Numb. Maybe it's time to give up on that hope in my heart and move on. Argh I think I've gotta get out of the house. Can't be spending the whole day cooped up in my room, with my thoughts for company, and allowing this screen in front of me to drain away my vitality. The internet offers little solace, or maybe I simply haven't found the right sites.
I keep waiting for a reply each and every day, in hope that with it, the path forwards will take shape, and I can stride forwards once more with renewed determination. A yes/no is all it'd take, really.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
Pain is temporary; the rewards, while not eternal, are slightly less so. Look beyond the moment and fight with the end in mind.
Aching quite abit now, but that's probably the mindset I should take into tomorrow, it's served me well for the IPPT and SOC so far. I'll never be one of those uberfit guys who can seemingly run nonstop but I can do that much at least haha.
Though I find it more than a little hard to rationalize and marry the concept of knowing your body's limits and "listening to your heart" to fall out if you can't take it and the concept of pushing yourself via mental endurance, cause when I do, it really feels like I'm going to die, in that instant. Quite cool once I manage to break through though, a really liberating and empowering feeling.
Aching quite abit now, but that's probably the mindset I should take into tomorrow, it's served me well for the IPPT and SOC so far. I'll never be one of those uberfit guys who can seemingly run nonstop but I can do that much at least haha.
Though I find it more than a little hard to rationalize and marry the concept of knowing your body's limits and "listening to your heart" to fall out if you can't take it and the concept of pushing yourself via mental endurance, cause when I do, it really feels like I'm going to die, in that instant. Quite cool once I manage to break through though, a really liberating and empowering feeling.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Some things can't be understood, and that's perfectly fine. But other things merely obstinately defy understanding, which I find a little irritating tbh
We have a little LAN cafe going on, which is pretty freaking awesome. Kinda worried what it's doing for my fittness though.
I don't really believe in a single person forcing his own point of view upon others; while I know that it's necessary at times, that's not really my style of doing things. I'd rather incessantly badger them about it, and leave them alone if they refuse to come around, while sulking myself in a corner. Which is probably why I don't make a good leader hehx.
We have a little LAN cafe going on, which is pretty freaking awesome. Kinda worried what it's doing for my fittness though.
I don't really believe in a single person forcing his own point of view upon others; while I know that it's necessary at times, that's not really my style of doing things. I'd rather incessantly badger them about it, and leave them alone if they refuse to come around, while sulking myself in a corner. Which is probably why I don't make a good leader hehx.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Time seems to be my panacea. Given enough time, all thoughts, worries and concerns seem to dissolve to nothing. Thankfully, time has been on my side, this weekend. Time for the most bothersome of thoughts to pass through my head, and fortunately, time enough for them to dissipate, resolved or otherwise dismissed.
Saturday was spent idling at home, and it seemed like today was going to go the same way as well! Luckily I managed to get myself out of the house to settle some stuff for today's bookin. One of them was to get a haircut to SCS standard, which is a little more lax than BMT; we actually get to keep some hair on top and only need to get the sides and back shaved...only haha. Halfway through my haircut, a mother brought her son who was around 6 I think in for a haircut as well. She was saying stuff like "Do you want to cut like the gorgor over there? Very short and neat!" to which the kid replied "No! I want to cut handsome!" repeatedly; which I found horribly amusing. Got my passport sized photos next at one of those over-priced photo booths before getting a card holder for my camp pass from Popular and a photocopy of my 11B at J8, all conveniently in close proximity to one another. Returned a couple of overdue books and borrowed some others before calling it a day and heading home.
I never got to finish Watt. Reading Samuel Beckett makes me feel almost masochistic; it's a slightly painful experience, especially with the tendency to go on and on, yet there's a certain quiet appeal to that writing style which makes you want to continue reading nonetheless. I wanted to at least read that one to completion yet always found my attention drawn away by less subtle things.. I did manage to appreciate though, the style (or at least my impression of it) of never directly addressing his point and instead incessantly weaving around and about it, in a very relentless and painstaking manner, and in doing so, outlining it in a way; much like that continuous line sketch drawing thing that Tian Yuan demonstrated once. Very subtle and clever, but only if one has the time and perseverance to slowly digest and ruminate over it.
And now, an abrupt end to this post, as I have a monumental task ahead of me: To polish my outfield boots till they're "as shiny as my Encik's head"; which is blindingly so. Why oh why does he have to be bald T.T
Saturday was spent idling at home, and it seemed like today was going to go the same way as well! Luckily I managed to get myself out of the house to settle some stuff for today's bookin. One of them was to get a haircut to SCS standard, which is a little more lax than BMT; we actually get to keep some hair on top and only need to get the sides and back shaved...only haha. Halfway through my haircut, a mother brought her son who was around 6 I think in for a haircut as well. She was saying stuff like "Do you want to cut like the gorgor over there? Very short and neat!" to which the kid replied "No! I want to cut handsome!" repeatedly; which I found horribly amusing. Got my passport sized photos next at one of those over-priced photo booths before getting a card holder for my camp pass from Popular and a photocopy of my 11B at J8, all conveniently in close proximity to one another. Returned a couple of overdue books and borrowed some others before calling it a day and heading home.
I never got to finish Watt. Reading Samuel Beckett makes me feel almost masochistic; it's a slightly painful experience, especially with the tendency to go on and on, yet there's a certain quiet appeal to that writing style which makes you want to continue reading nonetheless. I wanted to at least read that one to completion yet always found my attention drawn away by less subtle things.. I did manage to appreciate though, the style (or at least my impression of it) of never directly addressing his point and instead incessantly weaving around and about it, in a very relentless and painstaking manner, and in doing so, outlining it in a way; much like that continuous line sketch drawing thing that Tian Yuan demonstrated once. Very subtle and clever, but only if one has the time and perseverance to slowly digest and ruminate over it.
And now, an abrupt end to this post, as I have a monumental task ahead of me: To polish my outfield boots till they're "as shiny as my Encik's head"; which is blindingly so. Why oh why does he have to be bald T.T
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Another random thought, conceived in you-don't-want-to-know-where as I watched something plop into the water:
What kind of shape should an object have to make the most minimal of splashes as it falls towards a liquid surface? A streamlined one would seem to suffice, but somehow I think it's the initial point of contact that makes the most difference. I'd go with a pointed stick dropped vertically, but weight distribution does present a problem.
