If I died on the train this morning

You would know that the last thing on my mind was my upcoming essay

that would never be written anymore.

You’d know because the last thing I had written were in my notes:

‘Establish measure for identity formation’ 30 October 2015, 11.31 am.

And you’d know that I was glad to have been making progress with my essay.

My last spoken words would have been ‘Teh, Dabao.’ Then ‘Xie Xie.’ She would have been the last person I talked to.

My last meal would have been a waffle, with peanut butter generously slathered over the crispy squared wells.

The last traces I had left behind would have been a great irony. I left behind a neat dorm room with my bed all made and the floor swept. I would have left tidily.

The last song I would have sung was the tenor two part of Pentatonix’s ‘Cheerleader’ with the acapella group last night. At least we’d finish it. Our group still doesn’t have a name, and I would never know what they’d pick or what they would sing next.

The last thing I would have laughed about was over my bad accents with my roommate last night.

The last thing I would have read was Alvin Pang’s ‘Candles’. My roommate and I did a reading. It was funny.

The last thing I would have properly written was a poem to a very stressed out friend.

The last email I would have received was a short one liner notification from a reader prompting me to continue my fanfiction.

The last dream I would have had was of being a G.I Joe rescuing Orla Fallon from a war concentration camp.

The last piece I would have played on the piano would have been Matt Redman’s ‘Endless Hallelujah.’

The last verse I would have read was John 20:30-31. It had been the verse of the day.

If I had died on the train this morning

I would have missed the bachelorette’s dinner we were throwing for our cousin tonight.

I would have missed tomorrow’s band practice and music ministry day.

I would have missed the wushu competition.

I would have missed serving on Sunday.

I would have missed all the exams till December.

I would have missed the end of semester barbecue.

I would have missed the acapella practices on Thursdays.

I would have missed Christmas and all the partying that happens at Christmas.

I would have missed my overseas exchange the next year.

I would have missed out on love. I would have missed out on life.

I would have missed out.

So many things would suddenly become so important

If I died on the train this morning.

You would know all that I’d left behind,

you could still pick up the pieces

but I would never know

if I died on the train this morning

if I died,

would you cry?



Huddling under the everything of school. Brrrr.

Indulging in my latest wave of mopeyness tonight in the most college student bumming way ever. That is, eating something they call ‘food’ out of a cup for dinner. After having Macs for tea. Why are comfort food always so darn unhealthy?

There’s a party going on somewhere outside. I can hear the music from here. Open mic or something. The singers aren’t that bad.

I don’t think I’ll be one of those people who become depressed. I have this healthy habit of talking to myself and just emoting and projecting everything onto made-up characters. So I can kind of self-regulate. The better, saner parts of me can indulge me for a while and then talk me out of my lumpy misery. I think people call that crazy. But I don’t give a bother. We’re all weird anyway. Might as well weird in a good way.

I shall have my grapes now. I shall write a poem for class. And I shall brainstorm for the beginnings of two beautiful essays.

Yes, yes I shall. Onward and upward.


Um. So.

I am one week away from an essay deadline, an essay the magnitude of about 1.8k words.

And I just started a couple of hours back. Current word count: 911.

Well. That’s…ominous.

I have never started on an essay so late beforeee, I usually start about 3 weeks early.


If I blow up all the (insert quotes here) I suppose it will boost my word count some 100. Maybe 200? Then if I cut and edit all the non-usable rambling, I might just end up where. I. Started.


Oh woe is me, that it has come to this. Writing an essay to meet word counts. What. What.

What is life, please.

Just bleeding all over the keyboard to get a substantial body of words out. For now. I hope something in there will actually makes some sense for the final cut.

It is a gift, right, to churn out 911 words in a couple of hours? I’ll make it, right?

Once Upon a Dream

You know what? I just realized that I might never meet my soul mate because I don’t dare to bare my soul in real life. I don’t dare to be me, at least, however much of ‘me’ I have figured out at this point of my life.

So if I’m walking around living a life that isn’t me, well, then how am I going to find The One? Or rather, how is he going to find me?


I dreamt of him, though, the lover I haven’t met. When I woke up, I was sure I knew him somewhere in real life. He just gave off that much of a familiar vibe. Then again, he was already my lover in the dream and we were all ease with each other. Still, he seemed familiar. I just hope he wasn’t some movie star on TV. Too far out of reach.

