffered). God is the writer of your story; your job is to change yourself, and God will change your condition, if He so wishes.

This is how I've learnt and am still learning to live life, with equanimity and peace, and insya Allah, with a fervor to be the best kind of protagonist I can be. Because, man, I love stories. And I certainly want to be the kind of protagonist I like.

And here, I finally watched Shaykh Hamza's talk 

when he was in Singapore a few months back! 

Apparently it was a public lecture (that obviously got snapped up in mere seconds, I bet) 

but I knew nothing of it. Breaks my heart 💔, I tell you.

Lastly,

when I need to destress and blank out, 

BTS cheers me up:

Hola! and bye.

So I've been getting excited about revisiting Japan (soon-ish),

and I stumbled upon this book on a library shelf:

It's awesome!!! Basically, it's a graphic memoir

of a French artist, who spent half a year in Tokyo back in 2006 -- 

he drew various spots in the city, 

adding cute-sy amusing comments,

chronicling his time there.

There are maps like this:

Descriptions of Japanese pedestrians (along Takeshita dori, Harajuku) like this:

Of buildings and everyday neighbourhoods like this:

And he also drew JE! 

Who I have missed, now that I am waaay into BTS.

Hehe, Kame in his early twenties was very alligator-like;

(he looks better now in his thirties)

SMAP (with Shinzo Abe being extra) when they were alive and thriving!!!

So sad that SMAP is officially no more :(

I've been contemplating getting a hard copy for myself for keeps.

Hmmmmm.

---

On other matters:

Datin S and I were talking in between work some time this week (yes, we are working together now, woohoo!), and when our endless conversations started getting really heavy as per our usual way -- I suddenly felt, and said as much to Datin S, that she should go read some storybooks (which she hadn't in a long time). Reading books, and specifically FICTION, gives such perspective, brings you out of yourself and so deeply into others' lives, that you will inevitably be better informed, equipped, and emotionally-armoured to battle your own life.

I witnessed some other human problem tonight, and while talking it over with my sis, she was the one who brought up, "This would not have happened with someone who does literature." Perhaps it's pompous, overly-fallacious, or misguided because I am no expert -- but it feels increasingly apparent to me that the nuance, the empathy, and the perspective that makes a gracious human being can be gained via reading stories. You could gain it elsewhere, maybe -- like living a difficult life, living among people who struggle, living among the poor. But otherwise, born into privilege and the lap of comfort or luxury, how else would you get it?

Suddenly, I am reminded of the hours of CIP (Community Involvement Project) we had to do for school so as to cultivate a civic-mindedness in students; oh come on, how much of it was just surface grade-fulfillment and how many of us truly succeeded in planting the seeds of compassion and care in our hearts? What is it that builds great character at the end of the day, right? Isn't that always the question.

For me, reading. It's still reading. And then you go and do your CIP.

What is it that sets brilliance apart from mediocrity?


That was the exact question I asked Google; and I didn't get any full answers. Then I thought of Malcolm X, and I remember writing how these elements are what appear necessary for greatness: sincerity, discipline, courage and wit. At the same time, I'm realising comfort is a pitfall for mediocrity. If you're too comfortable where you are, you're probably not struggling or striving for anything, which means you're bound for, if not already mired in, mediocrity.

Passion too. Passion is probably the catalytic element that drives everything else. Passion is something I find immediately attractive in other people.

I'm thinking about all this because some days, I feel myself sinking into pits of despair or traps of my own mind, when I think on the trajectory of my life and how it's all mapped out; thinking that this is it, the circumstances of my life make who I am; and I can see the ends of my predictable days living out a supposedly-satisfactorily mediocre existence. I need to lift myself above this. I need to be living reaching out for the stars.

Because of my faith, I have another world to aspire to, Alhamdulillah. But even as I live this life out, I aspire to be more than I am, more than this apparent trajectory. Bi irtibat bi Sayidina Nabi, insya Allah.

God, please please please make me bigger than myself.

eid mubarak!

Mostly, this is what this blog is:

but then, do I really want everyone to know?

It's more like, I hope at least someone somewhere will know.
Someone will find this beautiful, or meaningful, or touching.