It's probably been solved, but I really can't be bothered to search for the answer right now, so I'm leaving it as it is.
What kind of shape should an object have to make the most minimal of splashes as it falls towards a liquid surface? A streamlined one would seem to suffice, but somehow I think it's the initial point of contact that makes the most difference. I'd go with a pointed stick dropped vertically, but weight distribution does present a problem.
It's probably been solved, but I really can't be bothered to search for the answer right now, so I'm leaving it as it is.
A couple of hours spent aimlessly wandering the Internet while seated in front of my laptop performs wonders as a shock back into civilian life. Though it does have the unfortunate side effect of ridding my mind of all coherent thought, so this will be pretty messy.
I think I'm really fortunate in that each time I bookout from camp, I have a very understanding and accommodating family to welcome me home. Perhaps too accommodating, but I'll leave that for later haha. It's one of the things you learn to treasure more in NS I guess. Despite the mess I left my room in when I left for SCS, things were relatively orderly when I came back, no thanks to myself. I found a new set of bedsheets on my bed, new charcoal pillows which apparently offer better support (I'll have to read the maintenance manual later..) and a new bolster as well. Though my siblings do sleep in my room when I'm in camp, I'm really touched by the thoughtfulness behind such things. Honestly, I think I may be too pampered when I'm home over the weekends, with little expected of me, which I guess may be some manifestation of the oldest child syndrome, which my uncle gleefully terms primogeniture; though I find myself doubting whether he's using the term correctly.
I found myself enjoying the past week in SCS. No doubt it was merely the first week, and things are definitely going to escalate from here onwards, but I'm reveling in this newfound freedom afforded to specialists' in training - ie SCTs - and appreciate the focus on learning and mastering the relevant knowledge and skills rather than the preoccupation with discipline and regimentation we had in BMT. On Friday alone, we learned how to strip, assemble, load, unload, and to perform the relevant IA Drills for the SAW (Section Automatic Weapon; it's bloody unwieldy), the GPMG (Some grenade launcher attachment to the SAR21; it's freaking heavy), the Matador (A disposable rocket laucher; feels even heavier, not to mention bulky) as well as their specifications, capabilities, safety concerns etc. Also learned how to operate the ACES, GPS, and radio headset; and all that before 6pm. Everything's really alot more efficient than it was in BMT, with all the procedures stripped down to the essentials, and much less waiting time between events.
The freedom is simply legendary. We finally have more than 2 hours of admin time each day, not to mention the knowledge to "jailbreak" our SAF-issued notebooks passed down from our seniors to avoid external surveillance. The most epic part is that there're actually games like CS, Pokemon, DoTA, etc available to play in camp. I see mass LAN sessions in the near future haha.
But I guess responsibility comes along with the freedom as well. I shall see more about it in the coming weeks, but basically when we're responsible for keeping ourselves on schedule, and responsible for maintaining our own standards, we have to do a good job if we don't want to be screwed sometime down the road. It should be good training as well :D
Not much else to add about SCS; maybe just that I'm honored to be a member of Bravo Coy, and really lucky to be in it with so many of my Bronco platoonmates who I can freely talk cock with; makes things alot more interesting (Y)
I guess I shall go to sleep soon, though I don't doubt that I'll find myself waking at some ungodly hour in the morning, so accustomed early morning reveille I am that I no longer need to bring an alarm clock into camp..
A weekend awaits, and so long as I'm able to look upon the world with fresh eyes, each waking day shall be a wonderful one ;)
Edit: The fact that we're gonna have to run 3km every morning next week onwards (we started yesterday) on top of PT before meals AKA Meal PT, and that on top of everyday training should show that we don't simply slack in SCS xP Managed to scrape silver for my IPPT this time around for my Cat test, so I'll aim to maintain and hopefully whittle down my 2.4 timing when the next one comes.
Short term goal: Cut away 1 min by the 5th week of SCS!
I think I'm really fortunate in that each time I bookout from camp, I have a very understanding and accommodating family to welcome me home. Perhaps too accommodating, but I'll leave that for later haha. It's one of the things you learn to treasure more in NS I guess. Despite the mess I left my room in when I left for SCS, things were relatively orderly when I came back, no thanks to myself. I found a new set of bedsheets on my bed, new charcoal pillows which apparently offer better support (I'll have to read the maintenance manual later..) and a new bolster as well. Though my siblings do sleep in my room when I'm in camp, I'm really touched by the thoughtfulness behind such things. Honestly, I think I may be too pampered when I'm home over the weekends, with little expected of me, which I guess may be some manifestation of the oldest child syndrome, which my uncle gleefully terms primogeniture; though I find myself doubting whether he's using the term correctly.
I found myself enjoying the past week in SCS. No doubt it was merely the first week, and things are definitely going to escalate from here onwards, but I'm reveling in this newfound freedom afforded to specialists' in training - ie SCTs - and appreciate the focus on learning and mastering the relevant knowledge and skills rather than the preoccupation with discipline and regimentation we had in BMT. On Friday alone, we learned how to strip, assemble, load, unload, and to perform the relevant IA Drills for the SAW (Section Automatic Weapon; it's bloody unwieldy), the GPMG (Some grenade launcher attachment to the SAR21; it's freaking heavy), the Matador (A disposable rocket laucher; feels even heavier, not to mention bulky) as well as their specifications, capabilities, safety concerns etc. Also learned how to operate the ACES, GPS, and radio headset; and all that before 6pm. Everything's really alot more efficient than it was in BMT, with all the procedures stripped down to the essentials, and much less waiting time between events.
The freedom is simply legendary. We finally have more than 2 hours of admin time each day, not to mention the knowledge to "jailbreak" our SAF-issued notebooks passed down from our seniors to avoid external surveillance. The most epic part is that there're actually games like CS, Pokemon, DoTA, etc available to play in camp. I see mass LAN sessions in the near future haha.
