Saw off the unicorn's horn. Shatter the gilded mirror. Clip the wings of the dragon. Dismantle the white castle. Throw the sword into the lake. Poison the wishing well. Execute the shining knight. Cage the hapless fairy. Shred the magic carpet. Fell the enchanted forest. Scatter the sands of the hourglass. Extinguish the blue flame. There is no ever after, after all.

Passed out on the couch, tired from trying to find myself.

The three of us emerge onto the usually busy, but now deserted, main street in the wee hours of the morning. After hours of battling terrorists, demon-possessed soldiers and xenomorphs, our ears still ring with the sound of gunfire and battlecries. We didn't rescue all the hostages this time, nor save mankind from being enslaved by orcs, but that's okay. We had fun, the three of us - Monkey, Didi and I, the original three amigos. We never demand anything of each other, never fuss, never argue. Everything is as it should be between friends who have known each other for a long, long time.
We say our brief goodbyes, and go our separate ways. The air is unexpectedly humid as I walk towards the car, and also very, very cold. I clamber into the car, shivering. A minute into the journey I realise I'm driving the wrong way - well, to the wrong 'home' - and I loop back round again.
I hurry up the stairs, scrutinise my set of keys for the right ones, insert them into the locks, and turn. The door opens with a slight creak, and I step inside. The faux floorboards feel warm and welcoming beneath my bare feet. I imagine the unit to be some giant living thing, and I the child within its womb. I feel safe; it belongs to me, and it's a place for me to belong. For now, I guess it's home. Where else can I sit on the couch at four in the morning, listen to a piano rendition of Puccini's Madame Butterfly and write whilst wearing nothing but boxers?

Finally, a happy happy weekend. On Saturday I had a Christmas BBQ and housewarming party with the Honkie group. The next day I went bike-riding for Chengy's birthday in perfect sunny weather. Burnt chicken wings, soccer, cooking, Taboo, sunburn, presents, photos. Why can't every day be like the weekend past? Fuck the leaking pipes, the rattling window, the overgrown bushes and the creaking door.

Luck come lately, fortune be familiar.

When you make me smile, can you feel me beaming?
When you anger me, can you sense my murderous intent?

No more nagging me to fix the computer. No more complaining about my room being messy. No more cooking a kilo of pasta to feed an African nation. No more being a cabana boy.
I've got time (well, I will when everything is sorted) and space to sit and think with no distractions. I can start on that stack of books sitting on my bookshelf. Listen to every song on my iPod, from start to finish, with the volume up. Have the morning radio on whilst eating breakfast, and have TV dinners on the couch. I can sleep at 3, wake up at the last minute in a panic and arrive late to work.
I can be me, and everything you don't want me to be.

It's been a strange weekend. It hasn't felt like a weekend at all. Time has disappeared amidst a flurry of cardboard boxes, clattering plates and plain white walls. My life, packed neatly into fruit boxes and refugee bags.

I've worked so hard these few weeks, sacrificing precious summer days to inhale Ajax and pine cleaner, but it's just... not... happening. Late at night as I drive back for the hundredth time, eyes tired and bleary and blinded by the angry glare of a truck's headlights, I realise that this is not it. This is not home. It's just another lock, another chain.

I crawl into the fridge, and escape to the North Pole.

I once read, on a geek forum, life being compared to the software release lifecycle.
'Life starts in alpha, moves to beta, and then slowly, for most of your life, goes through release candidate 1, 2, 3....40 etc. And finally, when everything's fixed up, all the mistakes ironed out and you're ready to do the final release, you're already obsolete.'

'But everytime I reach for you, you slip through my fingers, into cold sunlight; Laughing at the things that I had planned' - Spiralling, Keane

This is probably the tenth time I've called an ambulance.
And then the car crashed.

The night sky and the horizon of the sea, barely distinguishable shades of black. Waves crashing and foaming. Sitting underneath Orion's Belt; now shrouded by rainclouds.

She sits there, long straight black hair (how I've always loved that hair) touching the shoulders of her velvet blue dress. 'It's been a while,' she says. 'Yes, it has,' I reply. She smiles. I continue, 'You still look the same though.' 'I've been trying to lose weight,' she says. 'Yeah, you do look skinnier.' I don't really think she does, but then I've never thought she needed to slim down.

The lady at the counter calls my order and I collect my meal. She picks up my chopsticks and reaches for the food, before hesitating and asking me if I mind. Of course not I say, and she starts daintily picking at the rice. 'You have to mix it first,' I tell her, and I stir the rice and egg and vegies together with the plastic spoon. 'Woops,' she giggles, and brushes her hair away from her heart-shaped face.

Soon her meal comes too, and the conversation picks up a little. We ask each other about our jobs and life in general, but I don't give away much. I guess somewhere inside there still lies that hard rock of resentment; I know too that she's achieved much more in her life, and I don't want to allow her this victory.