A lot of people frequently post happy, amazing things about their lives on mainstream social media. But more often than not, when I come here to blog, it feels like the things that weigh heavy on my heart and mind are the ones that beg to be put on the page instead. And so yes, more often than not, this space has contained my lamentations and pain. Which is why, in general, places like facebook and instagram are not suited to me. I sometimes feel like I have nothing happy to post about (which is patently untrue).

And if this blog were the only representation of me, then you would perhaps think that my life was miserable -- but it isn't. In fact, tonight, we had a cousins meeting to plan our future holidays, and we cracked up so much about a lot of things while we planned. I was having a ball of a time.

But then as I arrive back here in front of the screen, in the quiet of the night, what comes to my mind instead are things that bring tears to my eyes. And I take refuge in this:

حَسْبُنَا اللَّهُ وَنِعْمَ الْوَكِيلُ

For us, Allah is sufficient, and He is the best disposer of affairs.


Eid Mubarak everyone -- I'm still learning how to live life in balance, between hope and fear.

There are some days, more often than I previously thought, when I wish I could find some song, some picture, some poem that can encapsulate all my thoughts, fleeting or pensive, and all my emotions, in their unique combination of both pain and pleasure, happiness and regret, gratitude and guilt. Because all the events of the past days typically accumulate together when I blog -- so which should stand out? which should I tell? when at this precise moment, they are roiling together to form one reflective experience.


*my dad is away in Madinah again to celebrate ramadhan and raya, and I wanted to tell him something before he left but I didn't

*another family friend came back from pilgrimage and told me of the duas she made for me (and for all the others she loved), and I just remember the love that I felt just having her think of me, and having her hug me -- thank You for putting such wonderful souls in my vicinity

*being back at KK a few times this month and realising how much I love my team, now that I am more often than not away from them. oh God, why is it that we frequently don't appreciate what we have till it's gone? and despite my thinking that I'm perhaps a picky, prickly person who doesn't befriend others too well, how is it that I've miraculously accumulated so many amazing people in my life, thank You, God.

*realising that the older I get, the more people I love, Alhamdulillah. what's this about aging being a terrible thing?

*learning to pick my battles, and to accept people who maybe do love me, but can't or refuse to understand me

*Alhamdulillah for being privileged enough to do the work I do; to be excited about the future of my work; to be energized about future projects; to be inspired by the people around me and the children I work with

meeting old friends!

I want to bring this cat home. ): 

but my mum would not have it.

Something that stuck in my head from today:

Freedom from want,
is freedom to live.

---

On other hilarious news, this happened on tumblr,
and explains a lot of my fangirling:

Feel so validated as an INFP.
INFPs are awesome, yesssss.

---

Finished with The Pleasures of Reading in An Age of Distraction;
I tabbed so many pages to save quotes and points, here's one:

There is a kind of attentiveness proper to school, to purposeful learning of all kinds, but in general it is closer to "hyper attention" than to "deep attention". I would argue that even reading for information -- reading textbooks and the like -- does not require extended unbroken focus. It requires discipline but not raptness, I think: the crammer chains himself to the textbook because of time pressures, not because the book itself requires unbroken concentration. Given world enough and time, the harried student could read for a while, do something else, come back and refresh his memory, take another break... but the reader of even the most intellectually demanding work of literary art would lose a great deal by following such tactics. No novel or play or long poem will offer its full rewards to someone who consumes it in small chunks and crumbs. The attention it demands is the deep kind.


The way I see it -- I've always sucked at hyper attention. On reflection of my entire schooling and life before, I realise I'm really quite a terrible student in the traditional sense; I actually really hate sitting down and studying. On the other hand, I only ever succeeded at deep attention in random spurts on random subjects, typically out of my control, haha. So I would get really sucked into something but it would usually be something I didn't need to invest time in (i.e. unrelated to work or school).

Obviously, a smart person would have both types of attention and wield either when necessary.


Oh, here's another quote in the book from David Foster Wallace that seems to address my worry here:

Twenty years after my graduation, I have come gradually to understand that the liberal arts cliche about teaching you how to think is actually shorthand for a much deeper, more serious idea: learning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. Because if you cannot exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed.

