But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


You are the sentinels, silent and sure.
This collage was stolen from Del's twitter :3

You know when you do something, and at first you think it's almost nothing and when it ends, you'll just walk off knowing new names and new songs and that's that, but then it ends and you find yourself missing everybody the moment you let go of that goodbye hug and walk through the door and crying to sleep because you didn't express your appreciation and gratitude enough or as much as you would've liked?

Because that's how I felt.

It's funny how we work, humans. We think something, but it ends up being the total opposite.

I can't say much about last night, not before my eyes get watery and I'm seeing everything through a waterfall. But one thing's for sure, some things just hit you like a bullet train and next thing you know, you're trying really hard to not let the tears fall and blame the redness of your eyes on your perfectly fine contacts. I have no idea what that thing was, but it happened countless times last night. Most of which included Michael's performances and speeches and little pep talks and precious 'I love you too' at the kids, although I find our little moments backstage too hearbreaking and heartwarming; the boys' faces when they giggled at the pictures they took while the girls were putting their make up on, Malique's fascination with make up remover and constant need to chew, Arianna's exclamation at how pretty I was - this touched my heart more than it should, to be completely honest - and the way she hugged me at the end, our krump party during I Mind and dance party during Be Our Guest, the little backup singer dance we did during Electricity, the last verse of Here On Who, the applause I got from my fellow performers when my name was announced during the certificate giving ceremony - regardless if it was fake or not - and the group hug and picture we never got. They say you can't miss what you don't have, but God, how I miss that much needed group hug and photo. It's probably the fact that we don't have it that makes me miss it more. I'd rather lose my macho and succumb to myself and be an emotional wreck in public for that.

Under normal circumstances, this would be classified under odd behaviour and severe overreacting, but I feel like we're all one giant family, even if we were together for only 6 days, some of us 4, and Michael's like the uncle who brings presents around every time he's around regardless if it's Christmas or not. It's like this is an orphanage and we're the strange kids who have no hope of being adopted and Joanna's the strict headmistress, Llew's the cook who tries to make our food taste good, Charity's the kind counter lady, Pat's the head of public relations or something, and Michael's the caretaker who sneaks us midnight snacks even though it's not allowed.

This might be triggered from post-happiness depression and just Aishah's weird attachment to things she shouldn't be attached to, but when I woke up this morning, I told myself I'll wear my Enfiniti t-shirt to sleep - heck, during the day too - whenever I feel lonely. Because, for the past two weekends, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Hell, I enjoy myself whenever I'm there, be it for last year's SOMTI, this year's Starmaker Bootcamp, Suhaili's weekly classes. I sort of forget the world. I feel at home. I feel wanted. I belong. Something I rarely feel.

But that's okay, you appreciate them more when you get it in small doses. It won't feel like it's enough, but it never is anyway.

So, Puteri, Enez, Malique, Del, Martin, Tasha, Dani, Arianna, Kir, Nadia, Niken, Marie, Esmerelda, Adellia, Joanna, Pat, Llew, Charity, even Hakim and Rifqah, thank you for a kickass ending to an eventful and stupid year. No, really, thank you.

And to Michael, for coming all the way from US and Bangkok, for genuinely believing in us, for wanting us to be the full potential we all can be, for making us look amazing whilst preforming despite the talents most of us lack, I'm sorry on behalf of everybody if we annoyed or frustrated you. I'm pretty sure we all actually have a soft spot for you, even as stoic as Malique and Marie may seem. And I'm sorry beyond my capacity that we didn't attack you with our killer hugs as we should've done when you left early, even though it might've wounded the smoothness of the program - just because thank yous and I love yous from backstage are never enough.

I don't know what it is that you guys did to stab me right in the soul like this, but thank you.

It's up to you, sir,
Please help Who, sir.
You're the only one who hears.
We're tiny little people saying thanks in advance,
Hoping perchance you'll try.

A person's a person, no matter how small.


I swore I'd write novels about you.

Could it be that I'm not over you at all?


