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I read an article recently blaming the “Singapore material girls” for the low birth rate of Singapore. It quoted an SMU study which showed that Singapore women are way more materialistic than those from other countries.

“When it comes to looking for a potential spouse, the top criterion for Singaporean women is a man’s social status. Next on the list is kindness, followed by a lively personality. In contrast, American women value kindness the most, followed by looks, then a man’s social standing.” – said the article.

First of all, the people polled were all from SMU. So isn’t this study significantly biased? SMU students, I feel, are different from students from other Universities. They are more business-centric, which means dollars and cents matter more to them. It is certainly not a representative view blanketing all Singapore women. Secondly, it is seriously offensive to say that all women are more materialistic and looking for social symbols.That is to say we have no abilities or competencies of our own to establish ourselves in society and that we are still living in a traditional world where we are dependent on men for survival. Please, we are not in the 1950s any longer, we can love a man without checking out the size of his wallet first.

Sure, status is nice to have. A  fat wallet and a great car is a nice thrill. But it is not a defining factor for most of us. To me at least, even if a dude is the son of some reigning empire here, if he is a boring old sod or an arrogant playboy, it is still a deal-breaker. Who would want to live with splashes of money without intellectual conversations? Without a sense of humour, or someone with passion for his work? I would much rather go for wit, for love of life, for dedication, for attentiveness – all those things you can’t pay to have, even if you tried.

Women here, well at least a lot of them, are not superficial creatures. We can get our own bags/car/jewellery, thank you very much. It is quite ridiculous when people attempt to lump all of us together in a silly survey and go: “There! Women are materialistic here! Blame em!” This just serves to perpetuate the stereotypes Singapore MEN have of us, and you know what, I think THAT is the reason for the low birth rates. That men don’t have the confidence to get a Singapore woman because they read into these perceptions and thus shun us. So we are left conquering the world on our own.

Think about that.

running

Here I am, Lord, and I’m drowning in your sea of forgetfulness 
The chains of yesterday surround me
I yearn for peace and rest
I don’t want to end up where you found me
And it echoes in my mind, keeps me awake tonight

– Casting Crowns, East to West


Sometimes i wish, with all my heart, that i could sleep and never wake up.

It all feels like deja vu. All of it. My life going in circles, always ending the same way, beginning the same way, ending the same way.

Why. The endlessness of it crushes me.

I’m not meant for this life, this life of meaninglessness and pain. Of deep-seated loneliness and barrenness. Of selfishness and cruelty.

Perhaps I deserve all of it. Whoever said I deserved to be treated like a princess, treated with care and respect like the way a daughter of God should be treated, is lying. 

bottle stopper

She woke up with a start from a deep dream. She had dreamt that they were in a tiny house of their own and he was talking to her.

Sitting up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she made a sleepy sound at the back of her throat.

He walked in the room and saw her – she was slouching, curling her legs and tucking her feet comfortably beneath the sheath of peach chiffon dress spread around her, hair tousled and eyes heavy-laden.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to the top of her head, then kissed her forehead softly, her nose.

“My sleepy princess,” he said with a smile.

void

The doors slammed shut, one by one, with satisfying clicks of finality. She had helped them along, given them a little push, ran away.

She wanted them to leave, but longed for them to stay.

She could hear them trying to get through to her, but it’s as though they were speaking through a thick glass pane – their words muffled and a mumble. She turned away; unresponsive, ambivalent, guilty, distant.

Her arm lifted itself halfheartedly as though to reach out to them, a last ditch attempt.

She could see their angry faces on the verge of giving up on her, not comprehending, disappointed at her perpetual cycles of abandonment.

Death, written all over her face, the muscles drawn tight. Her lips moved stiffly, her eyes a picture of vacantness.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, but I can’t, she thought. Unable to feel, unable to react.

She felt a rush of air escape from her as she freefalls further, sucked deeper into the void.

She dropped her arm resignedly.

shrink wrap

Sitting quietly at her desk, she stares at a spot for five minutes, not moving.

The scene before her shimmers lightly.

Suddenly she feels strangely disconnected from the world, from herself.

It’s like she was an alien entity, looking out from within a skin that was separate from her. A body pried from her soul, a stranger to herself.

It’s so weird, she thought dispassionately, abruptly aware of every nerve ending prickling her spine, yet feeling as though she was distant from it all, looking at herself from afar. How is it that I’m in this casing, she wondered, able to move my limbs, touch my hair, feel my lips? That I’m trapped within this body, inside looking out?

And the people surrounding me in their translucent sheaths; do they know they are merely in this hollow shell, controlling their hands and feet like socialized robots?

Sometimes she wondered if this was all real, if she was in fact dead and these images that she sees are mere dreams or wisps of memory, or worse, some deluded state of mind.

What is the point of it all, she thought. Moving a finger, opening my mouth, smiling. She felt barren, depleted, blank – as though her circuitry has been temporarily wiped out and she forgot what it was like to be normal.

They speak to her but she is not there, unable to respond, her insides dug out leaving a gaping cavity.