😱

Ah that delicate balance between flow and control. To be able to exercise some control about what to attend to, and then letting your faculties immerse into deep attention with the chosen subject matter -- is that the goal? Maybe.

It's true right; otherwise, our attentions will forever be swayed by the noise and stimulation that accosts us every day, via our screens especially, and by the outside world. We need to be able to choose what we want to invest time and attention on...

I didn't want to do this, but I couldn't refrain.

V and RapMon from BTS released a song they made

leading up to BTS festa (i.e. their anniversary celebrations),

and this song called 4 o'clock pulled so much at my heartstrings, 

I couldn't not post about it.

V's deep, soulful voice adds to the haunting quality of this piece
and seriously makes me want to cry.
And just like Spring Day, it is not an outright sad song,
but a melancholic yet hopeful one that speaks so much of what life is.

It's about finding quiet moments away from the cacophony of our lives
to find peace in the quiet of mornings
with special persons, with whom pain is forgotten.

And may each of us have at least one of those.

At a dusky park
A nameless bird that sings
Where are you?
Oh you...
Why are you crying?
You and I are the only ones here
Me and you
Oh you...

---

A fan commented that the song reminded her of the Darkling Thrush,
and my, isn't this poem another lovely piece.

It's obvious that I am drawn to melancholia; and I remember writing some time last year,
whilst I was whiling away the beautifully quiet and peaceful nights in the tiny town of Plockton,
how the colour of my soul would be blue-green -- a calm bordering on melancholy.

Isn't this interesting: Melancholy as an Aesthetic Emotion per se. Reading this article seems to connect and explain the various pieces that make up who I am, I feel: reflective, imaginative, narrative-loving, solitude-prone, and my love for the Scottish highlands.

Solitude facilitates the imaginative reflection involved in melancholy. Imagination's role in melancholy is twofold. First, imagination makes associations between a present and past experience, and in this sense it has a role in causing melancholy. It connects a quiet beach to an evening stroll with a lover, or a Scottish landscape with the sound of bagpipes. Secondly, imagination is used to embellish or fantasize around the memories of melancholy, perhaps imagining our return to some place. Through fancy, imagination extends memories in a way that deepens reflection, and in turn this deepens the feeling. In these cases it is imagination, drawing significantly on memory, which provides the narrative in which melancholy is anchored. 

Besides my other numerous circle of acquaintances 

I have one more intimate confidant -- my melancholy. 

In the midst of my joy, 

in the midst of my work, 

she waves to me, 

calls me to one side,

 even though physically I stay put. 

My melancholy is the most faithful mistress I have known, 

what wonder, then, that I love her in return.

Søren Kierkegaard

The Darkling Thrush

Related Poem Content Details

BY THOMAS HARDY

I leant upon a coppice gate 

      When Frost was spectre-grey, 

And Winter's dregs made desolate 

      The weakening eye of day. 

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky 

      Like strings of broken lyres, 

And all mankind that haunted nigh 

      Had sought their household fires. 

The land's sharp features seemed to be 

      The Century's corpse outleant, 

His crypt the cloudy canopy, 

      The wind his death-lament. 

The ancient pulse of germ and birth 

      Was shrunken hard and dry, 

And every spirit upon earth 

      Seemed fervourless as I. 

At once a voice arose among 

      The bleak twigs overhead 

In a full-hearted evensong 

      Of joy illimited; 

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, 

      In blast-beruffled plume, 

Had chosen thus to fling his soul 

      Upon the growing gloom. 

So little cause for carolings 

      Of such ecstatic sound 

Was written on terrestrial things 

      Afar or nigh around, 

That I could think there trembled through 

      His happy good-night air 

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew 

      And I was unaware.

After my post last night,

Subhanallah, this is a scary reminder 😱 .

come on, S, when will you get better at this!

It's almost halfway through Ramadhan, and as usual, time is going too fast and running out; and I have done barely anything good -- and my sis was telling me how I waste too much time, I knowwww, and my dad says: why you listen to stuff on your phone but don't read the Quran, I knowwww. I am an utter fail at staying away from my screens, especially now that a lot of my work involves journeying and lots of random wait time, that I fill with looking at my phone... noooooooo. I should look more at my Kindle but the pull of my screen is ridiculous. It is obviously a drug. I need some sort of Rehab.