We talk about relationships, and she starts confessing about the problems she's having with her boyfriend. 'I was thinking about getting married next year but then..... What do you think?'
I want to ask whether she thinks it's weird she's asking me for an opinion on marriage and relationships, this girl who, years ago, half-jokingly(?), said she wanted to marry me. I keep my mouth shut though, nod, and throw out the occasional 'yes' and 'hmm' and 'maybe you should think about it'.

After lunch I walk her back to the station, and we part, awkwardly.

Back in the office, I message her.
'get back ok?'
'yeah didnt get lost. you're still the same.'
'im guessing thats a bad thing'
'hehehe'

You're still the same, girl, still the same.

Fade. Fading. How I loathe these words. They tell of something bright, changing into grey. Of something good that is now lost. It's the struggle all things inevitably lose.
I took the day off and drove him to the hospital today, the weather clear and slightly chilly in the morning. Hospitals are such bleak, depressing places. The outside of the building was a mish-mash of white painted concrete and brown bricks, and once inside we made our way through plain white corridors until we reached the cancer centre. We waited there for them to call his name, waiting and watching the nurses and doctors bustling here and there, the old and the sick plodding through. So fragile, everyone.

Eventually it was his turn to go in, and we stayed in the waiting room. She began telling me how it all started, how they had no idea, how long he had left, now. She told me how she planned to sell the house, get rid of everything, live in an aged care village and spend the rest of her days quietly. I'm not sure if it was the sadness of it all, or the fact that she was brave enough to say it all with a straight face, or the tone of resignation in her voice, but I choked and had to look away.

Already I can see the tiredness in his eyes. Suffer light, suffer gentle.

Man has always been curious to know what lies in the distance. Over that mountain, beyond the horizon of the sea. Maybe a magical lake, a new virgin land. It's this that I'm drawn to, the distance you represent. But that warmth is the shine of broken promises. That false light, that chemical glow. Yet I can't turn away.

Today I feel like the four walls are suffocating me. Appropriately, it starts raining as I leave the office.

Finally, it seems, I've achieved some degree of job satisfaction. I've been given more responsibilities and projects and thus I feel needed, which is always important for an egotistic megalomaniac. Unfortunately the moolah stays the same.

Work had a Melbourne Cup day on Tuesday. It's funny how a horse race can be such a big event; after all these years I still don't see the attraction, but hey, who am I to complain when we get half the day off. We also had a raffle, and I (I who have never won a thing in my life) won a case of Peroni beer. How ironic. I bet someone above was having a good laugh.

I'm slowly, but definitely, prepping up for the big move. Tonight I'll be going to Kmart to get essential household equipment such as a bin, clothesline, broom, toilet brush and the like. Very exciting stuff. Should I get a sky-blue coloured washcloth or a canary-yellow?

In other news, Obama won so I no longer feel the urge to jump off a very tall building.

You don't realise what's been lost until you remember it being there.

I wonder if others dream of others, too.

For sale: private island off South-East Queensland
- 8 minutes north off Hervey Bay by plane
- 23 hectares
- Accessible only via barge (included) or light aircraft
- Has airstrip, Telstra mobile tower, generator for electricity

We should get twenty of our best friends, pool our money together, buy the island and live on it, like a small village.
I'd be king.
We'd plant crops, have a few chickens and pigs, be self-sufficient.
What if I want steak for a BBQ?
I'll be queen. Or grand vizier. Are you sure you aren't the court jester?
I'd row back to get some. Actually since I'm king I'd order you to get it.
I want to look after the vegetable patch.
I'd get everyone together and overthrow you.
Can I be witch of the island then? Or maybe I can be one of the night elves that hide in the holy mountains of Hyjal?
Luckily I have the strength of twenty men, so I would defeat you all. And then execute the traitors.
We'd lock the king in a tower like Rapunzel.

You could be whoever you want.

Gotta stop dreaming, gotta stop dreaming...

I'm trying to find socks under my bed when Street Fighter music screeches metallically through my phone, waking me from my dream. 'Yes I'll be at canoeing today. See you there at one-thirty,' I rasp, my voice still hoarse from the previous night's activities. I check the time. 11.45. Shit. Even though I've had the RDI eight hours' sleep, my head aches and my eyes burn when I open them. Heading downstairs, I find a note from my mum on the kitchen table, and upon reading it, I am transformed into a tight knot of anger and despair. I was right, after all, I think to myself. I've walked into a trap, and thrown away the key. Since I no longer have my punching bag, I take out my frustration on my bed. Not a great start to the Monday holiday.

Despite the sunny weather, the drive down to the National Park is cheerless. I'm playing the 'emo' playlist on my iPod to suit my mood, although with the fuel gauge near empty I've had to wind down the windows so that now I can hardly hear a thing. At one point I swerve abruptly across three lanes to drive into Maccas for a quick bite. I'm so glad no one else is in the car.
After paying ten bucks (Ten bucks! Why isn't there anyone in my car to split the cost?!) to enter the Park, I follow the signs and take the windy road down the mountain. And in spite of myself, this part of the drive really brightens my spirits. The spotted green cover of the trees overhead, the blinding white sunlight, the chance to pretend to be a rally driver drifting through turns... I realise that I don't have to listen to what anyone says, ever. The chains slip magically from my wrists.

