With a rough and violent push, bitter winds burn through the thick layer of overlaying clouds and speeds down towards the harsh and cold solid ground that stands beneath a thick layer of hard packed snow.

I sit here behind the pane of glass, frosted now by the hail and the ice, cold to touch. With every breath of wind the glass quivers and whimpers, but shudders to a stop once more. But then, like an angry tiger in captivation, the wind hurtles against the bars of the cage furiously, seeking to bring down the barrier that blocks its way.

I shiver slightly as victorious tendrils of wind slip in, and wrap my hands tightly around a warm mug of hot chocolate. It's not the instant kind, but real, thick, foamy hot chocolate with little white melted bits of marshnellow floating here and there.

There is something intoxicating about the bitter wind that wages war with the hard and solid ground-- slamming down over and over again, winding through trees and shrubs that shiver nakedly in the cold. Yet no matter how hard the wind rages, no matter how many small particles of snow fly up in the sky, twirling and somersaulting in the air, the ground always wins. The particles of flying snow will settle back down. But the wind is infamous for its stubborness and pride-- it could never accept defeat. It strikes again and again at the unmoving ground, which remains calm and proud throughout.

The clouds of snow that billow up in the air gives me the feeling that I'm sitting four feet away from the battle of the bulge, the decisive battle in WWII. The bombs that the Germans hurl ceaselessly on the stolid Americans, impact on the hard-packed ice and sends tiny shards of ice spinning through the air.

I can hear them plink against the battered glass pane. I can see them glare menacingly at me from my vantage point. I can feel their anger, their desire to come crashing through the glass, to shatter the tired defence, and burst in with delirious fervour.

But I feel safe here, shielded, encased in this strong bubble. Strong as the lignin that makes a xylem strong, strong as diamonds that glitter, strong enough to protect me against the vicious wind. The fire giggles and dances merrily as I reach forward to add another log in the fire, glowing proudly in the gloom.

I set my steaming mug down on the table, and wander over to the frosted window. I rest my forehead on the cold glass, inches from the battlefield, shivering as the sting of the cold travels through me.

It's a crazy winter out there. The wind is bombarding the snow with vicious snarls. It pounds down angrily repeatedly, then rises up screeching and shrieking when the ground camly resists. Within the next second it's back again, confident and strong, certain that this time, it will be able to bring the ground down.

But I know, as I stand with my moist breath condensing on the glass, that all battles come to an end.

It has been hours since the war began. At its eleventh hour, the wind is beginning to sense its defeat. It is beginning to realise that the ground cannot be shaken, that the ground cannot be lifted up into the sky like a flying carpet.

You cannot thrust a sword into the water and expect the water to die.

Finally, with a defeated howl, the wind retreats, skulking back into the shadows, far up in the clouds, seeking to soothe its hurts.

As it retreats, with shame, it looses its hold on the particles of snow. They come tumbling down, tiredly, wearily, but relieved.

As the snow settles on the cold winter ground, I notice something.

Amid the harsh conditions, somewhere in a thick and hard pile of ice, there is a bud. It is small, and fragile in the cold. But it is strong. It is calmly and resolutely sticking out, pink against the white background. A tiny droplet of water glistens on the end of a closed petal, shimmering slightly.

It stands as tall as its small stalk can, proudly but humbly, turns to peer at me, and waves.

Above, the dark clouds rumble angrily, and the ice shivers disgustedly-- at this litte bud that has defeated them both.

'A person is like a sponge -- he can only take so much in before he lets it all out.'

I'm this close to letting it all out. You know how close? The height of a coin.

One coin. Not two or three.

One bloody fcuking shiny metal thing that screws us all up.

I am so sick of this life. Yes, there are some moments that give a spring to your bounce, that light up your life, that rise your sunken heart.

Too bad this isn't one of these moments.

I am so sick of people not knowing who I am, and judging me. Telling me what to do. Telling me what I should be. Telling me what I should aim for. When they don't even know me. At all.

Sorry mates. I'm not your average kid. You may think that I am. I may seem like I am.

