AFRC

Who but I
Can look up in the sky
Jets soaring by in formation,
And smile?

Who but I
Can close my eyes
And hearing the roar of an engine,
Take pride?

Who but I
Can look at the pilots
And in their prestige,
Have a share?

Who but I
Can wield such power
To bestow the best of our land
With such responsibility?

Who but I
Gave them
Access to the nation's
Finest equipment?

Who but I
Am responsible
For the people in the force
A force like nothing on Earth?

Because I am in recruitment
I envy no clerk on Earth.

Christmas

Twas the day of Christmas.
And all was still in the house.

It is amazing, really, how Christmas has been played up to possess such a magical quality. A season of hope, giving, love, joy and peace. Strange how this day is often described as a season. Is it anything special to receive a gift on this day? No, for it is expected. As analysts suggest about the first major scientific revolution, science has attempted to explain all the phenomena in this world so that no longer is there any room for creativity or imagination. What makes an event special is its randomness. It is the gift that is entirely unexpected that lets people know that truly, you were thinking of them.

So why only on Christmas do we send gifts? What makes Christmas special over all other days?

PYT

I wish I could tell you things.

Like how never ever,
No matter what you do to your hair,
Could you ever be less lovely.

Like how
I never did want you to like me.
It is enough if I can make you smile.

Like how
I wish I could be much more.
Make you proud to have me even as a friend.

Like how
I wish you'd get attached soon.
Let this foolish, deperate desire for you die.

And then all will be fine.
And then all will be better.
And then all will be innocent again.

But we never talk anymore.
And you've labelled me weird.
I don't know why...

But still, I wish I could tell you this.

Kent Ridge Park

I went running today. My route included, in order:

Kent Ridge Park
Normanton Park
Science Park I
National University of Singapore
Science Park II
Haw Par Villa


Kent Ridge Park has always been a very wonderful experience for me. I count the way up in numbers of slopes and bends. The entire route flattens and slopes 4 times, twisting twice. Of course, I use flatten here very losely. For it does not level out, but becomes merely less steep. And when the initial gradient hits at least 40-degrees, less steep is very easily attainable. Still, it is very much worth the steady run. When vehicles climb past you, you can distinctly hear the groan of the engine. And as they pass, the drivers give you a subtle glare of disbelief, a twinkle of respect in their eyes.

But the most amazing view is at the very summit. The sea reaches the sky in the distance. Nearer the shore, shimmering metallic cranes to the right complement the picture, appearing to finally be in harmony with nature. Even closer are vast canopies of green. Peeking through these are houses reminiscent of a time long past. Sharp, angular rooftops only rise ever so graciously beyond the height of the treetop canopy. Higher up in the sky, the sun beams its final smile upon Singapore, bathing everything in a bright orange glow. It fades through the entire rainbow spectrum. A rainbow that filled the entire horizon. Soon, the stars will come up. And soon, they will have their turn.

But again, I am reminded of her.
Of how she is ever so lovely to behold
But impossible to ever hold.
Like the sunset.

I smile, to no one in particular. And I run on...

Runner's High

I believe they call it the runner's high:
The feeling of pain, numbness and exhilaration altogether.

Numbness in your legs
Pain in your chest
Exhilaration coursing entirely through your veins.

You start out realising
That every step out requires another step home.

After a while,
It matters no more.
You are pushing on without thinking of the journey back.

And you go further and further.
And you explore new uncharted routes.
And your sweat dries, dehydrating.
And you wonder if your delirium is heat stroke.
And you soon similarly do not care.

All that matters is the now.
And now, you are tremendously joyous.

That, I believe, is the runner's high.

131207 / 1615

Deluded by visions of a friendship so strong.
I have only today realised how little I mean to people.
Perhaps, the best gift to those I treasure most
Would be to stay away from them.
Let their lives not intertwine with mine,
That they may be happy.