Anyway, I just really wanted to record this before I forget: today, I realised how much I miss working with ASD kids. I arrived at one of the schools as per my normal schedule, and one of the girls not on my caseload -- because her needs were too high for the DSP mainstream programme (shall quibble about service delivery on another day maybe, in another post) -- was having a meltdown. At first, I kind of left the teachers to it cause this girl is with them every day what, right, so I was sure they had some set procedure to handle her. But after a good 10 minutes of this kid wailing away, some unconscious part of my system was triggered, and I couldn't hold back anymore.

I went into the fray with a few bottles of playdoh and just unconsciously did my thing, and the kid settled down within a minute. As soon as the kid settled down and got out of her tantrum mode, and I let the teachers have her back, I thought, a bit too confidently perhaps haha, ohmygosh, I'm a natural at this. Later in the afternoon, little girl S started off again because someone had forced her to do something, I think -- and you should know you can't force the rigid structures of an ASD world; she was stretched out on the floor resisting all pacifying efforts and screaming away. I came over again with my playdoh and I followed her lead for a while, and after a few minutes, I had her calmly fixing puzzles and brought her back to her classmates. At which one of the Chinese teachers asked me what exactly was my magic trick with her.

At this point, I felt gratified and thought, ohmygod, I'm a pro haha -- my years of Early clinic and my crazy hours of running after hyper kids around the gym has maybe really made me a pro at sensing what these kids need. This really does come naturally to me now, and I think I was itching to jump in when I saw what was happening with little girl S. Not going to lie, this makes me feel good -- cause the years of clinical experience has actually made a difference to who I am. Perhaps it's silly to still think like this, but I need moments like this to be able to tell myself, yes, S, you're actually a legit speechie.

And oh man, I do miss my special, weirdo, lovable, ASD kids.

Update!: One of my junior speechies found my bag of books! Ohmygosh -- happiness and relief. Thank You. I thought those precious books were gone forever.



Stumbled upon this while reading "The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction" by Alan Jacobs:


You need not see what someone is doing
to know if it is his vocation,

you have only to watch his eyes:
a cook mixing a sauce, a surgeon

making a primary incision,
a clerk completing a bill of lading,

wear the same rapt expression, 
forgetting themselves in a function.

How beautiful it is,
that eye-on-the-object look.

W. H. Auden (Full Poem here)

Went back to KK for some necessary admin and a visit, and also intended to pick up my books that I'd left behind -- only to discover that they were not there. I have lost them. I don't know -- I might have taken them out and then left them somewhere else not in the department; my notoriously bad memory is so unreliable. I made a shout-out to my speechie team to see if anyone knew where they were, but no one does. A whole bag of wonderful picture books that I love, like Have You Seen My Hat? and The Big Ugly Monster and The Little Stone Rabbit. The more I think on it, the more aghast I feel.

I know they are things, material things, and most of the time, it doesn't take long for me to get over lost items. But a whole pile of books, bought precisely because they were beautiful picture books; ever since I had a Kindle, I have only allowed myself to buy picture books and the very occasional reference-type book. Basically most of my favourite picture books were in that bag! Oh gosh, I think I might cry. This is so sad. All of the content of that bag easily amounts to $200+ too.



guhhhh. I was telling M earlier as she helped me hunt around the department for them; this is one of those cases where you say, they were not yours to begin with... That's why you've lost them.

😭

Happy Ramadhan!

okay let's go!

I'd saved this for quite some time 

and meant to post it in occasion of my birthday.

So here it is although several weeks late --

I have to make a separate post to separate my content -- haha.



It's a great day to be a fan! because like I said last year, guys,
BTS wasn't done conquering the music scene.

They've done it now and 

broken (Asian and kPop) barriers at the Billboard Music Awards!

This KPop band just made history at the #BBMAs pic.twitter.com/om9mebSkgE

— NowThis (@nowthisnews) May 22, 2017

Ohhh, I feel so vindicated as a fan.

And so proud to have known them before they crept into mainstream like this.

These boys are awesome as I've harped on time and again.