But I guess responsibility comes along with the freedom as well. I shall see more about it in the coming weeks, but basically when we're responsible for keeping ourselves on schedule, and responsible for maintaining our own standards, we have to do a good job if we don't want to be screwed sometime down the road. It should be good training as well :D
Not much else to add about SCS; maybe just that I'm honored to be a member of Bravo Coy, and really lucky to be in it with so many of my Bronco platoonmates who I can freely talk cock with; makes things alot more interesting (Y)
I guess I shall go to sleep soon, though I don't doubt that I'll find myself waking at some ungodly hour in the morning, so accustomed early morning reveille I am that I no longer need to bring an alarm clock into camp..
A weekend awaits, and so long as I'm able to look upon the world with fresh eyes, each waking day shall be a wonderful one ;)
Edit: The fact that we're gonna have to run 3km every morning next week onwards (we started yesterday) on top of PT before meals AKA Meal PT, and that on top of everyday training should show that we don't simply slack in SCS xP Managed to scrape silver for my IPPT this time around for my Cat test, so I'll aim to maintain and hopefully whittle down my 2.4 timing when the next one comes.
Short term goal: Cut away 1 min by the 5th week of SCS!
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Knowing is just the beginning
They say that knowing is half the battle won; and I used to think the same way as well. Yet I think that as I've "matured" (yeah, in "" cause it's never a given) I've come to realize that things are rarely so easy. At this point of life, I think I'm pretty familiar with my more serious failings, but correcting them are a completely different thing altogether.
On a related note, I've recently been clued on to how I've come to "inherit" some of my parents' let's say not-so-desirable traits. My dad's tendency to lapse into episodes of talking at people rather than to them, my mum's occasional bouts of moodiness due to a moment's insight into mistakes she's made, yet being too resigned to correct them, etc. It feels strange to dissect the failings of such key figures in my life, yet I've found myself doing exactly that on more than one occasion, and thinking to myself that I wouldn't be the same way when I "grew up". It was quite shocking, really, to suddenly see them manifest in myself as well. What to do? I realize that everyone has their own failings, but knowing that such things are present within myself, I can't be satisfied doing nothing about them. A more conscious effort of restraint on my part is all I can do, I guess. Another part of me wonders, though if maybe these failings simply constitute a part of my personality, and whether maybe I shouldn't be trying to rid myself of them afterall. I really don't know.
I honestly didn't plan for the above paragraph to end with that particular sentence, yet it did. So if I don't know, how am I to begin? X.x
On a related note, I've recently been clued on to how I've come to "inherit" some of my parents' let's say not-so-desirable traits. My dad's tendency to lapse into episodes of talking at people rather than to them, my mum's occasional bouts of moodiness due to a moment's insight into mistakes she's made, yet being too resigned to correct them, etc. It feels strange to dissect the failings of such key figures in my life, yet I've found myself doing exactly that on more than one occasion, and thinking to myself that I wouldn't be the same way when I "grew up". It was quite shocking, really, to suddenly see them manifest in myself as well. What to do? I realize that everyone has their own failings, but knowing that such things are present within myself, I can't be satisfied doing nothing about them. A more conscious effort of restraint on my part is all I can do, I guess. Another part of me wonders, though if maybe these failings simply constitute a part of my personality, and whether maybe I shouldn't be trying to rid myself of them afterall. I really don't know.
I honestly didn't plan for the above paragraph to end with that particular sentence, yet it did. So if I don't know, how am I to begin? X.x
Monday, April 16, 2012
I've decided to forgo the mandatory last game of DoTA for a post instead. So maybe I've got my priorities right, for once. I've pretty much been spending the day packing my stuff to go back to camp; admittedly at a very leisurely pace, but still something productive nonetheless. I've also finally gotten round to attempting to resolve the mess which is my room. What I haven't managed to do is decide what to do with all my old stuff. Past years' notes, random little knick knacks (such as the Titanic brochure ><), a whole assortment of stuff that a person inevitably picks up as he progresses through life. Some of them mean practically nothing to me, and those I've tossed already. But the rest are really headache-inducing. There're all those random pieces of paper I never got around to filing, disorganized as I am, which however seem too much of a waste to throw offhand; as I realized while flipping through them. Memories, and lots of value - not merely nostalgic - in them too. So what to do? My uncle (now my neighbour) confided in me once, of having to "close one eye, then close the other one" in deciding what to get rid of when shifting to his present house. He realized that humans actually need very few things to get by. That's something I agree with, to be honest, yet I can't help myself uselessly clinging onto these pieces of paper, out of some misplaced sentiment or I don't know what, knowing that I'll probably never touch them for the rest of my life. I'm currently storing them in my fortunately amply spacious cupboard, putting off the decision till later.
But now for more current matters. I'm feeling rather expectant about SCS. Don't get me wrong, the past week or so of block leave has been heavenly. Civilian life is awesome, and it's a reminder of what we sacrifice by serving NS. Got to meet up with friends, catch up, play, chill. The feeling of having the luxury of being able to sit around and do nothing, sweet, blessed nothing, extended stretches of nothing; if I wanted to, of course, is very liberating. I actually spent Friday and Saturday morning reading the papers, practically cover to cover, reveling in the fact that I had the time to do so, and also hungry for well..news haha. Basically, having the freedom to do what I wanted to do has been a very relaxing and enjoyable experience, and somehow, the past week seems to have lasted even longer than the last few weeks on Tekong, which is saying quite abit. However, I'm looking forward to what SCS has to offer in terms of fresh experiences, and I have to admit that the past week of freedom has left me feeling soft once more, so I probably need it as a wakeup call as well.
But now for more current matters. I'm feeling rather expectant about SCS. Don't get me wrong, the past week or so of block leave has been heavenly. Civilian life is awesome, and it's a reminder of what we sacrifice by serving NS. Got to meet up with friends, catch up, play, chill. The feeling of having the luxury of being able to sit around and do nothing, sweet, blessed nothing, extended stretches of nothing; if I wanted to, of course, is very liberating. I actually spent Friday and Saturday morning reading the papers, practically cover to cover, reveling in the fact that I had the time to do so, and also hungry for well..news haha. Basically, having the freedom to do what I wanted to do has been a very relaxing and enjoyable experience, and somehow, the past week seems to have lasted even longer than the last few weeks on Tekong, which is saying quite abit. However, I'm looking forward to what SCS has to offer in terms of fresh experiences, and I have to admit that the past week of freedom has left me feeling soft once more, so I probably need it as a wakeup call as well.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
That's how I'll remember you,
Eyes intent on the screen, almost eerie blue glow cast upon your face.
