It's a Thursday night and I'm sitting here alone in my room typing about how bored I am. It is not like I haven't had opportunities to go out tonight but personally I find bars and pubs extremely boring. Hmmm, how fun it is to go to a place where the music is so loud that you can't have a conversation with the person next to you and there are drunken people everywhere. Sounds like Christmas at home.

I also don't like bars because I don't enjoy dancing. Actually let me rephrase that – I don't think that I'm a good dancer. Now I realise that this fact doesn't stop most of the people you see on the dancefloor but I not the sort of person who can let go and not care about what other people think. Also there is the small annoying fact that there will be always one person from your group who wasn't drunk enough to forget everything that happened during the night.

For me the most enjoyable times drinking have come when you're in someone's room, there is some music playing for atmosphere and everyone is drunk enough that they think they're having a good time. And there a places to sit down, ie the floor (bouncers tend not to approve of you sitting on the floor of bars, and I wouldn't advice it anyway - you never know what's down there).

As always this has turned into a meandering piece of prose about nothing in particular, so in the spirit of Monty Python, time for something completely different. On my floor at the Hall I have someone who wets their bed. Now a bit of research shows that this socially crippling problem effects one in a hundred adults. That's a lot of wet beds every morning around the world. Now personally I don't hold it against a person if they wet their bed. There is nothing that they can do about this and so we shouldn't blame them.

However I do I have a problem with this guy because his problem has caused our floor to smell like a public toilet at times. Somedays he decides for no particular reason to leave his door wide open. At these times it is advisable to keep your door firmly closed and to exit your room via the window onto the balcony if at all possible. It was during one of these times that I heard a visitor to our floor exclaim 'God, it fucking stinks up here'.

The problem at the moment is that no one on the floor has been willing to confront the perpetrator and ask him to either keep his door closed at all times or to buy some sort of deodorizing agent. I pity the poor person who stays in his room during the holidays and even next year.

And now I leave you with a quote that I'm sure every university student will agree is quite correct: A lecture is a method for information on a piece of paper in front of the lecturer to travel to a piece of paper in front of the student without it going through the brain of either.

I was sitting around last night just wondering about certain things. What follows is sort of a free from kinda thing about stuff that makes me hold my breath, if only for a moment. I don’t consider it to be “poetry by any stretch of the imagination even though I think most of us have a life filled with poems that are just waiting to told. It’s just a certain sort of randomness which clicks on in my head every now and again.

So, here goes, some stuff that makes me hold my breath…

When the cat goes out at night, I wonder if it’s gonna come home by morning. If it doesn’t, I don’t want to be the one to explain to my little one about the circumstances. There are too many lost cats as it is.

The way the girl walks in the bar, maybe she’s been there before and then again, maybe not. For all I know, maybe she’s been there an entire lifetime, just waiting. A glance in her direction returns a smile. A drink is shared. Goodnights are exchanged.

Home, to the comfort of an empty house. The promise of music, a nightcap or two and silent thoughts that echo off the walls. Tick, tick, tick, there’s always gonna be another day.

Which brings me to the dance of tomorrow. Games to be played with me on the sidelines to watch. “Kick the ball!!!” “Shoot!!!” “Score!!!”. Self satisfied smiles and hugs. More stories to be told...

Wait. Watch Worry. Wonder. Wander

Four of those words seem somehow to define me. I’m in a holding pattern these days. The “wander” part will have to be put on hold for now. Someday, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to spread my wings a little further...

Yes, there’s always tomorrow to fret about or yesterday to recall. They can both take my breath away if I take the time to notice things, everything.

I’m glad the stars are out tonight. I can breathe again…
There is something about sudden inspiration, it can strike without warning. You can't hide from it; it will find you in bed, in the shower, in front of the television. All you can do is either wait it out or take advantage of it, writing it down using whatever you happen to have nearby so that you can.

I mean, take this one for instance!

Throw the words out on the page,
Node it for my oaken sage.
Read it once and you shall see -
There is a darkness inside me.

That one struck me as I was about to go to sleep, when I was thinking about how to thank a certain someone for all the help she gave me writing my latest piece. I simply had to get up and throw it into a daylog so that I wouldn't forget it and all the thoughts that are associated with it. I'm afraid that I couldn't come up with any epic poem about how she rescued me from the depths of despair and discouragement (certainly not now anyway! I need to sleep sometime.)

My point is that I seem to be hitting (or perhaps being hit by) inspiration every time I want to do anything over the last few days. I may not be a good poet, but until I joined this community I didn't think that I was at all a good writer either (and all you bastards who downvote every daylog for being NfN aren't going to convince me otherwise.)

The last two major pieces I have done both grew out of me in a very organic way, the critique of Singaporean society was just a whole bunch of criticism that I had been throwing at Singapore over the last year or two bundled up into a node and set on it's way. I didn't plan anything about it aside from the first topic, the rest of it just came out as I wrote. It was the first time I had attempted to write anything topical simply because I wanted to, and the response I got exhilarated me.

As for the last piece I did, it was my first venture into fiction since I was 7. I think I was just extremely discouraged by the fact that the teacher wouldn't let me read the story about a boy's pet rabbit who passed away - something about the description of the rabbit being torn limb-from-limb by an a pair of dogs. No use crying over spilt milk I suppose, the point is that I finally did something I have always wanted to do well. Even if I am the only one who likes it (and judging from the response so far, it would appear that I am not) then I am satisfied for merely having written it.