But I'm not.

I've got more problems than you think. More serious and more than your average kid out there.
I know I'm luckier than so many millions of people out there. So much more lucky.

But I really wish that I could be selfish, even though I know I shouldn't be. And I am selfish. I know that. After all, aren't we all? Selfish, I mean.


You know what it's like?It just screeches over you, keeling, spinning upward again, then hurtling down towards you. As it nears you it veers of course suddenly, but the high pitched screech, like running fingernails down a chalkboard, whistles over your head, whirls in through your ear, and ricochets around your head, drowning you. You think it's over, and your pounding heart slows down but then it returns. Deftly. It squashes you, squeezes you until you can't breathe. You're locked in a corner and everything is closing around you, with no way out.

That's what it's like.

And the worst thing, is that you know that everything you're doing now, everything that people are doing now, everything that everyone is doing now or wanting to do, is all wrong.

And you know that in your heart, you know someone many people don't seem to understand. That you're trying to tell them, and some, many sometimes, do understand, perhaps not as fully, but they still do. But they still can't do anything about it and neither can you.

Nothing. Can't do anything.

You know that all this work, all this sweating blood for success, for ambition, for money, for respect, is all wrong. That from age 3 you have to be sent to a school to be specially tutored, that when you're 6 the work begins. That once you reach secondary school, you're stuck. Stuck in sinking sand and your falling. Why? Because there's no longer any way out. You're trapped in a materialistic world, where people pound work after work after you, to prepare you for the real world (that's fine, except that the real world's pretty screwed), and every single day all you do is work and write and type and study, without quite knowing why. And that if you relax, you feel guilty. That this will be how you're going to live for the rest of your goddamn lives- working, seldom resting. The only chance for a reprieve is one or two short periods, then you begin again. There's no end to it. It just keeps going on and on until one day you either break down or you die. And the entire time all you're focused on is yourself, is doing better, is not letting anyone down.

All that is wrong.

I knowa 48 year old who has cancer. I know a 35 year old who has cancer. I know a couple of other 30 year olds who have cancer. I know a couple of 50 year olds who have cancer. I know a 34 year old who died of cancer. I know at least 10 people who have had strokes.

And I know, that once something like that happens, you know. You know that you only live once, and you know that you're going through so much pain, and you know that if you're going to die the next day you're not going to be happy because you haven't lived life to the fullest. You need people to love and care for you with 100% of their hearts. You also know that there are so many people going through the same pain, that went through the same pain, that are going to go through the same pain. And you know that they need people to love and care for them with 100% of their souls and bodies.

You also know that you and they are probably not going to get a lot of that in this world.

Know what else I know?

That that fact is never going to change. Not the way we're going right now. Because everyone is so damn self-centered and materialistic and fooled by this society that they themselves have created. And that even if someone close to you gets a serious, deadly, terminal illness no one will be fully able to help you. Because they're still concerned about themselves, and what your illness has done to affect their work.

And everytime you try to speak up, not only if you have an illness, but if you know this, you get quashed. Everything you say is denied. If it's not denied, then a perfect explanation or excuse comes in place of it. Whatever happens, you still get scolded and punished and disrespected and laughed at and mocked at and jeered at. Just because you're trying to have a heart.

The common excuse (for me, only known in school, because I haven't exactly a boss to talk to. The closet we get to superiority is our teachers and principal) is that it's for our future lives. For us to survive in the real world. The real world is cruel and hard, they say.

Yeah, it's hard and cruel. Ever thought of changing that fact? By being a real person from the start?

But then again I suppose their right. There isn't much hope for us, is there? That no matter how hard we try, too many of us already see the world and her inhabitants as the perfect place and the perfect people to flaunt our power.

So I guess we may just as well continue our march to death.

Note: It would probably be best to skip this post and carry on down two posts or something like that. :D

OG.

Own goal.

England didn't play too well. We won though. Somehow. But if we play like that against Brazil or Germany etc, we'll be thrashed.

The referee was somewhat biased too. Against Crouch especially.