That's how I'll remember you.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't seem to feel much these days. The exuberance of POP could hardly last me through the day, not to mention the week. The prevailing emotions during my interviews early this week, besides the desire to prove myself, were ones of exasperation and irksomeness brought out by a certain line of questioning. And yet they weren't that intense as well, and faded soon after. Ditto for the disappointment of reality not meeting expectations, later on. I believe that somehow, that unofficial army ethos of "Suck Thumb" has pervaded my thinking, in a decidedly unhealthy manner. While it may be beneficial not to get too hung up over happenings, one cannot simply resign oneself to them, and even allow them to escalate and develop further. I can't/shouldn't have let myself think that there was no point arguing further, or that there was no point forcing the issue, that I should just let things be. I don't want to be such a dispassionate individual.
Just when I think I'm unbelievably cynical, something happens to make me realize how facepalmingly naive I can be at times. It's extraordinary, really haha. I really need to school myself more in the metagame of society.
Had quite abit of fun yesterday though (since I'm feeling pedantic about it) playing badminton with some of my sectionmates at CCK Sports Complex. I'm really not the sporty kind (no shit, Sherlock) but enjoy playing them; which is quite tragic I guess, but having fun is what matters, right? xP Had to run around ALOT to attempt to get to the shuttlecock for a return, and I'm still pretty much unable to return smashes, but it's very satisfying to win a point after a particularly hardfought rally; the fact that it didn't do much to mitigate the point difference notwithstanding. Well anyway, we checked our postings at the same time as well:
Was kinda expecting the posting so I'm neither elated nor disappointed. BMTC has given me some pretty good learning experiences and some tough times as well, but as always, the veneer of memory smooths over those bumpy portions very effectively. I'm looking forward to learning new stuff there! And not having to be subjected to an effective 1 month confinement is pretty comforting as well!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
And lastly, I think I've adjusted pretty well to my new house. Horrendous amounts of boxes yet to be unpacked aside, I'm relatively comfortable here. For some reason unbeknownst to me, my other siblings simply love to flock to my room, whether it's because they desire to revel in the presence of your's truly (if only other people felt the same way xP) or just because they don't want to climb the extra flight of stairs, I'll never know. But it's led to the common and honestly ridiculous situation where I find myself having to settle on the parquet floor (which isn't too uncomfortable); either that or having to poke and shove to create a sufficiently large space in the tangle of bodies for myself toslip barge my way into. Travel to and from the MRT station is simple enough; a short bus ride away, and the bus stop isn't as far from my front gate as I'd originally imagined. The Yio Chu Kang/Ang Mo Kio area is much more central, which has made travel less onerous I'd say; something I appreciate following this week's outings.
My com's been bugging me to allow it to install some updates, so I shall end here for today.
Eyes intent on the screen, almost eerie blue glow cast upon your face.
That's how I'll remember you.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't seem to feel much these days. The exuberance of POP could hardly last me through the day, not to mention the week. The prevailing emotions during my interviews early this week, besides the desire to prove myself, were ones of exasperation and irksomeness brought out by a certain line of questioning. And yet they weren't that intense as well, and faded soon after. Ditto for the disappointment of reality not meeting expectations, later on. I believe that somehow, that unofficial army ethos of "Suck Thumb" has pervaded my thinking, in a decidedly unhealthy manner. While it may be beneficial not to get too hung up over happenings, one cannot simply resign oneself to them, and even allow them to escalate and develop further. I can't/shouldn't have let myself think that there was no point arguing further, or that there was no point forcing the issue, that I should just let things be. I don't want to be such a dispassionate individual.
Just when I think I'm unbelievably cynical, something happens to make me realize how facepalmingly naive I can be at times. It's extraordinary, really haha. I really need to school myself more in the metagame of society.
Had quite abit of fun yesterday though (since I'm feeling pedantic about it) playing badminton with some of my sectionmates at CCK Sports Complex. I'm really not the sporty kind (no shit, Sherlock) but enjoy playing them; which is quite tragic I guess, but having fun is what matters, right? xP Had to run around ALOT to attempt to get to the shuttlecock for a return, and I'm still pretty much unable to return smashes, but it's very satisfying to win a point after a particularly hardfought rally; the fact that it didn't do much to mitigate the point difference notwithstanding. Well anyway, we checked our postings at the same time as well:
| Your Posting Order is listed below: | ||
| 1. | You are posted to | SCS & SWAS |
| 2. | Your vocation is | INF LDR(TRAINEE) |
| 3. | Your are to report to: | Pasir Laba Camp, Blk 276, #02-15 |
| Reporting Date/Time: | 17/04/2012 at 0800 - 0830 hrs | |
| Person to report to: | Chief Clerk | |
| Contact Number: | 64105597/5594/5533 | |
Was kinda expecting the posting so I'm neither elated nor disappointed. BMTC has given me some pretty good learning experiences and some tough times as well, but as always, the veneer of memory smooths over those bumpy portions very effectively. I'm looking forward to learning new stuff there! And not having to be subjected to an effective 1 month confinement is pretty comforting as well!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
And lastly, I think I've adjusted pretty well to my new house. Horrendous amounts of boxes yet to be unpacked aside, I'm relatively comfortable here. For some reason unbeknownst to me, my other siblings simply love to flock to my room, whether it's because they desire to revel in the presence of your's truly (if only other people felt the same way xP) or just because they don't want to climb the extra flight of stairs, I'll never know. But it's led to the common and honestly ridiculous situation where I find myself having to settle on the parquet floor (which isn't too uncomfortable); either that or having to poke and shove to create a sufficiently large space in the tangle of bodies for myself to
My com's been bugging me to allow it to install some updates, so I shall end here for today.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Monday, April 9, 2012
And it's over. 24km that seemed like it'd never end, each interval seeming much longer than Lt Kai Xun said it was, as left foot followed right foot, and right foot followed left foot, one in front of the other, legs extending, for minutes that stretched into hours. It wasn't so bad initially, while we were still relatively fresh.