The Darkness Inside is about a place that we have all been, a place where we want to be able to blame something aside from ourselves for our own failings. It is about confusing cause and effect, like not being able to sleep so you drink lots of coffee and then you can't sleep so you drink lots of coffee. The title for it came from a chapter title from either Max Payne 1 or 2, I can't remember right now. It has been stuck in my mind for more than 3 months now, and in that time I myself had applied it to all those doubts and fears and things that go bump in the night. It seems such a fitting name for them.

In writing the piece I could say that I came to a better understanding of myself, just like I said in my last daylog after the last major piece about myself. The story kind of came together from a whole bunch of different places in my mind. There was the whole darkness inside thing which I couldn't get off my mind, I had just noded about American History X and Sweeney's words about blaming something aside from yourself for your own suffering came to mind, as well as just generally being paranoid about the people I think are dealing drugs across the road from me. It was an incredibly organic process, adding all the little things that came to mind into one (somewhat) cohesive story, and I felt the same exhilaration for having finished it as I did my last piece.

Why did no one tell me finishing a piece of writing could be so satisfying? I would have joined so much sooner.

Dear Amy Reece,

I met you today. Sort of. Do you remember? I rang you out at the bookstore. I was that guy who kept trying to talk to you while you batted your eyes standing there looking all cute.

I just want to let you know, that when you first walked into the store I was really hoping that you would come back and check out at my register. And you did, bonus! I was quite thrilled. You are so damn hot. I was having trouble concentrating on what I was doing and I had to recount your change three times.

So while you were shopping I was planning out, what I would say if you did come back my way. First I was thinking, ok, I can't really tell how old she is so I'll ask her that. But how am I gonna do that without seeming like a total jackass. I decided that I would just say "Hey, can I ask you somethin'" and then ask how old you are. Well, you went and ruined that idea by paying with a check and I had to see your ID. You look cute on your ID picture too by the way. Of course I took the coward's way out and looked at your birthday. You were born in 83. I didn't chance looking any longer to see the month or day. But hey that's great it means your just a year younger than me.

Since my carefully planned opening had been ruined I had to wing it. I'm sorry about that. I don't remember what I said, but it was something lame like "Come here often?". What I really wanted to ask you was "DO YOU LOVE BOOKS AS MUCH AS I DO AND COME HERE ALL THE TIME SO MAYBE I CAN SEE YOU AND TALK TO YOU AGAIN!?" That's what I meant to say. Sorry. And you said "No, only when I have to buy books for school." So I guess that answers my question anyways. Strike one. I hate the baseball analogy, but I like to think of it like I've got some certain things I look for and if you don't meet them then well it's like an answer marked wrong on a test. I shouldn't do this, but there it is. I've found that when I go against this method it doesn't work out. So there, it's not really a baseball analogy.

After fumbling your books around I asked if you went to school around here you said no in the city. Strike two, the city is too far away. Ok not really but it means I'll be worrying about you all the time and it's just not good. Previous experience and all. So then I asked for what you are going to school for and you said interior design. You're way too cute to be majoring in interior design. Or maybe that fits you just right. Who am I to say. I was strangely repulsed by this. I don't know why and I don't mean anything against you. But it just seemed like.. um you know.. majoring in wine tasting. No offense to interior designers, I'm sure it's a very difficult profession. For some reason I can't shake the image of stupid TV personalities trying to be eccentric but not too eccentric on national television. Half a strike.

Ok, this one is the nail in the coffin and it's totally my own fault. See I should know what color eyes you have, I'm going to guess and say blue? But I can't really be sure because, well there was this distracting flashy rock stuck on the side of your nose that I couldn't help but stare at. I didn't really think it was attractive, but there was no way that I could tear my eyes from it. Afterward it felt like I'd been staring at your chest. So that was like strike three. Nose piercings turn me off for no other reason than I think they are distracting.

So if your wondering why that guy just kind of let the conversation die and didn't ask you to go out for coffee or ask for your number now you know why.

I've forgotten how painful a migraine was since I've managed to avoid them in the past few months by not working all too hard. Never had a migraine? Let me give you an idea of how it feels.

Urg. Ever have a headache in your left eye? How about feeling your nerves shut down slowly in your entire right arm, so you can still move your hand, but it no longer feels like your own? How about the wonderful sensations of phantom nausea, aural preceptions being distorted, and all the wonderful LSD-like effects: snow (like in a TV screen) in your vision, tunnel vision, random halos appear, and the odd hallucination...

Ah, if only the pills still worked ...

I think my mother finally managed to catch me masturbating after 27 years of botched attempts. Then again, I can't be sure. The swift inclination to curl up into a ball, as it were, when she enters the room is uncanny. If she saw it, at least it's some kind of milestone. Well, maybe not. I had, after all, brought down the house with girlfriends in the past, and the telltale sign of blood and whathaveyou on the sheets never needed much explaining.

I am all of 27.

This is only noteworthy, and accordingly I bring it up, because there really aren't many more milestones left. I nearly killed myself drinking on holiday this past month, but I'd done that before, albeit, never before attempted it so spiritedly (no pun inte- ah what the hell). I also thought I'd fallen for a certain young lady, but I'd already done that, so I knew it was the trick of summer's harsh cruelty.

At least we're all going to die.

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