Form Four's officially over. Well, it was official yesterday, but since the drama workshop is over too, the next time I'll see the inside of my school again is next year. That's a pretty terrifying thought.

I told myself I'll reflect on the year when New Year comes, so I'm trying hard not to get too sad about it. The year's not over yet. I still have lots of things to do for the next two months, and I'm only half as wise and twice as lost as I was at the beginning of '12. But let's save that for December.

I had lunch with Winshean and Amanda at Dhaarsh's mother's stall at a food court in Damansara Perdana. It was very, very, very delicious, even though I got stabbed by a fried prawn twice. That's not very attractive. Shas couldn't make it, so it wasn't nearly as fun as it would've been, but still fun nonetheless.

Dhaarsh brought us to the open area on the first floor. It's the most ideal place for inspiration, should the view be prettier than a construction site. Soon, it'll be buildings and you can't see the trees anymore, which is a shame because it would've been a really pretty landscape.

It hasn't hit me yet, but I'll be sad soon enough.


“I was in the winter of my life — and the men I met along the road were my only summer. At night I fell asleep with visions of myself dancing and laughing and crying with them. Three years down the line of being on an endless world tour, and my memories of them were the only things that sustained me, and my only real happy times.

I was a singer, not a very popular one, who once had dreams of becoming a beautiful poet. But upon an unfortunate series of events, saw those dreams dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky that I wished on over and over again — sparkling and broken. But I didn’t really mind because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted and then losing it to know what true freedom is.

When the people I used to know found out what I had been doing, how I had been living, they asked me why. But there’s no use in talking to people who have a home - they have no idea what it’s like to seek safety in other people, for home to be wherever you lie your head.

I was always an unusual girl. My mother told me I had a chameleon soul; no moral compass pointing due north, no fixed personality. Just an inner indecisiveness that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean. And if I said that I didn’t plan for it to turn out this way, I’d be lying — because I was born to be the other woman. I belonged to no one, who belonged to everyone, who had nothing, who wanted everything with a fire for every experience and an obsession for freedom that terrified me to the point that I couldn’t even talk about and pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me.

Every night I used to pray that I’d find my people — and finally I did, on the open road. We had nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing we desired anymore — except to make our lives a work of art.

Live fast. Die young. Be wild. And have fun.

I believe in the country America used to be. I believe in the person I want to become. I believe in the freedom of the open road. And my motto is the same as ever. I believe in the kindness of strangers. And when I’m at war with myself — I ride. I just ride.

Who are you? Are you in touch with all of your darkest fantasies? Have you created a life for yourself where you’re free to experience them?

I have.

I am fucking crazy.
But I am free.”

The more often I listen to or read this, the more I realise how similar we are.
And maybe thing's are that simple and that complicated.


This week, I:

  • received a gorgeous notebook from Mandork and Panpan the Panda from Zhen, 
  • successfully socialised amongst my schoolmates (and enjoyed it),
  • babysat 10 teenagers for half an hour, 
  • witnessed Aaron Luke win an award, 
  • accused Pn Shaja of being a super spy and/or an assassin, 
  • had an all-out cat fight with Winshean, 
  • went out for lunch with him and Mother, and
  • had Amanda translate 4 pages of history into Manglish.

If this moment isn't something to be eternally grateful for, I don't know what is.


We're different, you and I. We're different in so many ways, but that makes us more alike than ever. You're iridescent. And so am I.

But do you know the one thing that you certainly are and I certainly am not?

You're significant.

Iridescent and silhouetted against my own will.
I'm surprised people even remember my name at the end of the day.

Iridescent and significant.
Now, who'd forget such magic?


It must've been tough keeping up with crazy fools like us.

How's that for getting bitch-slapped in the face by nostalgia?


I've been really exhausted lately. Exhausted and stressed and sick and tired and, most of all, lonely. I feel so detached from everybody. I have absolutely no idea what's draining my energy. I don't know what to do anymore. In a way, it's like back in '09.

