thoughts before an interview

was sorting out some desk clutter when i saw a piece of paper, folded in half, thrice. it revealed some gibberish i wrote pre-interview at an FMCG company 3 years ago when i was 20. this helped me diffuse anxiety. in this particular stream of consciousness, there was a lot of reference to my pre-interview at ogilvy. the memory of ogilvy’s red pantone 485 consumed me like shit.

here goes:

the elevator sounds sound like drips, like raindrops, like it’s raining in the lobby. not cacophonous at all. maybe bothersome to the man who types contemptuously at his old machine. drip, drip, drip. (less ding, ding, ding)

this is a different kind of weight. the god of ennui lurks in this small hallway. i can see no reds except for thin lines here and there. none of the sanguine field of carpet, saffron wall of wall. just nondescript marble partnered with wooden 90s architecture.

my mouth yearns to talk. my mind needs to by stimulated by conversation.
to crane the neck. to mouth an “ahh”. to continue this dumb exercise. i guess to speak with the self is enough.

then a woman in pearls comes by. but she does not sit with me. she sits with a man – her father?

lazy jaw, dry mouth, nape as cold as the gate 6 cement. also a slight pain in the abdomen. i try to fight these physical sensations which converge into a midpoint – drowsiness.

drip, drip, drip. smash, smash, smash. no howls. just beats with notes. notes in cryptic beat. which lull me, which induce the sleepy feeling. i do not sit on a red block, but on a blue very uncomfortable couch. hugging my butt. but not quite my abdomen in pain. i wish it would.

i am not priming myself properly.
so it shall ensue:
confidence, poise, wit, composure.


this is tiredness talking

It’s so hot. I cannot bear the heat. I want to sit. So I sit, most awkwardly (as awkward as the word awkward), in the middle of the queue, in the middle of the terminal. Like a true hypergraphic I indulge in thoughts and words, numb to what other people think.

I wonder if the lost cause devotes the same time and energy thinking about the possibility. But the lost cause is tired and is about to give up. Advice to self: let go and move on. /crypticparagraph

The queue moved and I’m sitting on a real bench now.

Blankness. May be the best or the worst thing. The worst or the best thing. It might be the longed-for respite, or the undesired absence of something.

Blankness. I can fall asleep now. My exhaustion nestles comfortably in the arms of the humid air. (So my skin produces a by-product salt (salt of the city, not salt of the sea))
This is soporific heat at its worst. Or at its best.
I doze off. Then someone texts. And my peaceful reverie is awakened.

Can you feel the intoxication from exhaustion? So tired that my judgment is impaired, and I wholeheartedly believe that this wooden bench and this humid air is my bed with clean, cold sheets.

breakfast at pancake house

First course:
Classic pancake with a strong egg taste. It is spongey and absorbent and most receptive to syrup and the fluffy scoop of butter. The slices drenched in sweet syrup almost melts inside my cheeks. This is the taste of Sunday morning (on a Thursday).

Second course:
Smooth, hot-turned-lukewarm chocolate. Not too sweet, nor too bitter. But my tongue feels none of the tablea grain I’m accustomed too. My mouth is looking for the viscousity distinct to the classic Spanish hot chocolate Mother cooks.

Third course:
An empty plate and cup, and wandering (bittersweet) thoughts about my lost cause.
The hair, the face, the voice, the thoughts of my lost cause.


my coffee’s crackling froth
mouse clicks, mouse scrolls, keyboard tapping
a faint echo
of construction of building(s):
     hammering and toppling of steel-sounding objects
heaving of sighs,
a cough, a swallow,
and another cough

sounds of 8:14-8:18am

thoughts about the beauty of life

In the oddest moments, with no concrete nor logical reason, I just feel like crying. I am suddenly struck by the realization that the world is so beautiful and incredible and that life is a gift we should cherish.

It is strange how this feeling came to be. I was minding my nightly business, having my daily fix of Google Reader when I chanced upon a poem by John Masefield. The first line went like this,

“Night is on the downland, on the lonely moorland
on the hills where the wind does over sheep-bitten

The string of words is nothing extra-extraordinary [well, it is poetic!], but it moved me to this… ineffable state.

The world is a big ball of emotions. The world is alive. The world is a big ball of incomprehensible, overwhelming, beautiful emotions that can swallow your soul and extract oceans from your eyes.

I must be drunk with the beauty of life.

thoughts about nirvana 2

A Long Pause, and then this.

Outside Shang. We are only two in this balcony. Me and another guy. The shadows of the potted palm trees shroud us from the 2pm sun.

Can I attain nirvana under the shade of the palm plant, like how Buddha attained it under the Bodhi Tree?

And now we are three.

To live in the present, and not mind time.
To detach self from the past and future, to be void of worries, and to be cleansed of memories.
To focus on the city sounds. Skidding of cars. Under the slightly overcast sky.
To feel the cigarette against my dry lips, and the smooth sliding of pen against paper.
To be in the present, and the present alone.
And to hear the rustling of the finger-like leaves, as reply.
To be hyperconscious.
To pause…
To revel in stillness of body and thought.
To feel alive.

How should we live life? So bodies are conceived into this world of expectations and obligations. The things we do, we do partly because the world expects us to. Even the most mundane tasks are according to norms: eat during breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sleep at night. Be active in the morning.

The janitor who is in the balcony with me is arranging the chairs and cleaning up cigarette butts, because it is part of his job. Why do his job? To get paid. Because he needs money to live.

In a sense, are we not puppets of society? A man-made society driven by an invisible hand?

Four words: inertia to status quo.