I read an illustrated guide of Soren Kierkegaard -- it was both comforting and depressing, haha. Comforting because, thank goodness, these existential questions are so human, and the greatest minds are plagued by them. But also depressing, because how sad is his life, ohmygodddd. And the more I identified with him, the more depressed I felt. Apparently, he was nicknamed the Eeyore of Philosophy.

It wasn't that his life situation was sad -- it was more that he failed to reconcile his thoughts with the state of the world, and it brought such misery to him. (What do they say, unhappiness is when your expectations and your reality are out of sync?) And because he was trying to sort out and figure out the best way to live life, grappling with philosophical decisions, he appeared to the outside world to squander his chances at a "normal" life.

He was concerned with what it meant to be a true Christian, or essentially a true human being i.e. what does it mean to be one self? He kept railing at larger society for being Philistines or part of The Crowd, who have avoided all self-conscious reflections about the sort of life they lead, and so content to be absorbed into the everyday world of marriage, career and respectability.

"Such people may often become very successful citizens -- but for me, they aren't mature individuals." They are contented members of the "public" but lack any real personal freedom, because they have allowed others to decide how they should live.

And this, ohmygosh -- what does it mean to be an authentic woman -- resonated with me.

Being a Muslim, I like to think that Kierkegaard, as with Confucius,

would have found greater solace in Islamic philosophy, which does grapple with all this.

From what I understand, Islam recognizes these states in people -- we have our Kierkegaard-types who contemplate Islamic concepts to mind-boggling degrees, and we also have our old-wives-type, content with following Islamic rituals carefully and busy with the living of every day life in accordance to stated laws. Both of these groups, if I recall correctly, were approved by the Prophet s.a.w.. And maybe that's it, eh? It's not about one trumping the other, is it?

As I asked my dad once when I was much younger, why then don't we all live as ascetics because they are so well-praised and strivers for spirituality? He then had me understand that, there is not one ideal, there are many.

Still, Kierkegaard was right though: for you to be free, you still have to choose; you still have to find your specific ideal. And there lies the struggle, I feel. Oh, the wonder and pain of life. 💟

I had a super and happily productive day today -- 5 kids for therapy, 2 IEP parent meetings, and I fasted the whole day and practically had no break for about 9.5 hours straight, just working. Then I had a great dinner with L, catching up about work, life, kdramas (super fun to discuss dramas with her!). Finally left for home after dinner, feeling accomplished, and grateful (especially for knowing yet another amazing lady), only to be accosted by my mum about where I was and yet again, about my disappointing lack of a worthy social circle, apparently. Why are you not out with a boyfriend instead? Why do you not have a boyfriend?

I didn't have much energy to be upset at that point. But seriously: nevermind that I slogged the entire day or that I felt I had sat and talked with a person I genuinely admired. She is amazing. Partly for being an ISTJ-Yu-Jie-type person (haha) but also for telling me about her awesome plans for taking up fostering. And creating a centre for child fostering (especially for our hospital villagers as we call them! i.e. the abandoned kids in our hospital system). Nevermind all that. If I'm somehow not married or not about to, or I haven't gotten some guy smitten somewhere, there must be something wrong with me. I must be some sort of defective, weirdo woman apparently.

I am sick and tired of pandering myself and my sense of self-worth to this double-standard, unjust system, born of a man's world. I am done being made to feel inadequate and unhappy about who I am. Dear God, I am not trying to be ungrateful; I am working hard trying and fighting myself, to be a better person every day. But please don't take me to account for something I have no control over; I am not this typical, ideal woman that one is supposed to be, and it's been feeling increasingly like folly, to think that I ever will be.

Your heart knows the way.
Run in that direction.
-- Rumi

what a great way to start my morning.

Ohayo!

attempting to take the counsel of my years

When I've been silent for a while here, it usually relates to a simmering -- I have bubbling thoughts that need to be let out; but then I need the time to sit and ruminate and actually type it out. I clearly have difficulty finding the time to relate them here. Despite today being a public holiday, I still fail to spare the time. And here I am past 1 am.

It is infinitely easier to fangirl, hahahhh. My head hurts less. Literally, sometimes.