After waiting by the river for almost an hour, the others arrive femininely late. We scramble into the canoes, two to each one, and push off. The boats glide through the water, cutting through the sparkling surface with ease. We paddle enthusiastically, long deep strokes, and head towards the middle of the river. As we paddle further downriver the crowds thin, and we're framed on either side by reeds and fallen logs. Gatherings of ducks waddle on the banks, or plunge their heads underwater, or float idly by, eyeing the boats suspiciously. Birds call on either side, and there's the occasional dragonfly and even an eel that wriggles past at the bottom of the river.
It feels like I'm a million miles from the choking traffic, the mad rush, the piling bills. The lethargic flow of the river has, temporarily, forgiven the daily grind of life. The water is cool against hot skin. It's such a beautiful day.

It's happened so fast, so fast. Only last year it was a far away dream, a fantastical idea that I never expected would be brought to fruition. And now I've signed all the forms, signed on all the dotted lines (signed my life away?). It seems all too easy. It's exciting, frightening, exhilirating, terrifying. To be honest it's not the direction I expected (or hoped) to take in life, but then nothing will always go to plan and sometimes you just have to make the most of it. People's lives are broken into stages, and if there were any need to prove that this is a new stage in my life, this would most definitely be a large fucking shiny signpost.

I received a SMS on my phone this morning, but because my phone's inbox was full I couldn't read it. I duly deleted a few messages to make some room, and two new ones came through. One was from a friend asking how the meeting went. The other was, strangely, from you. It was a message you'd sent a while ago, but for some reason it was marked as new.
Of all messages, why that one?

Last night I dreamt I was in a room with pale yellow walls, and there was an open window from which a gentle breeze billowed the white lace curtains. Beside me was my friend, R2-D2 (as a kid I had this mini R2-D2 figurine that I carried everywhere until I lost him, probably fallen into those black holes of the car's backseat), and through various mournful beeps and blips - which I somehow understood - he was lamenting how he wasn't human.

Next scene. I was in the same yellow room, only this time I was with four other guys. Their faces were non-descript and I had no idea who they were, but I knew we were all friends. We were here to meet a wise old lady; I think that was our goal or mission. We walked into another room - the dining room perhaps - and suddenly we were seated in high wooden baby chairs, complete with food trays at our chests. The wise lady came out from the kitchen, her hair white like clouds and a warm smile upon her face. She placed a present each in front of us, and then told us that that was our reward for being 'good boys'. The wrapping was adorned in Christmas patterns, and the room took on a Christmassy feel with streamers and holly and a Christmas tree emerging in the corner. We hastily unwrapped our presents to find large dinner plates with delicious food in the middle, and we all thanked her repeatedly and beamed happily.

And then I knew that the wise old lady had the power to grant wishes, and I wanted to ask her to grant me a wish, to make R2-D2 human just like he wanted, and I had to be discreet as I didn't want the others to know because there was something shameful about doing favours on behalf of a robot friend, but the room was too noisy, the room was too noisy, the room was too noisy, the alarm was too noisy, the alarm was too noisy, the alarm was too noisy...

New Zealand seems like years ago, now. Coming back, work has been endless, and I'm continuously buried in an avalanche of emails and phone calls and mouse clicks. I wish I could say my life is more interesting than that, but unfortunately that's all it is at the moment.
Do you ever feel that you're entering another phase in your life, that a big change is looming? I feel it all the time actually, but now more than ever. Something is going to happen, something is going to happen...or perhaps I'm willing it. I keep thinking I'm much older than I really am.

Stay tuned for more exciting updates.

I've still got snow, in my shoes...

Now I'm drunk as hell
On the piano bench
And when I press the keys
It all gets reversed
The sound of loneliness
Makes me happier

- Poison Oak, Bright Eyes

In the wrong gear,
As you twist the handlebar
Gliding past the lake with the dying sun
Hands stained from the rescue effort.
Stars are overrated, stupid blinking.
Cold wind, softness warmth, strong
Heart rate should be lower.
Yellow moon hangs over traffic lights
On the road home.

New Zealand next week! I can hardly wait. I'm dying to see those white mountains, the pure rivers, the road framed by rolling hills and bare winter trees. In my head I can already see it all.
I've got clothes and bags strewn across the bedroom floor (I'll pack soon I swear), sheets of paper detailing flights and hotels and things to bring, iPod loaded with driving music. There's always one big thing to look forward to in a year, and this New Zealand trip will be the climax. Everything afterwards will just be one long post-coital cigarette.

I am of Chinese heritage and I am ashamed by the duplicity and lack of transparency of the Chinese Government, especially at the Beijing Olympic Games.
The Games have been one big propaganda tool, and the worst thing is that millions of 'patriotic' Chinese are willing to defend the Government instead of realising that the actions of the Chinese Government bring shame to the Chinese people.
I wonder now if my blog will be banned in China.