Maybe that's my biggest flaw. I can't let go. I can't move on. I can forgive, hell, I forgive too much. But I can never, ever, forget. I can't get over things. I can't help but unwillingly relive the jolts of disappointment or the sound of uncorrupted laughter or the brief moments where, for once, I believed I knew what happiness was. I can't stop wondering about what could've been and what would've been. Nostalgia hangs around me like the dust hangs around the city - it's inevitable, inescapable. And because of this, I will always end up to where I started. 

I can't. 

I can't live like this anymore.

I don't have the strength to move on. I never had, and I can't promise that I ever will. But one thing's for certain, though. I never regretted anything. 


Long live the reckless and the brave.
I don't think I want to be saved;
My song has not been sung.

I took a shower an hour ago, and for some reason my mind wandered to how I need to buck up and pull myself together. So, I've decided not to wade around in self-pity and actually get out of this rabbit hole.

My problem is that I have no idea who I am and what I want from life. 

I have a theory. If I could do the same things I did when I was younger, aged 12 for instance, and compare what I feel now to what I feel then, then I'd know what I truly love and what I pretend to. 

I realised this when I was putting lotion on my face (as I do after a shower) and I had my iPod on shuffle. I Wanna by The All-American Rejects came on, and my hands weren't fit to change the song choice, so I went with it. I found myself bouncing about to the song, as I did when I discovered the song back in 2008. And that little drum solo before the last chorus still gets me, as it did when I was 12.

I noticed this with all the other songs I loved back then.

So, I draw this conclusion: if a certain thing made you feel the same way as you did back when you first discovered it, then it's worth keeping. 

I don't think this made sense, but it's for my future reference to remind me that I've got to stay true to myself. And nobody reads this anyway.

Je vous aime, mon chéri. Je le veux dire. ♥


Nothing's more bitter than the sting of the wind against your tears.

Look at the sky, darling, and tell me what you see.
You can't quite describe it, can you?
It's like stardust and joy and there's nothing like it.
Those are memories, darling. Memories of you and I, and of the feelings still untold.
There's so many, and that's only a peek of what's bottled up inside me.
I bet you barely remember anything.
I bet you barely remember me.
Even if you do at all.

Oh, darling, maybe there is something worse.
Something more bitter than the sting of the wind against your tears.

Nothing's more bitter than the wound you left when you forgot me.


When people ask me what my favourites are, be it music or band or actor or film or book, I almost immediately answer things like alternative or Mayday Parade or Freddie Highmore or Inception or Harry Potter. But every time I say that, it seems like something's wrong, like something's missing.

I've been thinking about this missing piece for a while now, and I think I've finally arrived at the answer.

It's not that alternative music or Mayday Parade or Freddie Highmore or Inception or Harry Potter aren't my favourites, but they probably came to mind because they're my current interest. It's because they're on my mind almost all the time for that period of time, and they're the first that pops into my head. Obviously, my sub-concious mind can't differentiate between current interests and all-time favourites. I'm not answering your questions properly, so to speak. If you want the correct answer to those questions, and not just what currently occupies most of my mind, you need to give me some time to mull things over.

While I thought about those things, I realise that I come to love those under-appreciated. Under-appreciated characters, under-appreciated songs, under-appreciated band members, under-appreciated books. Even if I'm not too fond of that particular book or singer or whatever, I still tend to appreciate certain elements of it that I find deserving of respect. There are exceptions, however. But the majority that holds my heart are the underdogs. They're the ones who deserve more love than they get.

I mean, I came up with these answers by asking myself why I love the things that I do. Some - well, most - of my friends give me the impression that they love the things they do just because it's the 'in' thing to love. I don't. I try to keep that to a minimum, if it needs to exist in myself. Why love the things just because your friends fangirl over it? Did you trade your love or appreciation for temporary popularity? It doesn't last, you know. And anyway, I'd much rather fangirl internally or by myself and have my friends sit beside me and stare at me blankly because they have no idea what I'm talking about, but they stay put because they get it - that I love the subject I'm fangirling about -, instead of having my friends accept me only because I pretend to enjoy the same things they do. If they can't accept your interests and passion, then they're not friends.