God, why is life so hard? Why is every day a struggle? Oh wait, I just had a heated discussion about this with my book club peeps over whatsapp the other day -- and it's cause we are meant to struggle. If you think about it, we actually don't think very well about anyone who doesn't struggle in one way or another in life (I'm sorry, but for me, an easy and immediate example would be American reality television personalities and how apparently vacuous their lives seem). And when I say struggle, I mean striving (not necessarily that one has to be suffering a scary affliction, although if one does, then actually, that immediately confers a very clear necessary striving on that person). If you are a human being and you're not working hard for something, one way or another -- forget other people -- you will soon despise yourself. There is something so intrinsically human about aiming and reaching for something.

And yet! Knowing this. Knowing that life is about fighting and striving (i.e. jihad, people, that's a literal translation). Why am I lamenting about how life is hard. What is wrong with you, S. Life is meant to be hard; embrace it. It is a striving to learn to be content; contentment is a higher status than patience.



Oh! I should mention that earlier in the week, a card via snail mail arrived from S in Melbourne -- and the birthday message was so lovely and beautiful, it made me tear; it's not too remote from what I've been rambling on above, I think I want to share and preserve some of it here in digital format:

Dear S,

Happy Birthday! I have no doubt that this will reach you slightly after the fact but nonetheless, I wanted to send you a birthday card to mark the occasion of your 30th.

Sure the number feels scary and also sad that we no longer are to be carefree twenty-somethings but I have no doubt that we will be the same crazy children we were when we first met a long time ago in a school near Orchard Road.

I hope that we will take the counsel of the years and become wiser and kinder people, but I also hope that we will learn to be kind to ourselves and forgive ourselves. I hope that we will continue to learn that the best thing in this world are those that money cannot buy -- good family, loyal friends, and the company of good people. I hope that we will continue to nurture our passion for life and our hobbies -- reading, music, and when we do indulge ourselves in more luxurious interests, experiences, or possessions, I hope that it will be with the knowledge that we are blessed to be able to do so.

Then she finishes it with:

Stay truthful, wise, courageous, and loving. Be happy, my dear friend.

-- S


I am so happy to have such amazing ladies as my friends.

Before I finally say goodnight on a decidedly happier note,

let me end it with one fangirl-ing piece:

this is my current earworm.
💚💜💛💙💗

Happy Labour Day!

And I'm back from a short getaway -- a roadtrip to Malaysia to escape the realities of everyday Singapore life, if only briefly. Celebrated my birthday with my family at TGIFridays, where an unexpected ice-cream-with-a-candle made its appearance after our dinner and I was serenaded the birthday song by the waiters. Embarrassing and hilarious.

And as I embark into the next decade of life, the 30th year milestone, I am quite randomly remembering an old friend, N; who has drifted from me but who I remember now, cause when we were 17, she often told me of how it was foretold by a soothsayer of sorts, that she wouldn't live past 30. I realise this is a morbid story -- but I'm quite sure she is fine and alive and happy somewhere in this world. I miss you, N! We turn 30 this year; our lives together in school seem a lifetime ago.

I'm also thinking that the longer one lives, the more courage one needs; that it seems true that life either makes you into a saint or a cynic, and it takes a whole lot of courage to be more of the former than the latter; to stay optimistic and idealistic and dream big; to believe in the goodness of people, the goodness in the world, and the goodness in one's self.

snapshots of wonderful things the past few days:

This was from E

and I shall never forget this endorsement, haha;

I shall wear the title of llamacorn with pride,

especially on sad days when I'm wont to think that

all my weird amounts to freak instead of special.

Indulgence while in KL, and I couldn't resist getting a hardcopy book

while at the best Kino bookstore in the world haha.

Three hundred years ago, one of the most famous and brilliant scientists of all time, British physicist and mathematician Isaac Newton, the man who gave us gravity from Cambridge University, England, actually thought in such terms about time: for him, there was the time of humans, felt by us all and measured by our clocks, and there was the time of God, which is instantaneous, which doesn't flow. From the point of view of Newton's God, the infinite line of human time, stretching backward and forward into infinity, is but an instant. He sees it all in one blink.

-- The Universe in Your Hand, A Journey Through Space, Time, and Beyond, 

by Christophe Galfard