I dream of a democratic China.

I do not support the Olympic Games in China. When China won the bid for the Games, many people said China was undeserving because of its history of human rights abuses. Many more however supported the move, saying the Olympics would allow the country to open up, to be a more responsible world player and work towards improving human rights and freedoms.

With the Games only weeks away, nothing could be further from the truth. The Government has evicted roughly 3 million residents from the capital to make way for highways and stadiums, and spent about $200 billion in construction costs, more than 300 times as much as it spent on rural health care in 2006. China has maintained censorship of the internet and media, increased repression and human rights abuses, and gaoled more dissidents and so-called 'terrorists' under the guise of creating a 'harmonious' Olympics.
Awarding Beijing the Games was meant to be a catalyst for change, a change for the better, but the reality is that the Government is using them as a political tool. The present environment in China is sadly far removed from the ideals embodied by the Olympics.

Po Po, just act like you normally do while cooking. Po Po no need to wear that jumper, just wear what you usually wear. What, you want to wear that? Okay that's fine. Yup just cook whatever, it doesn't really matter. Yeah, it's a competition where I have to take a photo of someone cooking. The prize? It's a trip to Europe! Yeah pretty cool hey? No Po Po it doesn't matter that you're old. No no, I don't want Kau Ma to do it instead, I want you in the picture. Oh come on Po Po, they don't care what you look like. No I definitely want you in it. Okay I'm gonna turn this main light off. Yup just leave that one on. Okay that's good. Yup I'm just gonna take a few shots from here. Hmm I think I need a better camera. Oh well. No no, don't stop, just keep cooking, pretend I'm not here. Don't worry about me. Okay good. Yup just lift that arm up a little. Yeah hold it in your right hand. Turn a little. Okay done. Just a few more. No no, don't look up. Good, keep cooking. Good. No it's not too dark, I'm sure. It'll turn out just fine. Almost done. I think just a few from this angle. That should do it. Yup Po Po, you can finish up whenever. Thanks Po Po, all done now. Po Po, you're a star.

'Yeah I've got a lot of guy friends that I hang out with and stuff - a few of them have just broken up with their girlfriends, and you know, I think they just want company.'
'Hah yeah. Sounds a bit like me.'
'Yeah see, like you. You're just like all my other guy friends, you're not interested in me in that way...'
'I umm......'
'...you just wanna hang out and stuff, and yeah, so do I, so it's not like...'

For only the third time in my life, I got totally trashed. I met up with a few of my old workmates last night at a bar in Martin Place for leaving drinks. I was having fun catching up with everyone (and drinking Coke) when another old workmate arrived, and promptly bought me a shot from the bar. I downed it there, the sickly sweet liquid burning my throat, and thought shit, this is going to screw me up in a bad way. Normally alcohol just makes me sick, but this time I actually began to feel dizzy. Another shot straight after pushed me over the edge, and soon I was shouting, stumbling and falling off my stool. Much hilarity and embarrassment ensued. (Omits details).

Mowing the lawn today, I think I went over a four-leaf clover.

Cold. It's as cold as...well, was going to say hell, but hell ain't cold right? Ice cold. I don't remember winter being this cold, ever. Waiting for the bus after work today, I felt like a frozen chicken in a freezer. A suit jacket and overcoat did nothing to stop the wind biting at my chest.

I went to donate blood with a few of my workmates on Monday. I've been quite a number of times so I'm pretty comfortable with it, but the first-timers were understandably nervous. I have to admit I still get apprehensive at the sight of that large-ish needle. Afterwards one of the girls felt light-headed in the office and ended up fainting at the post office around the corner, which we all found rather amusing.

I've got a week off next week. I'm really looking forward to it. How often does one get a week off to rest? Someone said to me that a week off would be boring, and they'd rather work instead. What? Are they insane?! There's so many things to do when... yawn... so sleepy...

I watched The Phantom of the Opera last night at the Lyric Theatre. Not much to say really, except that it was quite spectacular and lived up to all its hype. The music brought back some childhood memories as my dad used to play the CD soundtrack over and over again in the house whilst drawing fish. He can be a bit obsessive like that. Coolworm said the show was like 'a nasi lemak followed by ais kacang', which roughly translates to 'the sets were really cool. I liked the main actor'.

I can't help the memories playing in my head, like scenes from a movie you can never forget. There's no escape for me, now.

At work right now with nothing to do. I've read the articles on SMH, played and lost chess and looked up all the models on the online Lego store. (God I'm so tempted to buy the Millennium Falcon. Noo!! Faaather!!!)
Oh yeah I wanted to write about last Monday night soccer. Yes, I'm that bored. It was unusually warm when we played; so warm in fact that it felt like a slightly cool summer's night. A few minutes into the game it started raining heavily, big cold icy slithers stabbing our bare arms and muddying the ground. I loved it, running around with the mud squelching under my boots, the rainwater mixing with the sweat and everything hazy like it was underwater. (I later realised that I probably needed some windscreen wipers on my glasses).
At one stage I was running the ball down the sideline with the rain pouring down, and, I'm not sure if it was the flood lights or the last remains of sunlight or my imagination, but everything seemed to be bathed in an orange glow. I felt like I had been transported to a tropical place in the midst of the typhoon season, kicking a ball with the locals. This thought amused me for a short while until I got tackled. The End.