And I say "relatively fresh" for two reasons, the first being that my sleep the previous night was disrupted on two separate occasions, firstly waking up to a trickle, something cold and wet on my left cheek, and instinctively reaching to feel it with my right hand, only to find that it had been layered with toothpaste. Getting up in a blur, and seeing some dark forms in our bunk, which resolved into the faces of one J L TAN and someone else after I had fumbled for and subsequently put on my specs. Grumpy and pissed; who wouldn't be, getting woken up in the middle of the night by such bullshit, and having felt decidedly unwell the day before too.., I got up, confronted him, and found myself smearing the remainder of the toothpaste on my hand over his face, before going to wash up and getting back into bed. Next, waking up again, to shouting in our bunk, and groggily feeling a burning sensation on my thighs. Toothpaste once more, this time by some Platoon 3 jokers who'd come up to cause havoc, messing up shoes, spamming powder. It was an uneasy night. The second being having to do area cleaning repeatedly, up to our PS' standards, while the rest of the platoons napped.
But as we marched on, it seemed to take forever to reach the next rest point, which seemed to require an inordinately large number of steps. As the night stretched on, it became a battle of wills against the Zzz monster; to not succumb whilst marching, and also while resting as well, as it'd be so much harder to resume marching if we were to fall asleep. There were stretches where I just kept mum, looked downwards at the boots of the guy in front of me with half-lidded eyes and walked; kept only on the brink of consciousness by Darren talking to Jonathan about his dating experiences at ECP and such stuff. I don't quite know what it was that kept me from falling out; fatigue had accumulated, and I'd been suffering from a cold as well, so not exactly at my optimum condition. Abrasions starting to appear despite the Leukoplast Kai Chin could spare me, and muscle ache as lactic acid built up faster than my legs could clear. So sleepy, bloody sleepy and tired that I just wanted to lie there and do nothing, hugging my rifle and leaning against my fieldpack. And yet each time Lt Kai Xun barked the command "Everything on!" that's precisely what I'd do. Not as fast as I could have been, perhaps, but I still did it. A matter of pride, perhaps, of wanting to complete the whole BMT package, and not having to suffer the embarrassment of telling my parents not to go down to the platform cause I fell out during the march. Or maybe I was inspired by everyone around me; encouraged by the fact that everyone was going through the same thing, yet were not about to fall out. John, who was unwell during the 8km segment yet downed some Panadol and resumed the march, and Zhan Xiong, who was on Attend B
yet came down of his own accord to join us during the Changi Coast Road segment.
The CBD, Singapore Flyer and MBS all contributed to an awesome skyline view, especially from the Garden by the Bay area. It all contributed to a visible lifting of spirits towards the end, where we had seemingly broken through the tiredness and lack of sleep and were looking forward to finally reaching our destination. It was damn irritating though, how the Flyer would seem so close, yet we'd turn away from it and march one big round, or how the Sheares Bridge seemed to be moving ever further away from us haha.
It was quite an ecstatic moment, as I flung my jockey camp into the air, though tempered by having to trace its trajectory through the air to catch it, put it on and resume senandiri position once more, to wait for my parents to pick me up. The reminder, I guess, that BMT is/was only the beginning of this SAF journey ><
A week of leave I have to myself though, a week as a civilian; though graced not only with all the freedom a civilian enjoys but also faced with the realities of outside life, having to prepare for my interview and admission test this week :/
Oh and about the tag in the pic, it's an inside joke xP
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Wonder how many were put off by the word wall hahaha. I never expected I'd write so much during just 2 shifts of guard duty, to be honest. Thinking it through though, I realize how strongly I stick to the principle of thesis, followed by anti-thesis, followed by synthesis. It hounds my thoughts, governing them, like dogs held to a leash, or perhaps more positively, like horses harnessed to a carriage, giving their wild energy direction and guidance.
It's strange. We go through school thinking that everything is pointless; just for show, yet come out with such habits of thought ingrained so deeply within us, ingrained so deeply that we don't even realize it. And perhaps that's the true value of a top class education. Prestige of going to a top school aside, it's the very deliberate process of drilling such thought patterns into our minds that we truly benefit from, allowing us to benefit from a macroscopic point of view!
Views from the Sentry Post
Just going to type out what I spent my hours at that sentry post working on; during my unfortunate guard shift. It's pretty lengthy, and in unedited form, with parts written as I struggled to remain conscious, so I don't expect anyone to read it in its entirety, or for it to be a good read. Call this a temporary escape from reality, with that blasted portfolio to prepare.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
310312 1822
The sight of birds, hundreds of birds, perched on the roof, beaks to the four poles. These birds lifting off simultaneously, coalescing in a feathery cloud, frantic flapping. It wheels and cavorts in the air, joyously, gracefully, and effortlessly, making its rounds around the spires of the cable antenna, wending through the rooftops, to settle down once again. An airshow exclusive; for my eyes alone.
An ant, impressive once more, strength concealed within its fragile frame, hoisting a winged creature of some sort with its jaws alone, not constrained merely to the horizontal but traveling along the vertical as well, making its gravity-defying way up along the guard house window frame. But with its frame so slight, and the corpse it bears (for it is a corpse, surely) so wispy, maybe its not such a herculean feat afterall.
A spider; an odd-looking one, more so than any I've seen before; not that that says much honestly, skitters across uncharted land. It pauses, occasionally, or maybe frequently, I know not. But even as it pauses, its mandibles work incessantly, moving in frenetic manner, one moment towards what I must presume is its mouth, the next, extending to touch that which it treads upon. What is it doing? I wonder. The movements look a little too deliberate, if a non-sapient creature could ever be accused of being deliberate, to not have a meaning behind them. Setting the foundations for a web, perhaps. And behold, the right foremost limb decides now, to partake in this most curious of activities as well. And yet, as it moves on, continuing its journey, there is no thread.
Why? Why do we use words such as journey? An implied beginning, middle and end; and if not end, then at least an intended destination, for I speak of course, of journeys that never reach completion. A meaning attributed where perhaps whence there was none. Over-compensation, perhaps, like how the deprived adolescent sees and hears innuendo in each thing he encounters. Hence Shang Hsuen’s epiphany, an emphatic declaration “Everything’s a phallic symbol!” way back in Sec 2. A lacking inside, the answer to which we hope to find outside, foolishly assuming that if we but seek hard enough, ask the right questions, that the answer will come eventually. And yet I can’t help but feel that the sensation of lacking only intensifies the harder you search, the longer the search extends, and if you don’t seek, you may never realize something is missing at all.