Anyway.

I think I know why England didn't play well, and haven't been playing well. The players play air balls, therefore the pace becomes slower and England lose control of the game. Because, obviously, it's harder to control the ball if it's in the air most of the time!

Compared with Germany yesterday, England's pace was much much slower. If they do more 0ne-twos instead of swinging the ball sideways to the player, like Downing to Beckham, hardly moving forward, then most chances will come from shots outside or at the edge of the penalty box, like Lampard's. Obviously, it's harder to score from there.

Also we kept kicking the ball around and around in circles, instead of finding gaps in the defence. So the ball moves sideways, backwards, and slowly inches forwards.

But hey, I'm probably all wrong:D Just frustrated with England's match today! So actually it would be better if anyone crazy enough to read this ignore this whole section... just my ticked off impression of how we played today. :D

Hello.

Nice of you to pop by.

Today, I'm here to talk about the ocean/sea/huge body of water that is the blue on our planet when Yuri Gagarin was looking out of his space shuttle.

William Hazlitt once said:

'I hate to be near the sea, and to hear it roaring and raging like a wild beast in its den. It puts me in mind of the everlasting efforts of the human mind, struggling to be free, and ending just where it began.'

I like the sea.

'A raging tempest', I believe someone once described it. But everyone sees the ocean in a different way, because, I believe, the ocean is so different.


That's what I like about the sea - its flexibility. At times it flares it mercurial temper, halfway across the globe it sinks into a wise, sage-like behaviour. Yet in between it can suspend between the two extremes and white-capped waves bob almost gently, frolicking among its friends.

When you're out at sea, after days and days of voyage, the oncoming land is a breath of relief, a sturdy, reliable safe haven. You loathe the sea and would kill to step on something that does not bob. You feel stuck on the boat, trapped within the fibreglass walls of the ship, because you have no where to run to; no means of escape.

When you stand on the beach and gaze out at the vast ocean, you feel so small, negligible, like the weight of an electron. But at the same time, you sense freedom. Somehow next to the majestic ocean your size shrinks, but your soul expands and soars to roar along with the waves that pound against the shore.

You know what I love best about the ocean? It's enormity and superiority. You stand, like an ant by an olympic pool, like a grain of rice in a desert, by the ocean, green-blue waves lapping against your ankles. A breath of wind hurtles towards you, leaving in its wake spirals of sand that flop lifelessly back on the shore. You spread your arms out and close your eyes, feeling the pounding awe of the ocean shrill through your body. You don't bother to open your eyes, knowing that your wind-tousled bangs would just tickle your eyes mercilessly. The screech and the low drumbeat that the ocean brings bang in your ears, and you feel, even for a little moment, that your soul is dancing in the wind, bouncing on the waves crest, diving down into the deeps of the ocean to burst up again in a shower of droplets.

It's a nice feeling.

If you're lucky and the sea is not being thrashed by his wife, the wind, it is calm, surreal. A gentle breeze skims lightly across the waves, but barely disturbs their slumber. You can see the sheen as the sun glances off the reflective, mirror-like waves. You stand, toes wiggling in the soft sand warmed by the sun's rays, and smell the salty tang in the air that sticks to you skin and wiggles deep into your hair. The waves lap gently onto the shore, like a dog absentmindedly drinks water from a puddle. There's a different feeling in the air now - the power of the sea has gone. A smooth, gentle feeling of peace enters your soul. While the ocean in its rage flies you close to the sun like Daedalus and Icarus; in its meek mood the sea steadies you on the ground, so your soul remains peacefully frolicking in the sand.

The ocean reminds me of a meek, gentle, sweet little figure: a Brownie selling cookies. At times, an obnoxious, big-bellied, pompous man: Zeus with his thunderbolt in hand. The ocean has no humility.


For all its beauty and majesty, the ocean scares me. It's short temper flares and bursts onto the land like no other power in the world. But the thing that quakes me the most, is the very thing that I love about the sea. It is so vast, that when you float on your back on the waves, you fear. You fear that a freak wave would stream into your mouth and nostrils and drag you down into the deepest trenches of the ocean. You look around and you see nothing but sea. You see nothing but a dark abyss that paralyses you to stay right where you are, instead of swimming back to safety, and where you can hear your death call out to you.