Took a sickie today 'cos I'm *cough* sick. Yeah that's right, sick of work. Oh my, I'm such a bad boy. Hey I can't help that I don't seem to get sick anymore. I don't know why. Taking a day off though isn't as simple as it should be for me. My mum, being Asian and a workaholic, doesn't believe in taking days off, whether sick or not. I remember going to school on many occasions flushed with fever and my nose running like a waterfall.
Anyway I woke up nice and early just like any other work day, got dressed for work, packed my bag for work and walked to the station for work. I sat there at the station watching the train doors opening and closing, soaking up the rare winter sunlight. When the clock struck half past I slowly strolled back the way I came, returned to my house and crawled into bed.

Once more treading softly down carpeted corridors, throwing out unopened manuals and unused sticky notes, partaking in those final awkward lunches. Sitting at my desk, observing how the tables are arranged, the colour of the walls, keeping in my memory a place I will likely never visit again. The 'oh no's and 'sad to see you's parade past me like mourners. Is that the chair I see crying?
How many, past and present, are now linked to me through the brief time we spend together. How many more have I forgotten, or for whom I am but a blur. All these nine to five people. Nothing more, nothing less.

'It's gonna be strange.'
'Only if you make it out to be.'
Every person has their own misgivings and moments of self-doubt. It happens whenever you compare yourself to someone else (there's always someone who runs faster and jumps higher than you), or you gain the impression that those around you think you inadequate. It all comes down to how you think others perceive you. If others deem you to be funny, then you're funny. If others think you're pretentious, then you are that, too. Who we are is determined by how others perceive us, and what we think others perceive us as. The people around us are our mirrors. I've always been overly worried about that reflection, but I'm learning to let it be. Insecure things, we are. Let the mirror follow.

Middle of June already. I've got the New Zealand trip to look forward to, and a whole lot of other things in between. Even though there's nothing else really spectacular happening in life, I'm more than happy now to hang out with my friends and do all the little things that little people do. Putt-putt-putt...That's me, motoring along for now.

I came. I saw. I faltered.

Tadaa! Blog version 2.0. Decided to change my blog's appearance to something less 'dark' and easier to read. (This is what happens when you have time on your hands.) I would actually like to change what I write about too to something more substantial; for a long time I've wanted to write about the things that really matter to me - human rights, global warming, deforestation, democracy - but a part of me doesn't want to play the preacher. I don't have time to search for the evidence to support my claims, and I've never been good with numbers and statistics. I only have my own beliefs and convictions, and I'm not sure if they matter to anyone. Things like that are subjective after all. At least there's no arguing when I write about what I ate for breakfast or how good I am at soccer (ha).

I want to stand for something, stand up for something, fight for something. I don't want to be the nameless faceless crowd. I believe in change, the change that each and every one of us has the power to initiate. I do the little things, yes, I give to charity, but it seems too passive, too easy. I've often thought about going overseas to support humanitarian causes, but there's always something in the way, be it commitment to family or job or the plain comfort of idleness. (I think this last point is a common affliction amongst relatively affluent middle-class idiots like myself.) Like so many of my aspirations, this one has fallen to the wayside, waiting for me to come back to it someday, someday...

'I'm gonna buy a gun and start a war, if you can tell me something worth fighting for' - Rush of Blood to the Head, Coldplay

I'm in a state of limbo right now. Not going anywhere, not moving forwards or backwards. I'm in the waiting room, a sort of purgatory if you like. Atonement for my sins? Or just a resting place? I don't know how long I'm staying here, and it doesn't matter. I'm in no hurry. It's time to take things slow, slow, slow. If anything, the lessons from the past have taught me to tread carefully. I detest the mad rush anyway; by the time I've had the sense to poke my head out of my shell things have already moved on.

Haven't really done much this long weekend. Most of my friends have headed down to Canberra for a mini-road trip that I opted out of. I started regretting this decision tonight after dinner when I realised that I had finished the book I was reading, had already watched a movie and was left with not much else to do. But it's okay, I've got the writing bug once more and listening to Armstrong's What A Wonderful World has made everything beautiful again. Really, it's the little things that keep me happy.

I bought a ticket for the $50 million lotto draw the other day. My chances of winning were probably a billion-to-one and I've never won anything in my life, but as I was filling in the numbers I kept imagining I could see the winning ones, and I left the newsagency budgeting in my head how I would spend the winnings. So nothing came of it, and many say gambling is a waste of money but hey, $5.20 is a small price to pay for a dash of hope and dreams.