Just recently, news emerged that Steve Jobs is rumoured to be worsening in his condition. He had pancreatic cancer and is currently on another long leave of absence. Reports say the frail-looking founder of Apple supposedly has only months to live.

What is Steve Jobs thinking now, she mused, flipping through photos after photos of the business magnate holding various new models of the iPhone, iPod and Macbooks over the years, his face ageing with time, wrinkled with years.

She stared hard at his face, wondering if beneath the smiles he knew what was in store for him, wondering if he had known, would he still care about concocting the latest iPhone models, or conquering the world with his gadgets in this brutal electronics race?

What is the point, she thought again, to fight and to struggle, to rake in the money, to be number one, only to have your life mercilessly cut short, unable to enjoy any of it? To work so hard and then to die, be replaced, forgotten?

Shells, all of us. Merely ants looking out of a covered window, trapped.

long lost

Is it me, or have I changed a whole lot since becoming a journalist?

I was glancing through my old blogs, struck by curiosity after a certain nosy lil friend chanced upon one of them with her excellent snooping tactics, and was immediately thrown off by the tone of optimism and quiet contemplation in there. The youthfulness of it all seeps through, jarring, because I no longer can go back there.

I look at the things I come up with now, and I see them tainted with weariness and half-assed haphazard thoughts, a reflection of a mind exhausted by hours and hours of mulling over words. I see them filled with quick anger and cynicism instead of a measure of calmness.

Nowadays, words fail me. An irony, considering it makes up the majority of my job.

But what else can I say that I haven’t said? Or maybe I just don’t find it necessary anymore, the only avenue of my release – gone.

And there you go, I’m at a loss of what else to say.

take a peek

loves:

the crackling sound of pages being turned in a book

cold droplets of a light drizzle falling on her face

imagining herself playing the lead character in a reflective long-running film about her life (her soundtrack will be entirely made up of heartbreaking melancholic tunes)

breathing in the odours of frozen food in the freezer (you can catch her getting a whiff ever so often)

the feel of a hand weaving itself through her hair

the smell of a freshly minted book

keeping her ‘treasures’ in a chest and imagining her future grandchildren gushing over the precious memories like gold and silver


hates:

feet squishing around in wet/damp shoes

being ignored, because that means she is not worth it

the sound of metal grating against each other as a shop owner pulls down the shutters

the very existence of cockroaches

the loud echoes of motorcyclists roaring furiously past a quiet residential estate at night

Look, all those horror stories you’ve heard about Singapore drivers? All true.

Aggressive, slipshod, ungracious, hostile, short-tempered. All the traits you wouldn’t like to meet on any other day, let alone have them all come together on the great monster of an expressway.

Recipe for a major disaster much?

I’ve been driving for five years now, and I have to say, the harsh Singaporean-driving mentality is taking a toll.

Sure, look at our tiny green island from the bird’s eye view of an aeroplane, or look out of the window of your cab when it is just travelling out of the airport and you would be awed by how clean, pristine, garden-esque and wonderfully sophisticated our country is. But really, has it translated onto our roads? Not at all.

Put anybody who has the endurance of a saint on the roads for 3 years and the madness will turn that person into a roaring spitfire capable of yelling f-yous to cranky taxi drivers or stick ingem the bird. Trust me, 3 years ago I would never think of doing said action 1 and 2, but now it is a constant struggle every day NOT to do it.

Yes I admit there are a few drivers who are courteous, who allow you to filter into your lane, and who try not to tailgate you or flash their headlights at you every time you perform some maneuver that tickles their anger bone.

But those a rarity indeed. Nowadays, dawdle one second slower at any junction and you’d be rewarded with three flashes into your rear mirror. Three seconds, and you’d be treated to a high beam for about 8 seconds. Longer than that, be prepared for  a long and screeching horn (alternatively it would arrive in 500 bursts – imagine an angry uncle’s fist spasming on the horn button), tailgating, before the vehicle shows its displeasure by peevishly pulling out from behind you abruptly, speeding past your vehicle, and if you are lucky, turning towards you with his scowling/triumphant face before roaring off in a fit. And you’re lucky if this happens only once a day.

It’s exasperating. Not everything is a contest people. And if you’re rushing somewhere so urgently that you have to hurt 10 people’s day in the process, I hope you know it won’t get you very far. Your next car crash is possibly just a traffic light away.

I hope this will change, I really do. I want driving to be pleasant for once, to leave a smile on my face. Why should it be such a chore? I want to be able to sing along to the radio without being cut off suddenly because some aggrieved asshole is honking at me 100 times just because he wants to go 110km/hr compared to my 90.

It’s not a pound of your flesh to wait just that 2 seconds. Neither will it take away any bit of you to just be a little bit nicer, to slow down and let someone get into your lane.You might be the one who desperately needs to make a U-turn or get across to that building the  next time you get into a vehicle. Every body needs compassion on the roads, let’s try not to make this a motorway of hell for everyone.

So here’s a challenge – go out there, and make 5 gestures that show you are a gracious driver on the road. And then do it the next day too. Who knows, your actions might spur another to do the same.