But you probably already know that.

This is becoming a rant, and I really don't want to spoil my mood. It's raining, I'm in an incredibly comfortable state and I have my favourites - real favourites this time, I mean it - on shuffle.

But that's okay. Why should I nose around people's business anyway? It's a waste of my time. Let them love what they love, regardless if they're aware of what it may or may not bring. I'll love what I want to love. And right now, I want to love this naturally rare chilled weather and James Morrison's sexy voice accompanied with a lovely piano and guitar arrangement of Broken Strings and my ever lovely duvet.



Maybe I miss you.
Maybe a little bit too much.

It's been a while. It's been a really, really long while. Where some people have moved on and gained wisdom and have died and lived, I'm back to square one. I thought I did though, I thought I lived. I thought I laughed and I cried and I loved and I lived. But who was I kidding? It was all for show, everything was a facade. I'm back to square one.

Have you ever felt so lost, that everywhere seems home? Or everywhere seems one step closer to home? Or everywhere isn't home at all? That all seems right for a moment, and then it doesn't, and then it is again? That your reach is a mile short of everything you wished for but all the rivers are flooded and you're stuck where you are with nowhere to go? That you can no longer differentiate between your heart and your mind and they both seem so quiet they both seem so dead? That you get so delusional and you're not sure where you are or how to feel or what to think or when to listen or when to speak or when to look or when to not? Maybe you haven't. Maybe it's not even that at all. Maybe that's not what lost feels like. But that's how I feel, and I fear I'm back to square one.

I don't know what to do. I don't know who to talk to. I don't know what I should be doing. I don't know what I'm even doing. Nobody I can think of would understand, or say the things I want them to say. You know how some people have friends who know exactly what to say at exactly the right time? I wasn't fortunate enough to meet such people. It's like I'm back to square one. There's nobody I can weep on, nobody to pat me on the head and tell me it's all right, even though it's not, even though I won't believe it. There's nobody to distract me from this craziness, nobody who's wise and young and wild at the same time. There's nobody for me to dream about. I'm back to square one.

I don't know what I want. Maybe I want somebody. Just somebody. Somebody to guide me, to hug me and hold me tight, to kiss me on the head and tell me all the things I want to hear. And when I deny it and call him a liar, he'll say it again, not because it's his duty, but because it's true. Somebody I can cry to and he'll have a wad of tissues and a mug of hot chocolate to offer. Somebody who'll listen. Somebody who'll listen to every word of the tale, and gently pry the storybook away from my fingers once it's finished. Somebody who smells of meadows, skies and laughter. Somebody who can give me certainty. Somebody I once dreamt about. But alas, I'm not worthy of somebody like that. Somebody as sweet as him deserve better than me. I suppose I'm back to square one.

Time is coming and time is gone, and I'm back to square one, back to where I started. Was everything I ever lived for a lie? Was everything I ever believed in fiction? I took a wrong turning somewhere, and I'm back to square one. Am I expected to take the same road again, in hopes I'll remember to avoid the corner to nowhere? Or to take a different path this time, in hopes that the corner to nowhere doesn't exist at all? I'm not convinced, though. I think I'll end up here again and I'll be back to square one.

Just close your eyes and breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Let your mind take a rest for a moment.
Goddamnit. I'm back to square one.

Je vous aime, mon chéri. Je le veux dire. ♥
"You're going to discover that conversations are best at 4am. The heavier the eyelids, the sincerer the words. Those are the talks you'll remember."
Jeff Stuckel

We should play a round of 'Truth or Dare?' at 4 in the morning then. 
No dares this time.


Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow. 

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book. 

Buy her another cup of coffee. 

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by God, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype. 

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

 said Rosemary Urquico.

Mad girl's love song.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men;
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)


Love, it's been too long.
I promise I'll never forget to remember you.


We were the kings and queens of promise.