Time passes, it seems,
Even for small creatures.
You are still excited
By the jingle of your collar and leash,
And the food in your yellow bowl.

Happy Birthday Panzer.

Going home. I'm slouched in the car seat - the wheels grumble along the highway and the Arctic Monkeys sing about fishnet stockings, but my mind is elsewhere. In the distance ahead are huge green hills, ancient goddesses who once roamed the land but now with their magic departed they lie dormant, their giant posteriors exposed and overgrown with grass and trees. I feel different. I feel like I was filthy before, and have arisen from the lake, clean and shining. Actually no, no no. I feel like I have but weeks or days to live, and I'm savouring everything while I can. Nothing matters but the warmth of the sun and the lines on the road, stretching out forever.
'You alright dude?' Monkey yells out beside me. Part of me wants to punch him in the head. 'Yeah I'm fine, alright,' I reply for the hundredth time. Can't a man sit and think in peace? 'I don't know dude, you seem kind of...' I love the way holidays make you see the bigger picture, makes you realise how insignificant most things are, things that you and I might lose sleep over. How trivial, demented beings, we all are.
I remember all the stupid things that occurred during the trip, and I start grinning foolishly. I turn my head towards the passenger window so as not to freak Monkey out with my manic behaviour. I love these winding roads, these waving trees, these wide clear skies. I think I'm in a state of bliss.

I'm at the Hunter, now. A moment ago three larks (at least they looked like larks - do they even exist in Australia?) did loops around the balcony posts and over my head. It's beautiful here, sitting on a deck chair on the balcony, the clear sky and gentle autumn sun, surrounded by a valley of trees and the crisp tinkle of bellbirds.
The weather was pretty bleak as we drove in. The sky was always grey, and the rain fell constantly. What is it about grey that makes us melancholy? Why do bright colours have the opposite effect? On the last stretch of road leading up to the cabin there was a large concrete pipe that ran alongside the road for miles, cutting over green pastures like some monstrous black snake. The sight of it made me uneasy. In a place where things seem so simple - a land of cows and grapes and fenced paddocks - there was this massive alien thing that was testament to all the complexities of man. Why must we scar the land like this with our tools and machinery? I wonder what the cows think.
I'm looking forward to the rest of the weekend here. I can smell bacon frying in the kitchen, and then the faint pop of the toast jumping out of the toaster. This escape - it seems my whole life is a series of escapes and attempted escapes.

It's Sunday, 6pm. Outside my window the sky is purple grey, and large ominous clouds of the same hue hang low over red-tiled roofs. A single plane glides across in the distance, its lights winking red and green. I'd been cutting up onions downstairs, and now after rubbing the stubble that's grown under my lower lip, it's pungent odour follows me like a ghost. There's a million thoughts in my head, spinning around in that centrifuge upstairs. I see the future, I see it as clearly as a road train bearing upon me with it's horn wailing and lights flashing, but I am powerless to do anything, the deer I am paralysed by headlights.
Already now the sky has changed to a deep blue, and I hear crickets chirping somewhere - I'm sure they were there before, but I was too absorbed to notice. Tomorrow isn't too far away. Tomorrow, how I shiver. Another day and another week. God they go by quickly. Tomorrow I will wear my shirt tucked into my pants, and smile when I sit in my corner, tapping my life away with all ten fingers. The grass is merely a different shade of green, here.
Someone told me I must be unhappy, but I corrected them, telling them no, I might not be happy but neither am I unhappy. But then what am I? Content? Satisfied? No, I'm indifferent, and maybe that's the best thing to feel, for whatever befalls me I'm always the same. Am I already that old? I dream of one day emerging from my shell victorious, resplendent and young and happy and free.

There's nothing sane about jumping 14,000ft from a plane, but hey, life is what you make of it, and there ain't no life but this one baby.

After filling in the necessary forms ('we accept no responsibility if your parachute doesn't open'), putting on our gear (with warnings like 'parachuting is dangerous and may cause injury or even death'), and being assigned an instructor to tandem with, we board a bus that takes us to the airstrip where our plane is waiting. The 15-minute bus journey to get there is eerily quiet as the insanity of what we are about to do starts sinking in.

Upon arrival we’re immediately bundled into the plane - a little toy-looking thing - and the engine brought to life. We sit on the floor of the plane, front to back, huddled together like deportees. As the plane roars its way into the sky and the trees and buildings shrink beneath us, a small flame of apprehension lights up inside of me and grows as we ascend. I watch the needle of the altimeter rising steadily - 2000 feet, 3000, 4000, coinciding with my increasing heartbeat. ‘Soooo…you like stuff?’ Nick jokes. He has to shout to combat the noise of the wind and engine. We both laugh. Nervously. I look outside again. The sea is now a homogeneous satin sheet, the land traced by thin yellow lines of beaches. Strange thoughts start going through my head, explicably linked to parachutes not opening. I picture myself falling; the instructor pulls the parachute cord, and nothing happens. Or I look behind me, and he's no longer attached to me. Would I survive landing in the water at full speed?