I for one, will start practising what I preach. Here goes, one baby step at a time to change our world.

hello, you.

You are just a tiny thread of vapour tremulously hanging in the air.

It is as though a thick veil hangs over you,

you are familiar but you are a stranger

I’ve seen you before, but I don’t know you

I frown to remember how you have fit into my life

Weak memories that threaten to push past that barrier, strangely I don’t feel a thing.

It’s as though you are a distant dream, a wisp of smoke that dissipates without leaving a trace

Nothing besides a faint pleasant/unpleasant memory.

It’s sad this is how life works – is anybody ever worth holding on tight to?

Edgy. On edge.

Shouldn’t let things worm inside of me, but I do.

Shouldn’t think so much, but I do.

An eternal poison. A ball and chain I’m stuck to.

As wide as the sky, my thoughts fly and falter, sink and struggle.

I’m happy but I seethe. I’m grateful but I yearn. I’m here but I’m there.

What does it mean, really?

A reflection of a reality I refuse to see, or an expose of my flawed character?

What’s wrong, what’s wrong what’s wrong?

Elusive, it slips from my fingers, every time.

Oh heart oh heart, won’t you settle down?

Am not feeling very coherent , random thoughts swirling around my head –


My body aches like holy hell

Shit my fingers hurt. Shit my thighs hurt. Shit my stomach muscles hurt. Shit my head hurts. Shit my skin feels so sensitive.

Please don’t talk, it’s too loud

I could have been in London right now

I could have been dead

I could have been sick in London right now

Rain, dark skies, alternative music, hot tea

Sleep

The entire world is practically in your palm – is it amazing or what

Miss xxx

It’s a big girl world now, full of big girl things. And everyday I wish I was small

Will you let me die if I asked you to?

trust.

The light left her eyes, as swiftly as it first appeared.

Hurt replaced them, filling them, drowning them unwittingly.

The fury came next, seeping into her soul and spreading, making her tremble with the efforts of not letting herself go undone.

Her eyes, they sting with the tears that she refuses to let fall.

A hole seems to have dug itself into her chest, its claws sunk so deep she could not let them loose.

She tries to smile, make lil jokes.

With a Herculean effort she pushes the demons aside.

But left alone, the waves they crash upon her, unrelenting, stubborn,

And she feels herself crumble, fall, spill over.

Her heart broke a little bit today.

Mr Lee Kuan Yew’s wife passed away today at the age of 89.

It’s a sad day. I might not know either of them personally, but I’m sure we are all familiar with these two figures and their stories.

I teared when I read Mr Lee’s candid, revealing, and touching interview with NYT. He had spoken at length about his wife’s ailing condition, how he reads to her every night, how he struggles sometimes with thoughts of their good days together, his reflections about death, and that he feels he is a lucky man to have had 61 years of happiness with her. He said in that interview that he didn’t know who will go first, him or her, but he will try to keep her company for as long as he can.

Sigh, and now, so shortly after that, this had to happen.

Yes 89 years might be a long time, but it’s never enough for the ones who love you.

Goodbye to Mrs Lee and their lovely romance; goodbye to his one and only, his soul mate and companion.

I guess every love story has to have an ending.

tweet tweet

After resisting for half a year, I have finally caved to the calls of technology.

I’m now on twitter!

The world has become quite a scary place hasn’t it, with all of these advances.

All talk is done in snippets online, and in a public domain. So much so that we don’t even feel the need to open our gabs to talk to the people around us.

I found myself quite guilty of that. Just two days ago, after enthusiastically tweeting a few times in a day out of sheer novelty, I came home and my dad came over to talk to me. It was 1am and I felt too tired to engage, and so didn’t respond much. And then I realised the irony – why is it I find myself so willing to say whatever I’m thinking online, and so often, to a bunch of people who probably don’t give a beep about anything I say, and yet in real life, I am muzzled in front of the people who really do care about what I am saying?

Technology is not necessarily making us better people sometimes.

So this is a reminder to myself, not to ever let things like twitter or facebook stop me from building real relationships.

Anyhows, self-reflection aside, I’ve embedded my twitter into my blog! *pleased* WordPress makes it so fuss free.

Or check out the full page at – https://twitter.com/dancingredheels

Loving my new header too! The photos are all taken by me in Zaanse Schans, a tiny little nob in Zaandam in the Neds. There are tons of disused windmills there, along with cheese museums and wooden clog workshops. Love the antiquated countryside and the peace it gives. Life literally slows to a halt there. <3

Am happy.

Now people who know me should know how much I love the sky. Especially when they are orange, or pink, or bright blue painted with swirling clouds. Or have birds/ducks flying in formation through them. God knows I’ve taken a million snaps to capture those moments. I don’t know why the sky calls out to me so much. Maybe because, it looks like it has quite a few stories to tell, if only we’d just take the time to say hello.

So I took these today (Sat) during the Kite Festival at Marina Bay. It was a beeeaeutiful sight, with hundreds of colours just dotting the sky, swishing here and there against the skyscrapers. I love these pictures, could stare at them all day!

(click to enlarge!)

p.s: please don’t use my photos without crediting me! :)

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