oh shut up

I wish Delia knew how to hold her tongue when she's angry. Even I don't insult people and rant against them to vent my anger. It just doesn't do, to purge yourself of frustration by injuring another person emotionally.

can't lie

Time to face it: I can't tell a lie. The truth always comes out before I can think of lying. It's somewhat disabling. I have the ability to lie if absolutely necessary, but hate doing it because lying is cowardice, and telling the truth is often thrilling.

irritated

I hate being like this. I don't know when I fell so low. I was beyond this before--when did I begin caring about superficialities? Is this what the world tried to make me, and has it finally succeeded, irrevocably?

I have fallen into a trap of my own making. I doubt I can change back.

Here I am, shallow, jealous and self-hating. It was to be expected; I never was the most secure person.

I don't want anyone to ask me about this.

this one might raise eyebrows; i'm judgmental here

My god my sister annoys the hell out of me.

I used to try to form a generalisation about people I dislike--but I never really found a proper one. I used to think I hated girly people/bimbos, in an attempt to explain my dislike of her--but no, that's really not true, because I do have good friends of that "sort", and it's not an insult.

I worked it out when I was listening to her perform her own rendition! of a song.

She's so fake. She doesn't have a person. She doesn't have her own voice. She simply follows. Follows the trends, does what is "cool" and what is "in"--dresses like this because it's "hot" and "fashionable" and media and society tell her it is attractive! (like, these overtly-tight clothes that make every bump of your body visible?) then walks around flaunting it subtly (hoping we can't tell what she's doing), talks with this (badly-faked) American accent because that's how everyone talks! And when she sings, she imitates the original singer's voice without realising her voice is nothing like the star's, and that it sounds frankly disgusting contorted into such a style.

What in the world, is there some guy she wants to seduce or something? Or is she trying to fit in with the crowd she's mingling with? Why does she dress up like this when she goes for parties with her friends?

And the last thing: she acts as if she is attractive all round and desirable. People only do these things, if they think they have something to show for it. I don't think she's ugly, but I don't think she's anywhere near Miss Singapore either. By a mile. So can't she just be natural?

Sure, I know she's a young teen. And I'm pretty sure her friends are the ones who mould her personality right now. I don't intend to force her to change in any way, if this is who she wants to be. But why, why can't she be real for once, and why is it that she must try so hard to attain that image sold by the media?

symbolism

flight, the sky, the birds, the wings, the chained flying fish, the seed, the watch, the broken things in the water, the koi, the tulip, the book, the mourning doves, the swans, the lights, the metal, the wood, the granite, the umbrella, the ocean, the waltz, the heartbeat.

If you ever read Umbrella Story, look out for them whenever they appear.

dreamt

I am rarely privileged with the opportunity to say that I've done something that I'm proud of.

Yes, this is a month late, but I'm still excited.

I'm so glad I composed Dreamt. Because, puns aside, it really is a dream come true. It's the first time I've been able to listen to a composition of my own and feel, suddenly, fully-distanced, as if it were a professional work I am in the process of evaluating. Not in any way a mark of its standard--but nevertheless, this is a milestone for me.

Other works before this were missing something...they sounded clearly, flatly, like amateur works--fledglings yet to take flight. The rasp of the speakers, because I could not handle the layering limits; the dissonances that were not clean enough to be artistry; the bells and whistles (literally) that served no purpose except to stimulate the listener's attraction to novelty. My attempts to replicate the pros' startlingly beautiful effects--all shadows, vaguely mirroring them, but so much more crudely.

This time, I feel as if I've, someway, bypassed that. The music makes more sense than before. And no annoying overload either. Is it a matter of experience--or was I simply in the beat--on the crest--lucky that day? Luck. Composition is muchly about luck. And chaos. Each note dictates the laying of the next--forming a web with so many strands that the code of composition is but indecipherable, except by the human's aesthetic taste.

Whatever it is, I did something, and that something gave me this.

I do not like to brag. In the creative fields, claiming that your own work is good is to me detestable. Even with some sort of external opinion. Because in the realm of the subjective, a true piece of critique is worth just as much as a lie. No gauge can be accurate, because there are no objective standards. A work's popularity could be as much the result of exposure as it could be of quality.

But while I shall not say this work is good (far, far from it in fact)--I can say, I am glad to have accomplished something that makes me proud. Whatever others may think of it.

  Dreamt (Instrumental)

blog design overhaul

The old look seemed a little too sombre. I mean, I know the content isn't the most cheerful, but why make it worse?

On the title: "Harbour Lights" is a name I chose for how it resonates--with my heart, on my tongue, in text. I like seaside settlements; I love the concepts of journeys, navigation, departure and homecoming. With harbours come the images of ships, bells, lighthouses--ships that were made to voyage, bells that call in the day's catch, lighthouses that guide the wayward vessel past the rocks.

There is this mental image I sometimes have: I am at the deck of a ship in the middle of the ocean; it is night time, and the sea is black. Except for a few points of light, marking the far horizon: like a string of fairy lights, or fireflies--a foreign harbour. It's not my home, but seeing it is a comfort all the same.

"waiting in dusty pages, the cosmogony of a dreamt universe"--it is a wonder, how a world can begin in the human mind--and grow, and flourish, its every detail drawing itself, as if existent all along. The question of where these worlds originated remains to be answered--but to the dreamer there is no need to know, because that mystery itself is what engenders the love for creation.

chapter 11, at last

Great, all the rewriting is done. Now to check for grammar/typos and cut the chapter down to size. Then we're off.