Dear diary,

My comment section's screwy, and I can't do anything about it, not because I can't actually, but because I'm too lazy to scavenge through the glut on infocyberspace for a solution to the encoding glitch. Another classic example of 'nothing's impossible, it's just you'.

And the layout. I removed the credits of the author. Not that I want to pass off as its creator, the credits were simply placed in a spot I found a terrible eyesore. My html mastery, or lack thereof, wouldn't allow me to shift it to a less obtrusive location. So what the heck. If out of the zillionth decimalic slightest probability that she would chance upon this blog and found my complete disregard for her invent, this is for you: I'm sorry. And kindly fix up the screwy comment section.

I'm a blogger with no sense of personal pride in his blog. I knock-off templates from others, infringe their copyrights, steal snippets of codes here and there, and I don't even bother spicing up the blog with cutesy dancing gif files that would serve no purpose except to amuse the little retard in all of us. I don't blog all that regularly, and my posts are all petty and conceited words of ftzdom that wouldn't stop the wars, feed the poor, shelter the homeless or move the soggy sock lying next to me to the laundry basket even. And you know what's the worst and probably the best part? No one can do anything to me about it.

So in the anarchistic blogging realm, everyone's their own king. Their own lords, hoarding over their fiefdoms of personal thoughts and their pawns of unadulterated free speech. Which pretty much explains the phenomenal rise of blogs. And bloggers' egotism. And the unvalidated bullshit that comes with them. Now any idea conceived by the most deviant, twisted evil genius can be easily accessed by IE *click*typpitty typitty* e-v-i-l-g-e-n-i-u-s-.-b-l-o-g-s-p-o-t-.-c-o-m. (Ok, that was a fake link, in case one of you actually considered visiting that site. Probably George Bush's secret blog.)

Why all the psychobabble today? Because, I can. So there.

Dear diary,

I want to fall in love. Hopelessly. Madly. Deeply.

I would've liked to think I was in love once. But was I ever? Could I have been deluded, a foray my mind played to my whim, to like to believe I was in love, that I had experienced the most powerful emotion since the advent of man?

Looking back, I cannot be as steadfast in my answer as I had been then. How does one define the constitution of love, when love is a paradox in itself, that it can be transient as a passing breeze as it is timeless as the hanging stars. That it can hurt as much as it can heal. That love is about selflessness yet we cannot love without desiring that person.

Some people might not agree with what I say. Advocates of 'true' love would say love is all-encompassing, that it is a feeling so pure and permanent other emotions such as jealousy, spite and lust should play no part in. Yet how much 'truer' is one love to the other? To me, true love is overstated. Love is love. Love cannot be simply defined by words because there are infinite forms that it can manifest into.

People who believe in the very notion of 'true' love do not understand love for what it truely is, they of bigotry and naivety. They think that there is a set of laws or rules that govern what is acceptable as love, that their love would be nobler than the rest, but they forget that love is essentially a feeling. And feelings fade or grow. It is as unpredictable as the mechanism that produces it, the human mind.

A love short-lived doesn't make it any less important than one that lasts a lifetime. I am not saying love is frivolous or capricious, because it is not. But I don't believe it's all-encompassing either, because humans are born of a selfish nature. Does it mean the lady who cried at her husband's passing doesn't love him? The very act(of crying) stems from the fact that she realised he's forcefully torn from her, and can you say then, that it wasn't love because she acted in self-interest, her desire for his physical presence?

To me, to the best of my understanding, love is about giving, sacrifice and compromise. And the strength of the love, its longevity, is what people should be concerned about, the harmony of the elements that nurture love.

Call me a hopeless romantic, but I don't believe love can be stopped, nor can one determine when or where to fall in love. Love at first sight holds as true for me as a love developed over years of understanding. However, whether the love blossoms into something fruitful and longlasting is completely dependent on the compatibility of the individuals.

The 'right' or the 'ideal' one, as they like to say it is, simply put, the individual whom you're most comfortably in love with and who is most comfortably in love with you.

I cannot be sure whether I was ever in love. In those years when I was foolish, immature and I didn't care as much about compromising, giving and sacrificing as I should have for someone in love. Still, why should it matter so much that I was or wasn't. Those years had been kind to me, and I was and still am grateful.





I want to fall in love. Hopelessly. Madly. Deeply.

Dear diary,

There's something morbidly gratifying about gasping lungs, burning thighs, wobbly knees and ashen skin. At its peak you hear nothing but the exertive beatings of your heart, your painful swallows of air. You only feel the parchness of the throat, the flailing limbs and the cold of your face.

The world does not matter anymore in that heightened existence, it's you against yourself. Your thoughts at that moment is surprisingly simple; pristine and uncluttered. It's only a two-pronged road: To give up or not to. Mind over matter or vice-versa.

At that stage it's very difficult to convince yourself to carry on, akin to a rubber dinghy braving the overwhelming tides of fatigue. Yet if you do succeed, to push intrepidly past the pain and the lightless passage, you will discover yourself on a higher plane, the point when your mind completely takes over the flesh. Your breathing regulates, the screaming muscles mute, and you carry on; confident, stalwart, unchallenged.

It's an emotional victory that will forever be etched on the gravestones of demons of fear, weakness and self-doubt. And such an experience can become addictive for people who continually pushes the boundaries created by the body to be breached by the mind.

The art of running.

Dear diary,

Woah, it's been what, 2 weeks? Left this blog in abeyance longer than a self-respecting blogger should. Just so that you know this blog's not quite dead yet. No, not quite. If being dead's six foot under, I'm probably 4 foot a quarter with a little bit of organic compost over my head.

I wonder how it feels like to die. To kick the bucket. To meet your maker. To be off the twig. To be under the daisies. To take the last bow. To lay down your shovel. Ok, 'nuff said.

Life and death. What difference between the two makes one such exulted and the other so reviled. The obvious would be that life constitutes living, and being alive is the elementary and indispensable foundation of being human and eventually a possible progression to greatness. I think however, so sue me, that the difference isn't as colossal as what everyone makes it out to be. It's actually pretty simple, says the ignorant sq. I think the only difference that separates one from throwing the dirt and one being under it is choice. Just choice.

In death you do not choose. Or rather you do not have the luxury of choosing. There are so many different religions, myths and folklore that dictates where one goes when he dies. You could be judged, reincarnated, tormented. You could experience utopia, flight, lightness. You could wander the earth that made and swallowed you, in ethereal existence, purposeless. Or you could just become a void, you cease to exist. You can have so many different fates, but none are of a choice to you.

And choice is the empowerment of life. We choose how we should lead it. We can wallow in pittance and mediocrity for our entire lives and die not knowing its meaning. We can also lap up every moment and embrace the very air that keeps us beating, living as if everday were our last. Choice.

I realise as I blog today that I've made so many bad choices in my life. I chose subsistence over enlightenment. I chose superficiality over genuinity. I chose shortcuts over hardwork. And the choices that I make. How far have my choices, bad and good, paved the road that leads to the particular death that awaits me, a final passageway in which I am bound and helpless. And that frightens me. As with what frightens all man in their dying years. Not death itself, but the choiceless path that carries on thereafter.

If living life as I have been thus far been a careless, reckless and selfish one, one day I might realise that I would have been better off dead from the start. If only I knew.