And still I choose pain. Forlornness over ignorance. The hollow; the mirthless, these laughs are mine, tireless companions on this journey of mine.
A cat, black as midnight (clichéd?), not-quite-emerald eyes (to turn the cliché on its head), stalks the footsteps of my prowlers as they make their way along their route, path momentarily passing my lonely post. Bad luck stalking their heels? Hope not. Amazingly lithe form though, legs moving in an effortless display of coordination as it leaps forth in bounds, muscles pumping under its fur, black lightning streaking across the field of grass in its pursuit.
And behold, an hour has passed, almost forty minutes, incessant writing, penning down, thoughts to paper. How strange I must look, to an observer, just outside. A green clad man, under cover from the elements, under cover yet he insists on donning that cap. A black watch he wears, rotating his wrist, ever-so-slightly, in degrees, all so frequently, what use would a man have for knowledge of the time so often? In the window he stands, doorway to his back – I call it a doorway but it’s more an opening, really, what’s a doorway without a door, afterall – windows open to his left, right and front; windows open yet down he looks. Rifle, B197, if my eyes don’t fail me, slung around his neck. Carrying a rifle, yet down he looks. A pen he clutches, and with this, he writes, writes about things he sees while looking down, writes about things he thinks about, while thinking about what he writes. What is the meaning of this? How could meaning possibly be attributed to something which itself is used to pass the time while doing something meaningless? The man stops. Has he finally realized his folly? No. Furtive glances around. Reaches into his left pocket and extracts his phone.
And now he resumes his lonely, and very distracted vigil.
To my left, beyond the gate I hold the keys to; have opened and pulled apart, ponderous weight, inertia rendering it both hard to set into motion and arrest; the inbetween being no difficulty at all, beyond that gate lies a sea of green; blue-ish tint cast by the clouded sky above. It’s hard to make out anything in particular, indistinct outlines blend into the approaching darkness. I see dark silhouettes against the blueness of the sky; skeletal, bushy, though even they are soon to vanish, devoured by the dark of night.
A cacophony, a thunderous roar, ridiculous, to think that so many small chirps could accumulate to something so much greater. It erupted, from nowhere, it seems, silence shattered in one moment of concerted noise. I willingly concede though, that perhaps, intent as I was on this meaningless endeavour, I may have subconsciously filtered out the noise.
Dark has fallen, in what seems to be mere moments. The winged creatures have emerged, flittering about on gossamer wings, that look like they’d fall off with the most careless puffs of breath; and indeed did, as I unintentionally discovered, much to my regret. They congregate in numbers, as they are wont to do, around the sources of light, as if seeking solace from the darkness, solace in these bastions of light. Much like myself, as I cower in my sentry post, to be honest. Yet I find myself disinclined towards sharing this outpost of mine with such unruly visitors, who annoy me to no end with the disregard for my personal space in their ill-disciplined flight routes. I turn off the white halogen light, to signal the end of visiting hours.
Now comes a visitor who I take no offence against. Reptilian; padded toes, obsidian eyes glistening, reflecting the street lamps. Abrupt its movements are, limbs flashing momentarily, in a great flurry, seemingly here one moment and there the next, without much passage, if any, through the interim. It doesn’t stay long, a flurry of limbs, and it’s gone again.
And so the second shift ends; with a going in the shadow of a coming, a coming in the shadow of a going, and all of it, it all shrouded in the shadow of purposeless.
010412 0023
And now begins the third. Dark has truly fallen, painting the land a coat of matte black. Street lamps struggle valiantly, and do have some measure of success, in collective effort, but strain futilely against the peripheral darkness, impenetrable to their greatest efforts. Rocky Hill Camp, I must imagine, a luminescent pearl amidst the darkness, as I imagine, is Ladang Camp. And between them, Tekong Highway, 2x street lamps erect on either side, silent sentinels along the entire stretch, or so I am led to believe, the shimmering thread connecting them, in this dark of night which carpets the land. All this I imagine, postulate, for I have not been graced with an aerial view, at night, and never shall. Postulations, handwavings in the air are thus all I have to offer you, which, if you but take the time to ponder upon, can’t help but wonder if those are all the halls of academia have to offer as well.
The winged creatures of yesternight have retired; for good or temporarily I know not, and care not, save being able to say with certainty that they are no longer here; no longer pestering my person so. My sentry post is bright, once again, and I am at ease, as much as a man in my predicament could possibly be at ease, anyways. Idle wondering. Those winged creatures, did they really do wrong? All they sought was solace in the light, solace in each others’ company, as they clustered and milled around. Their fragile, short-lived existences – for though I know not the exact fate of the ones milling about that particular lamppost, I know, at least, the fate of those I saw, eyes irresistibly drawn to, really, struggling on the basin top in the guardhouse toilet, struggling in what I deem to be their death throes – which could not, would not outlive the night. Did they really do any wrong? And now, not a trace has their being left, besides some minor annoyance to be washed away, look of disgust painted upon face whilst doing so. Perhaps, there is meaning to be found, meaning of the most primal sort, as the mate in the light, each generation a testament to that which came before, and they a testament to that which came before that. An organic will passed through the ages, a living testimonial to the existence of their forefathers. But even that is insufficient for me! When the earth finally terminates its orbit in the sun, and all upon it turns to ash along with it, what then? When the Wheel of Time finally, well and truly, grinds to a halt, having ground itself down to pieces, and those pieces ground themselves even finer, and so on, till naught is left, what then? What of this living testimonial then? Anyways, to have been on this planet from XXXX to XXXX is not the kind of legacy I’d want to leave behind, or be remembered for, accounting, of course, for the frailties of human memory which I shall not delve into at this point of time. Are we to be satisfied with this? Is this its meaning in full? The here&now, revelling in the light among multitudes, cowering alone in the dark in solitude, the flavours, distinct flavours, of these moments, replayed over and over, ad infinitum, a cassette player set on repeat, till the tape inevitably wears down and breaks. The answer is beyond me, has always been, will ever be, so it seems, will always lie beyond the confines of this impenetrable sphere of reality, which defies even my most valiant of attempts to pierce, to discern the nature of reality not as an agent of it, but as an observer would, from the exterior.