There is absolutely nothing that can compare to the ocean; the sea.

Countdown to World Cup: 4 Days 2 Hours 59 Min 45 Sec

I'm bored.

Which is strange, because I really shouldn't be. But hey, go figure.

Get ready for some selfish whinging.

Sometimes I just feel so sick of life. It's kind of scary really, because sometimes you feel that you're not even alive. It's like you're in a dream, and you're watching yourself from above- as if your soul has detached from your body and is wandering around bemusedly.

It's a strange feeling when you're not sure that you're alive anymore. Questioning your existence seems quite valid.

Don't you think that sometimes the world is going too fast for us?

It seems to me that the life I live, or the life that I am forced to live, has driven me like a chauffeur dreaming to be a F1 driver. It has sped me along the racetracks, skidding at some slippery turns, and flying along the tarred road. This life, the one that we all profess to love, to want to live; in plain English, sucks.

It really does.

I race along the gleaming tracks, and unconsciously, my brain, my body and my mind are focused on pushing myself that diminutive yet significant centre metre. Why? Because that oh-so-vital centre metre would push me just that little bit forward, that little bit better than everyone else.

My entire self, conscious and subconscious; my ego and my superego, are bent on sniffing out chances to pull ahead of the pack, to be the best. And as I’m shredding my tires, staring fixedly at those in front of me, my mind and the wind that tickles my ear urging me on (catch up, move faster, don’t lose!), I’m going too fast to look sideways and watch a little blade of grass wave to me forlornly as I zoom on by. In any case, were I even to turn and peer at that little green thing, I would lose focus on my target and fall behind.

Now we wouldn’t want that, would we?

We rocket past one another, but what for? What good does it do? We only berate ourselves for not catching up with the one that is now ahead of us; the one that was previously two paces ahead. It is a cycle that never ends; pointless and harmful, like leaving clothes in the washing machine to spin and spin endlessly. We would only end up unhappy and unsatisfied, our clothes stretched and worn and washed to the point beyond which the colour fades.

Sometimes, if we were to stop for just a moment, take the clothes out for awhile, take a pit stop, we find ourselves in a delirious joy. Perhaps if we were to step on the brakes, skid to a stop, and ponder curiously that fascinating blade of grass, we would find on our faces a smile.

It is the simple things that please us the most, the seemingly easily attainable, won’t-get-you-anywhere-in-the-world things that spread a balm over our heart, soothing our fiery souls.

I find that what I desire greatly these days is a day where I have no obligations, no immediate tasks that I have to attend to. A day where I could put all that aside, and sit down with an ungracious plop onto the floor, watch the box, read the square. It would help as well if my friends and family sat in the same room doing the same things.

Like today, or part of today. But even today, I cannot put my heart at ease or quell that unsettling feeling that I should be doing some work.

I found myself, today, or rather I lost myself, slipping back into my fantasies. I figure, since I cannot achieve such simple joy from my own life, why not do so in my dreams?

It is at these times when I find myself extremely gratified towards Professor J.R.R. Tolkien for his creation of Arda; for being Illuvatar. Indeed, I have spent so much time in and out of my fantasies that they have become a part of me, a part of me so connected to my emotions that they often trigger off feelings such as I do not during life.

In fact, this night, not an hour ago, my dissatisfied heart reached the end of the line for the deflibirator. I must confess that my heart perked up in delight when I unearthed some fanfictions that contained mirth and the storylines topping my desert list.

It reminded me much of the time when I thought to myself what the Earth’s wonders were. There was such lightness, such clarity in my vision right then; as if someone had chalked the way to happiness right on the path I was standing on.

Sometimes I think, that if only moments such as those could be exchanged for every moment with our heart darkened by storm clouds bordering on the horizon, then that would be a life worth living, a life worth losing the Grandpre.