Knees to my eyes.
Jeans stained by tears.
There is a gentle breeze:
Little comfort.
For all my sacrificed sleep,
For all the distance travelled,
I only wanted to make you smile.
But you'd left,
Despite knowing I was coming.

Was the choice difficult?
You never informed me.
And foolishly, I went down
All the way:
South to East.

Did you feel bad?
You never did apologise.
You insisted on me leaving the gift outside your house.
So I returned the lighter.
So I took out the candle.
So I rewrapped the cake.
I don't think you'll ever try on the necklace.

And you never did reply
When I asked if I was that disliked...
In your silence, you politely nod.

I have only today realised how little I mean to people.

Memories...

Of a smile so sweet,
Sadness is peeled away.

Of eyes so bright,
Life is refilled with purpose.

Of a character so gentle,
Trust is rekindled.

Of dreams so pure,
Hope is enlightened.

Of her that are so lovely
You want to embrace her,
Bathed in the ebbing glow of the dying sun.
And nothing else would matter.

Child Sex

I remember probably a month ago when the daily headline of The New Paper tabloids had something to do with a child being sexually abused. I remember the way that they discussed how the child could never have understood at such a young age the implications of everything. I remember how most of the children were mostly female.

And I was wondering: what would happen if the victim was a male? Would it not be worse for him? Males and females are born different. There is no superior gender, unless you compare based on certain specific criteria. To use just one classification, males are more appropriately equipped to physically protect females than vice versa. If a female had been sexually abused, she can easily find the arms of a guy to cry into. Now, if it was a guy, there is no one. He would probably bottle it up. And this has been proven in studies on depression in both genders. The studies suggest that majority of depressed males would rather cover it up with anger than let the tears fall openly. What more then if he had been sexually violated?

The issue about not understanding the enormity of the issue until probably after puberty has been theorised by Sigmund Freud, and he makes no distinction between the genders. I feel sorry for both genders, but would pity the male child more. In time to come, he will find it immensely difficult for to heal because he will find it much harder to face up to it. For he knows that he is the anomaly. Sex laws in many countries generally protect the female because males are often the offender, rarely the victim. And he knows that he is a loser, to use teenage lingo. While most guys his age may start to become curious about females in a sexual way, he will find it hard to feel in such a manner.

And you may wonder why I have chosen such a queer topic to discuss. And I will smile and reply, "If only you knew..."

Dance of the Trees

Each time I am walking along the streets, and I feel a breeze. I will stop. I will look up. And there before my eyes will be played out the dance of the trees. It is a truly amazing sight, for no two dances are ever alike. And you are never forewarned of a dance. It just happens whenever the wind feels like visiting. Everything comes as a surprise, and that makes it all the more exciting.

Whenever a wind drifts by, the trees will perform on cue. In a raw expression of motion, they stretch their branches out to the sky. The branches are then swayed to and fro at random. And yet, there is grace. They gently lean with the wind, their control impeccable. The leaves fall from their face, stopping in their tracks those who notice. If even only for a while.

At times, they may sing along. The rustling of leaves rise in volume together with the intensity of the wind. And the stronger the wind, the more intense is their dance. The more passionate the dance, the louder the sound. The combination is strange. There is neither melody nor harmony. The dance does not lead the music, nor does the music lead the dance. Both seem to understand what the other wants and react accordingly.

If in the night, you may be lucky to see the trees illuminated by the yellow streetlamps. The light glistens off the surface of the trees, and moves along together with the tree. From afar, it appears as if it were an aurora borealis. The light softens the edges of the trees so that leaf and branches become indistinguishable. All you see is a figure of gold, yellow light.

And such is the intricacies of the dance of the trees. And I look forward to it every December period, during the monsoons.

For me, December is a very lovely month. The trees dance, the skies pour forth life-giving water, the earth is cooled, the children fill the streets with joy and laughter and the year behind is etched forever into the history of time with a new chapter ready to be opened. It is a time of promise, of beauty and of joy. But perhaps, in another post...