FILLING THE VOID

"They say you don’t get over someone until you find someone or something better. As humans, we don’t deal well with emptiness. Any empty space must be filled. Immediately. The pain of emptiness is too strong. It compels the victim to fill that place. A single moment with that empty spot causes excruciating pain. That’s why we run from distraction to distraction—and from attachment to attachment." -- Yasmin Mogahed

IF I GOT RID OF MY DEMONS, I'D LOSE MY ANGELS

"It’s a strange thing, how you can love somebody, how you can be all eaten up inside with needing them—and they simply don’t need you. That’s all there is to it, and neither of you can do anything about it. And they’ll be the same way with someone else, and someone else will be the same way about you and it goes on and on—this desperate need—and only once in a rare million do the same two people need each other." -- Madeleine L’Engle

WE'RE ALL REPLACEABLE

Henry David Thoreau once said that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. It came to me, now at the end of my 24 year old journey, that there are things I will have to put behind, and they will pass an invisible boundary. New laws establish themselves, old laws expand and vanish.

Perhaps in proportion I should have simplified my life and so the laws of the universe will appear less complex. Perhaps then, will I be able to live with the license of a higher order of beings.

One could have guessed by now, yes, I'm stuck in this constant vicious endless cycle of my quarter life crisis. Bored with my existence, bored with the cynicism that I have to erase every morning, bored with every single shit that's happening in my life. 

No, we're not the hot, young, and talented. We're the most disposable and replaceable. And once disposed of we'll probably have to work for scraps again. Singapore creative industry's brutally uncertain market is the perfect clammy breeding ground for a quarter life crisis.

As much as pleasure and pride exist within such a vicious industry, dissatisfaction and uncertainness brews at each passing (and droning) day. You slug your way to work, you work your guts out, countless number of over-times unaccounted for... but at the end of the day you wonder where this dark tunnel leads to. Is a light waiting for you at the end of it or is there a dark hole waiting for you to fall in and crush your pathetic bones.

You’ve told many people, many times that, “you don’t care how much money you make, you just want to do what you love.” Nervously, you wondered how much money “not caring” really looks like. Backtrack. You wonder if all this is worth it. Is passion worth hauling your ass off?

Passion is cheap, asshole.

SURGE

Managing my emotions at work isn't easy. Anger, disappointment, betrayal... a whole pool of mixed emotions. So much that they overwhelm me and I'm finding it hard to contain them within me. Angry tears. They just flow.

It's disappointing that after anything up to 300 hours into the project, the project's final confrontation with The Boss is so unrewarding.

I'm just plain speechless now. That hate is slowly brewing. Can't wait to get out of this.

I COVET

SENSE OF ORDER

No reasonable person can still believe that imitation is the end of art. To do so is like saying that the writing of history consists in recording all the known facts. Every creative activity of the human race depends on selection, and selection implies both a power to perceive relationships and the existence of a pre-established pattern in the mind. Nor is this activity peculiar to the artist, scientist or historian. We measure, we match colours, we tell stories. All through the day we are committed to low-grade aesthetic activities. We are being abstract artists when we arrange our hair brushes, impressionists when we are suddenly charmed by a lilac shadow, and portrait painters when we see a revelation of character in the shape of a jaw. All these responses are wholly inexplicable and remain unrelated until a great artist unites and perpetuates them, and makes them convey his sense of order.