I tire now, of this thinking and writing, writing and thinking, so I think I shall think and not write, or write and not think; as I think about writing about not thinking, or write about thinking about not writing.
The night is quiet, human traffic minimal. Guttural grunts from the dark outside, of frog or boar or something else entirely, I know not. There is much I do not know, that I know, and can say with much certainty. Insects chirp, a night orchestra, and I am at peace. Even now, the feathered ones persist in their calling, though much more muted, then before, and I am at peace. A little tired, true, but peacefully so. I acknowledge the meaninglessness of this activity, so anything I can take away, the most minute of impressions, of the warm orange glow cast about the camp; rays of light appearing to my bleary eyes, of the play of light on tree, gentle shadows cast, all around, of everything I have noted herein, and everything I have observed without, all a boon to me. And presto! I have created something, from nothing, working the most wondrous magick of all. And when I get back I will type this, and you will read this, and sparks are created, once again, the striking of flint against metal, sparks in the mind. Whether a fire ignites, something truly lasting, that which lies beyond the material, in the realm of spirit, that I cannot say; will not say. But the sparking is enough, for me, here&now, as the green clad man writes in the little yellow book, the material melded seamlessly with that which is plucked out of the air, melded seamlessly and transcribed, tirelessly, left hand clutching the pen, the conduit which makes it all possible, ink flowing to paper, order given, meaning invoked, and where there once was a clean meshwork of cellulose fibres and coloured fluid packed uniformly into a tube; the fluid now lies enmeshed in the fibre; no, no, it is so much more, the whole greater, much greater than the sum of its component parts.
An outburst, the breaking of a dam, and now, after what seems like an eternity, gushing forth, yet can’t have been, as the watch invariably shows, finally, the pen rests, the paper rests, but the green clad man does not rest, no; the man – and I no longer shy from using the word “man”, after BMT – the man, he continues his lonely, not as distracted vigil.
And the last shift nears its end, as the yellow book, light yet heavy, laden with hours’ exertion and dreams, is kept, safely and securely, once again. And there is a going in the shadow of a coming, a coming in the shadow of a going, and in it all, whilst the shadow of purposelessness lingers, the go-er is content.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
310312 1822
The sight of birds, hundreds of birds, perched on the roof, beaks to the four poles. These birds lifting off simultaneously, coalescing in a feathery cloud, frantic flapping. It wheels and cavorts in the air, joyously, gracefully, and effortlessly, making its rounds around the spires of the cable antenna, wending through the rooftops, to settle down once again. An airshow exclusive; for my eyes alone.
An ant, impressive once more, strength concealed within its fragile frame, hoisting a winged creature of some sort with its jaws alone, not constrained merely to the horizontal but traveling along the vertical as well, making its gravity-defying way up along the guard house window frame. But with its frame so slight, and the corpse it bears (for it is a corpse, surely) so wispy, maybe its not such a herculean feat afterall.
A spider; an odd-looking one, more so than any I've seen before; not that that says much honestly, skitters across uncharted land. It pauses, occasionally, or maybe frequently, I know not. But even as it pauses, its mandibles work incessantly, moving in frenetic manner, one moment towards what I must presume is its mouth, the next, extending to touch that which it treads upon. What is it doing? I wonder. The movements look a little too deliberate, if a non-sapient creature could ever be accused of being deliberate, to not have a meaning behind them. Setting the foundations for a web, perhaps. And behold, the right foremost limb decides now, to partake in this most curious of activities as well. And yet, as it moves on, continuing its journey, there is no thread.
Why? Why do we use words such as journey? An implied beginning, middle and end; and if not end, then at least an intended destination, for I speak of course, of journeys that never reach completion. A meaning attributed where perhaps whence there was none. Over-compensation, perhaps, like how the deprived adolescent sees and hears innuendo in each thing he encounters. Hence Shang Hsuen’s epiphany, an emphatic declaration “Everything’s a phallic symbol!” way back in Sec 2. A lacking inside, the answer to which we hope to find outside, foolishly assuming that if we but seek hard enough, ask the right questions, that the answer will come eventually. And yet I can’t help but feel that the sensation of lacking only intensifies the harder you search, the longer the search extends, and if you don’t seek, you may never realize something is missing at all.
And still I choose pain. Forlornness over ignorance. The hollow; the mirthless, these laughs are mine, tireless companions on this journey of mine.
A cat, black as midnight (clichéd?), not-quite-emerald eyes (to turn the cliché on its head), stalks the footsteps of my prowlers as they make their way along their route, path momentarily passing my lonely post. Bad luck stalking their heels? Hope not. Amazingly lithe form though, legs moving in an effortless display of coordination as it leaps forth in bounds, muscles pumping under its fur, black lightning streaking across the field of grass in its pursuit.
And behold, an hour has passed, almost forty minutes, incessant writing, penning down, thoughts to paper. How strange I must look, to an observer, just outside. A green clad man, under cover from the elements, under cover yet he insists on donning that cap. A black watch he wears, rotating his wrist, ever-so-slightly, in degrees, all so frequently, what use would a man have for knowledge of the time so often? In the window he stands, doorway to his back – I call it a doorway but it’s more an opening, really, what’s a doorway without a door, afterall – windows open to his left, right and front; windows open yet down he looks. Rifle, B197, if my eyes don’t fail me, slung around his neck. Carrying a rifle, yet down he looks. A pen he clutches, and with this, he writes, writes about things he sees while looking down, writes about things he thinks about, while thinking about what he writes. What is the meaning of this? How could meaning possibly be attributed to something which itself is used to pass the time while doing something meaningless? The man stops. Has he finally realized his folly? No. Furtive glances around. Reaches into his left pocket and extracts his phone.
And now he resumes his lonely, and very distracted vigil.
To my left, beyond the gate I hold the keys to; have opened and pulled apart, ponderous weight, inertia rendering it both hard to set into motion and arrest; the inbetween being no difficulty at all, beyond that gate lies a sea of green; blue-ish tint cast by the clouded sky above. It’s hard to make out anything in particular, indistinct outlines blend into the approaching darkness. I see dark silhouettes against the blueness of the sky; skeletal, bushy, though even they are soon to vanish, devoured by the dark of night.
