musing

I wonder
Who these people
Really are

And are we just trying to be naughty
Like the sixteen-year-olds we were, falling over ourselves for black and Jack and smokes and forbidden loves
Are there images to upkeep
Do we cry because we feel we should, blow our problems out of proportion because that's what we do
Do we take happy photos and sad things to be Mysterious, or because we can't decide on what we want to be
Do we type a certain way to achieve a certain impression
Are we struggling to Be Something

Aside: Looking For Alaska

I started and finished John Green's Looking For Alaska today, because I was at the café with Hamid and we had decided to skip the optional morning lecture for the first time ever (kiasu asians) and I had finished my homework and didn't have On The Road with me, so I thought I'd start on one of FJ's eBooks. It was a pretty engaging read, which is why I'm up at 2.20am typing about it and haven't started on the writing assignment for tomorrow. Anyway, it left me with one unimportant comment and one thought:

Unimportant comment: Thank you, John Green, for making one of the main characters an Asian! An Asian who's great at rapping and can't do math/programming! !!!!!!

Thought: Why is it that when someone close to us dies, a part of us dies too? When one's page in the novel of life is torn out, our pages tear along with him. Maybe it's because the book also made mention of the Buddhist belief of interconnectedness: as much as we like to believe we are separate entities, our own free person, we are all intricately woven into the fabric of one another. We aren't really free, are we. We tie ourselves to those we love, and we have a responsibility to those to whom we matter.

Mollie the dog

It's 9.30pm, the sky is beginning to get dark. Hamid and I return to the dining table. Java House coffee, check. Laptops check. I gotta churn out eight pages of really good work, better and longer than ever before, because I and the rest of my class will be working on it the whole of next week. Stress.

Whimpering and whining from outside. It breaks my heart, but she's not allowed into the dining room. It goes on for about five minutes and then I can't take it anymore so I open the door. Mollie was just beginning to give up and was walking back towards the kitchen, but she turns around and sees me and gets all alert and barks and runs over. I am greeted by a wave of panting and tail-wagging and paws. She stands on her hind legs and reaches for my thighs. Stands up, loses balance and falls back down, stands up again. Her tail is going crazy. So full of excitement at finally getting some attention. She doesn't stop, you know. It goes on for a long time. Such a huge burst of love, like seeing a close friend whom you thought was dead.

I sit with her for a while, and she lets me pat her. She nuzzles against my thigh, licks my hand, everything. All this while I'm thinking, I've always wanted a dog, but I'm never around enough. I barely spent any time at home even when I lived there. And I love travelling. When you get a dog you essentially buy a package of love, and love isn't conveniently picked up and dropped whenever you want. You have to be able to give the dog the attention it needs. The poor thing would be so lonely otherwise.

I'd better get back to work, I think. I get up and go back in to get my phone so that I can take this picture of her. As soon as the door closes Mollie is whining. I come out again. And it's been all of two seconds but dear Mollie repeats the ritual of euphoria.

Oh, dear Mollie. She's still whining now, even scratching the door.