You were cooking (ha. hahahaha.), something stir fry and noodley, I think. You were at the hawker centre, chatting with the other hawkers who were cooking alongside you. You were laughing and joking, old friends. I come along and we smile, happy to see each other. You call a greeting to me, put down your wok and come to me, dabbing at the sweat on your forehead with the ‘good morning’ towel around your neck.

I call my greetings to the rest of the hawkers. “Can I borrow him for a while?” I ask them, and they nod and laugh knowingly as I draw you a little away by your wrist.

You regard me with coy surprise. “I need a favour from you.” I whisper excitedly, hopefully. You sober, waiting expectantly for my great request.

I speak. “Can you…make  6 flavours of wanton mee, 5 bowls each?” I do a mental calculation. “30 bowls.”

You laugh incredulously. “What? 30 bowls? Of wanton mee?” 

I wave at the little girl by the orphanage not far away from us, the orphanage that I had just left, shrunk into the size of a paper doll house. “Yes, please? It’s for them.”

You laugh some more at my request and acquiesce boisterously, making the task known to all your hawker friends, who laugh along good naturedly.

I dreamt of you a second time. It was much shorter. But I forgot. 

I don’t know. Dreams are weird. It made sense then when I asked him to cook 30 bowls of wanton mee. I don’t even eat wanton mee. I don’t know what it is (Singaporean fail) but I’m sure there is only one flavour of wanton mee. I don’t know where the six flavours came from. Maybe it was all that mooncake shopping. All the mooncake flavours. Mooncake though. ❤ ❤ ❤ So much good natured laughing in it too.

I don’t know why a hawker, though.

Racking my brain, trying to remember who you are. I feel like once I remember you, I can slowly work from there, like knowing the answer key and then slowly working up to it…is that cheating?

Argh why is this so hard

How They Kill Wolves

I cannot tell a lie.

So I have been in a pretty crap state of mind since the last post. To be honest, I’m not mad about the thing that I was ranting about anymore. It all left me after I wrote it all down. I just felt crappy because I’d penned down all that diss and felt so much better but then it was still diss, like dissing my parents in some way even though they don’t know about it. Maybe that’s what makes it extra crappy. I dissed them and can still smile and laugh with them while they remain clueless about my inner angst toward them.

I just feel so underhand, y’know. Dissing them. Feels like something I shouldn’t have done, and it just feels like this big rock wedging itself in between God and me, just sitting there. Even worse, I was the one who put it there. Didn’t bother to move it too.

Everything goes downhill when you’re not in sync with God, methinks. I feel like I’ve fallen a little behind from keeping in his rhythm. It always happens during the holidays. I think I have more discipline in hall. (surprise surprise)

After raising that stink and just letting it sit there, I just opened this tiny door of ‘Me Myself and I’ and allowed some things to be thrown at me to topple me, tossed so casually into my mind but so dangerous to take root.

Have you heard that story about how they kill wolves? The knife blade is coated in blood, frozen over, coated it in another layer of blood, frozen and so on and so forth until the blade is pretty much disguised as a block of … bloody ice. Which appeals to the wolves anyhow. The knife’s handle is wedged into the ground, so only the bloody blade is seen and the wolves go and lick at it. They lick at it until they know it’s a knife under all that bloody mess, but they still continue to lick at it because it’s bloody and they like blood. They lick it until the blood on the knife is actually their own blood from them cutting their tongues on the blade. But still they go on licking, licking until they bleed to death. So it goes.

I feel like I’m that wolf. Even from a distance, without licking anything, I already know it’s a trap. It’s hollow, it won’t satisfy, it only leads to death.

But humans are funny, aren’t they? So what if they know? Experience everything, right? Especially, despite all the evils you know it’ll bring, because it feels good?

…There are some things worth not experiencing, worth avoiding, for no one else’s sake but your own. You’d probably still go off and do something dumb after reading this though, because that’s human. ‘Don’t believe it till you experience it.’ By then, it’s too late and you’ll slave to get out of it all and try to warn others but but but no one’s going to listen to you. Just watch them fall and try, try again.

It’s a short detour from the road He wants me to take and I’m already at the point of trudging back. It’s disgusting out here. Still feeling a little heavy laden but absolutely refuse to be tied down again by these things. Always these things. Something I will struggle for the rest of my life until I get to heaven, methinks.

It’s just so artistic, y’know?