A cacophony, a thunderous roar, ridiculous, to think that so many small chirps could accumulate to something so much greater. It erupted, from nowhere, it seems, silence shattered in one moment of concerted noise. I willingly concede though, that perhaps, intent as I was on this meaningless endeavour, I may have subconsciously filtered out the noise.
Dark has fallen, in what seems to be mere moments. The winged creatures have emerged, flittering about on gossamer wings, that look like they’d fall off with the most careless puffs of breath; and indeed did, as I unintentionally discovered, much to my regret. They congregate in numbers, as they are wont to do, around the sources of light, as if seeking solace from the darkness, solace in these bastions of light. Much like myself, as I cower in my sentry post, to be honest. Yet I find myself disinclined towards sharing this outpost of mine with such unruly visitors, who annoy me to no end with the disregard for my personal space in their ill-disciplined flight routes. I turn off the white halogen light, to signal the end of visiting hours.
Now comes a visitor who I take no offence against. Reptilian; padded toes, obsidian eyes glistening, reflecting the street lamps. Abrupt its movements are, limbs flashing momentarily, in a great flurry, seemingly here one moment and there the next, without much passage, if any, through the interim. It doesn’t stay long, a flurry of limbs, and it’s gone again.
And so the second shift ends; with a going in the shadow of a coming, a coming in the shadow of a going, and all of it, it all shrouded in the shadow of purposeless.
010412 0023
And now begins the third. Dark has truly fallen, painting the land a coat of matte black. Street lamps struggle valiantly, and do have some measure of success, in collective effort, but strain futilely against the peripheral darkness, impenetrable to their greatest efforts. Rocky Hill Camp, I must imagine, a luminescent pearl amidst the darkness, as I imagine, is Ladang Camp. And between them, Tekong Highway, 2x street lamps erect on either side, silent sentinels along the entire stretch, or so I am led to believe, the shimmering thread connecting them, in this dark of night which carpets the land. All this I imagine, postulate, for I have not been graced with an aerial view, at night, and never shall. Postulations, handwavings in the air are thus all I have to offer you, which, if you but take the time to ponder upon, can’t help but wonder if those are all the halls of academia have to offer as well.
The winged creatures of yesternight have retired; for good or temporarily I know not, and care not, save being able to say with certainty that they are no longer here; no longer pestering my person so. My sentry post is bright, once again, and I am at ease, as much as a man in my predicament could possibly be at ease, anyways. Idle wondering. Those winged creatures, did they really do wrong? All they sought was solace in the light, solace in each others’ company, as they clustered and milled around. Their fragile, short-lived existences – for though I know not the exact fate of the ones milling about that particular lamppost, I know, at least, the fate of those I saw, eyes irresistibly drawn to, really, struggling on the basin top in the guardhouse toilet, struggling in what I deem to be their death throes – which could not, would not outlive the night. Did they really do any wrong? And now, not a trace has their being left, besides some minor annoyance to be washed away, look of disgust painted upon face whilst doing so. Perhaps, there is meaning to be found, meaning of the most primal sort, as the mate in the light, each generation a testament to that which came before, and they a testament to that which came before that. An organic will passed through the ages, a living testimonial to the existence of their forefathers. But even that is insufficient for me! When the earth finally terminates its orbit in the sun, and all upon it turns to ash along with it, what then? When the Wheel of Time finally, well and truly, grinds to a halt, having ground itself down to pieces, and those pieces ground themselves even finer, and so on, till naught is left, what then? What of this living testimonial then? Anyways, to have been on this planet from XXXX to XXXX is not the kind of legacy I’d want to leave behind, or be remembered for, accounting, of course, for the frailties of human memory which I shall not delve into at this point of time. Are we to be satisfied with this? Is this its meaning in full? The here&now, revelling in the light among multitudes, cowering alone in the dark in solitude, the flavours, distinct flavours, of these moments, replayed over and over, ad infinitum, a cassette player set on repeat, till the tape inevitably wears down and breaks. The answer is beyond me, has always been, will ever be, so it seems, will always lie beyond the confines of this impenetrable sphere of reality, which defies even my most valiant of attempts to pierce, to discern the nature of reality not as an agent of it, but as an observer would, from the exterior.
I tire now, of this thinking and writing, writing and thinking, so I think I shall think and not write, or write and not think; as I think about writing about not thinking, or write about thinking about not writing.
The night is quiet, human traffic minimal. Guttural grunts from the dark outside, of frog or boar or something else entirely, I know not. There is much I do not know, that I know, and can say with much certainty. Insects chirp, a night orchestra, and I am at peace. Even now, the feathered ones persist in their calling, though much more muted, then before, and I am at peace. A little tired, true, but peacefully so. I acknowledge the meaninglessness of this activity, so anything I can take away, the most minute of impressions, of the warm orange glow cast about the camp; rays of light appearing to my bleary eyes, of the play of light on tree, gentle shadows cast, all around, of everything I have noted herein, and everything I have observed without, all a boon to me. And presto! I have created something, from nothing, working the most wondrous magick of all. And when I get back I will type this, and you will read this, and sparks are created, once again, the striking of flint against metal, sparks in the mind. Whether a fire ignites, something truly lasting, that which lies beyond the material, in the realm of spirit, that I cannot say; will not say. But the sparking is enough, for me, here&now, as the green clad man writes in the little yellow book, the material melded seamlessly with that which is plucked out of the air, melded seamlessly and transcribed, tirelessly, left hand clutching the pen, the conduit which makes it all possible, ink flowing to paper, order given, meaning invoked, and where there once was a clean meshwork of cellulose fibres and coloured fluid packed uniformly into a tube; the fluid now lies enmeshed in the fibre; no, no, it is so much more, the whole greater, much greater than the sum of its component parts.
An outburst, the breaking of a dam, and now, after what seems like an eternity, gushing forth, yet can’t have been, as the watch invariably shows, finally, the pen rests, the paper rests, but the green clad man does not rest, no; the man – and I no longer shy from using the word “man”, after BMT – the man, he continues his lonely, not as distracted vigil.
And the last shift nears its end, as the yellow book, light yet heavy, laden with hours’ exertion and dreams, is kept, safely and securely, once again. And there is a going in the shadow of a coming, a coming in the shadow of a going, and in it all, whilst the shadow of purposelessness lingers, the go-er is content.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)