Upon landing please assume this position

'Look, you happy now, we're above the clouds,' says Nick, pointing. While we were on the ground I complained that 14,000ft (4kms) wasn't very high, and that I wanted to fall through clouds. I smile back sheepishly. Another glance at the altimeter - ten thousand, 11, 12 - we're almost there. 'Okay, we're ready guys,' one of the instructors shouts out, and moves over to lift open the plane door. Wind sweeps through the cabin like a mini-tornado. A chill runs through my body, and there's a sickening feeling in my stomach. The first pair sidle up to the plane door, and, without a moment's notice, drop out of the plane like dead weights. Nick and I look at each other. 'Fuck,' I mouth. One by one we all move towards the door and, just as surely, jump out. 'Okay our turn,' says my instructor. We slide over to the open door and sit on the edge. My legs are dangling over, my heart pounding. I look down and see the enormous distance between the ground and us...and then we push off. Nothing can quite describe the first ten seconds of freefall, where I am tumbling head over feet, over and over. My mind is a pallet of confusion, thrill and terror. I have no idea what's going on, except I think I'm going to die, and I no longer care. I wonder if this is what the end feels like. After what feels like an eternity the instructor gains control and we stop tumbling but continue hurtling down, arms outstretched like starfish. Air rushes past my ear like demons, and the skin on my face flaps like a set of wings. During all this I think I'm still screaming expletives. I hear the instructor say something about doing some spins. Before I can answer no he has us spinning around and around, and all I see are flashes of sky and sea. It's like being in some giant tumble dryer that's been thrown off a cliff.

We're still miles from the ground when he pulls the parachute cord and we get violently jerked upwards. From then on we glide down, occasionally making adjustments. We're still going down somewhat fast, and we do a few more spins before the instructor allows me to have a go at steering the parachute. The view is amazing. The sun glimmering off the ocean, the blue sea, the green land; everything looks perfect, clean and unspoilt. It's a whole new world. We're coming ever closer to the ground now, and we start to make out cars and houses and people like ants milling about. Before long the instructor readies us for the final descent, and we circle around and land softly in the grass. My instructor unclips himself from me, but I lie there, staring up into the sky. I'm exhausted but glad. My feet have touched the ground, and I am home.

It's three weeks into my new job now. I'm learning but it's slow, and sometimes I feel dumb and wonder if it's because of my age. It's weird when your manager is someone you used to go to uni with, someone you played cards with, copied assignments with and skipped classes with to play Street Fighter. Now you have to sit there like an obedient puppy, waiting for the next bit of work, occasionally hiding chat windows when he walks past your desk. I'm slowly getting used to waking up before 7am, not wearing casual and not having Tim Tams in the fridge.
Actually the early starts are killing me. I've been late on more than one occasion. The last instance my alarm went off and I stopped it, thinking I'd doze for another few minutes. I didn't wake up till half an hour later because I dreamed that I was already awake, reading about the latest stock market crash while eating toast for breakfast.

My dad's left for his six-month working contract overseas, so I'm kind of the man around the house now. I'm doing all the things that my dad used to do - putting recyclables into the recycle bin, picking up Panzer's biscuits that he routinely scatters around the kitchen, making sure there's sufficient amounts of soy milk and bread for the family, walking outside in the cold morning to fetch the newspaper. I think the newspaper boy delights in throwing the newspapers into the bushes, resulting in me having to gingerly retrieve the papers with utmost care so as not to brush up against any cobwebs.

I was at Bean's place the other night for a birthday party. At one stage the girls put on music from an iPod and started dancing. I sat and watched with casual indifference, but inside I secretly wanted nothing more than to jump up and join them. I feel like there's always something holding me back, afraid of the judgement and ridicule of others. Even as a kid I was cautious; now I never seem to be able to let myself go. It's hard to stop pretending to be the person you have to be.

I am your helpless moth,
Drawn to the false lights,
Devoured by birds.

Writing at work again. I've only got two more days left at this place, and I've got nothing to do whatsoever. I've been sitting here, surfing the net obsessively, emailing, chatting, and listening to music. I'm bored now but hey, I know the new job will be hectic. My manager here has organised a lunch thing for my farewell, which I find strange because I haven't been here long, I don't know/interact with a lot of the people and honestly, I don't do much. He's making it like a big deal that I'm leaving, but I feel the attention is unwarranted. When I was young I wanted to be the centre of the world, but increasingly now I want to irk out my existence in some quiet corner of the world.

I'm trying to write more, anything really to pass the time, but I can't think of anything worth writing about. Chinese New Year came and went, and, just like Christmas presents, the amount of red packets has diminished too. Aww.

This morning I was in the car when my mum took my little cousin, who's in year five, to school. It's amazing how much he's grown. His feet are already bigger than mine. I remember when he was still a baby, the way he'd cry when I tried to carry him. I've watched him grow, learn new things, mature. He's still retained some of that childhood wonder that will soon disappear in his teenage years. He reminds me a lot of myself. He talks when he needs to, but otherwise he's reserved and introspective.
Year five - I can still remember when I was in year five, like it was yesterday. Coming home to a dark and empty house in winter, eating Coco Pops from a mug while playing my dad's Cat Stevens CD...

I went to see the Australian Open men's finals on the weekend with the guys - Michael, Monkey, Mark and Adrien. It was pretty cool going with four close friends. It was a bit of a sausage fest, but hey, with all of us single and no girls around, we were free to do what we wanted (joke around, perve at chicks and be stupid).

It was my first time in Melbourne. I used to dismiss it as the poorer cousin to Sydney, but god was I impressed when I got there. Everything was so orderly and clean. The public transport was awesome. There were cool shops and cafes everywhere. The people were more polite. Too bad our trip was kind of rushed, and we didn't get to spend much time exploring.

There were so many highlights on our trip. Exploring the city on our first day, wandering around like lost tourists. Arguing over what to eat, where to go, which tram to catch. Eating at a popular Thai restaurant and then having gelato, the five of us sitting there with gelato dripping down our hands. Preparing for clubbing - ironing shirts, gelling hair, putting on nice shoes - and the clubbing itself, five single guys on the dance floor trying very hard to pick up.
The actual tennis finals was pretty good too, but I was so tired when we got there that I don't think I fully appreciated it. I guess in the end it wasn't the tennis that I went to Melbourne for.
It's sad though, because we're getting to that stage in life now where we have to start growing up. I wonder if we'll ever be able to do something like this again.

More photos here.

So close, too close. I can see the every line and every pore on your face, my eyes reflected in yours. Is that noise my heart or yours? You've sucked me in, the spell is broken. We both scream for mercy, but there's no escape now.

I'm at work right now, quietly typing away, waiting for time to slip by. It's okay, I look like I'm working, tapping at the keyboard like this.

So what's new? I'm changing jobs again. It was such a hard decision though. I hate choices, because I'm the greedy type who wants the best of both worlds. It's frustrating to not know where either path leads you, and to live with the regret that perhaps you took the wrong turn is even worse. Fingers crossed.

I was also meant to go skydiving last weekend, but this got postponed due to bad weather. Oh well, die another day.

I've been pretty stressed out lately. Too many things happening at once - organising birthdays, dragonboat, job change, short holidays, the screwed-up sharemarket, trying to catch up with friends.

Quick, minimise. Manager walking past.

I went to the Arcade Fire concert last night at the Enmore. Being full of bright ideas, I decided it'd be better that we didn't stand right up close to the stage, and instead chose the back of the standing area. We were quickly swamped by tall people, so for most of the concert my little friends and I were constantly crooning our necks and on tiptoes. It was pretty amazing though, the explosion of sound that came from all the instruments they use. It was just electrifying.

I can't wait for the weekend. I'm

What? Okay I'll fix that. Yup, sure.

going to Melbourne with the guys to watch the Men's Final of the Australian Open. Woohoo. I've been wanting to do this for a long time, and I've never even been to Melbourne before. Sad, yes, I know.

3.48pm. A few more hours to go.

Back to work again. Sigh. I discovered a new trick at work. When you need to look like you're working hard, stick Post-It notes all over your monitor.

I had a pretty satisfying break, despite it being the shortest Christmas break I've had so far. Went down to the Blue Mountains with a few friends, and had a wonderful wonderful time. The house we stayed at was perched atop a cliff, and the view from the back porch was simply stunning. We were kept active on all three days - bushwalking, mountain biking and horseriding, followed by cooking at night for eleven people (luckily, my expert cooking skills catered for all). A note about the horseriding - as much as I love it, I didn't have that much fun this time around because the helmet I wore was too small! It was fine at the start, but then - I don't know if the helmet shrunk or my head grew bigger while riding - I could feel the helmet pressing against my skull, squeezing, and towards the end I was nauseous and had developed a terrible headache. Now I know how Monkey Magic felt.


I got back on new year's eve, and at night drove over to KKW for some more fun and excitement. Except that I was dead tired from the mountains, and ended up dozing. At one point, Bean and co. decided it would be amusing to carry me to the inflatable pool, fully-clothed, and throw me in, which they did with much glee. It was the one relatively crazy thing I did on new year's eve. After watching the midnight fireworks on TV, I played Trivia Pursuit for a bit and then went back to sleep, not waking up till nine in the morning. The new year. Just another day for me.

I don't usually have new year resolutions, but this year I do. I am going to travel. I was talking to a friend about traveling to Africa one day; we both want to go, but she said she'd probably go first since I take things slow and am not planning to go anytime soon. I thought about what she said, and it's so true. It's something I need to change? I can't amble along forever.

I'm sitting in the car, waiting. I've got Ben Folds Five playing. Grey rain paints streaks across my windscreen while the band sings 'the smell of cold, car seat is freezing'. How appropriate, I think to myself. And then I realise I'm wearing a Ben Folds T-shirt.
I think I get it. My life is a movie.