Time crawls, in the tank shed, hydraulics pumping as the bridge goes out and in, out and in. I've pretty much burned a 'video' of the launching and retrieving sequences into my memory; visualizing what's supposed to happen next in my head before confirming it as I see it play out IRL, over and over again.
I remember staring at the back of the L2, where the exhaust vents are, belching out hot air that leaves shimmering heat waves - visible I guess cause of the non-uniform variation in refractive index the heat creates in the air - and staring too at the wavering shadows they cast upon the ground, as I entertained the most random of thoughts. Wondering whether it's possible to become invisible, by wrapping a cocoon of hot air around yourself that sufficiently redirects the light, and the associated problems and solutions, such as creating an inner cooler layer of air as well, to avoid being steamed alive. Not a very efficient method I suppose, since it'd get blown away by the merest gust of wind. Oh well. At the very least such thoughts do keep the idle mind preoccupied.
Sleep, in a way, is like a uni-directional time machine. You fall into it, and without any perception of 'time' having passed, you wake up to a new day, a world that is subtly different, yet distinctly not the world you'd departed the previous day. Pretty neat, eh? And in my distracted woolgathering, I started to think about Sleeping Beauty; was she not then the first time traveler? Wouldn't it be interesting if instead of ending with a "And they all lived happily ever after" after being awoken with the magic kiss, the story continued, the female protagonist having to adjust to a world hundreds of years in the future, with her beau-to-be facing charges for sexual assault and them having to work for an honest living in a society which no longer believes in royalty. Culture-shock, basically. Somehow I doubt the transition would be as smooth as Captain America makes it appear to be.
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A particular highlight of the week was the Nee Soon guys joining us at Gedong for their motorization phase, where they learn to deal with the Broncos, while we do our own stuff. Felt damn shiok to meet up with Section 1 once again, just sitting in the bunk and talking cock, laughing my head off at Benedict's reenactment of a particular altercation with Raphael, and of something that happened during his stint as Sect Comm. I feel really lucky that we're still treated as part of the platoon despite having been posted out. Haha I look forward to some lively post-RO nights in the coming weeks. As an aside, I'm beginning to suspect that I have some sort of in-built propensity towards phail, but I'll leave that for later.
Signing off~
Showing posts with label Shameless woolgathering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shameless woolgathering. Show all posts
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Sunday, April 1, 2012
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.
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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.
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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.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Is it time to say that I really liked that TVB drama "No Regrets"? XD
Heh, just being random here.
Was thinking a little about the idea of "place" earlier. You know that people are having difficulties, kinda empathize and want to help out. But sometimes; it's just not your place to do so. Yeap, not much else to say about that; just an intense feeling that I experience sometimes. I can't be the kind of person (and I know a few) who can operate in disregard of all these kinds of things and just do whatever they feel like doing. Find myself limited in so many ways; find my thoughts getting in the way so often, there's a tendency to over-complicate things. Can't help it though.
Watched Green Lantern last night/this morning with my father (source unrevealed :D). Pretty standard fare; brings me back to those English lessons in Pri Sch or at Morris Allen, (don't remember which) regarding storycraft: So you have a new sheriff in town (that's the example I was taught with), he settles in, a bandit raid on town is hinted at; he defeats them during the climax, everything winds down, story ends. To add a little spice - and allow for a sequel :D - maybe at the end, you have the sheriff looking out into the desert, and over the horizon, a dust cloud rises...dun dun dun DUNNN. One of the only things we learnt all those years back which has retained its relevance even till now xD
One of the lines I liked was something about fearlessness vs admitting that you have fear and facing it. (Fear being a pretty impt issue since it was about the green light of "Will" versus the yellow light of "Fear", with Fear "eroding Will and making their constructs weak") Shall not proceed to over-analyze this line as I usually do; and instead, state this little opinion of mine that in a similar fashion, Good is not the lack of evil; but rather recognizing the evil within us and overcoming it ourselves instead. Maybe I have a bias; cause I find myself to be chock-full of evil; and it's always been a constant struggle to not let myself be ruled by it. I prefer to think of it as the human condition, btw; not sure whether any of you would disagree with me. And I'd like to think that I'm not utterly bad xP (Note that I'm choosing to clearly delineate between good and evil to make this easy; a huge grey area exists in between, of course)
Heh, just being random here.
Was thinking a little about the idea of "place" earlier. You know that people are having difficulties, kinda empathize and want to help out. But sometimes; it's just not your place to do so. Yeap, not much else to say about that; just an intense feeling that I experience sometimes. I can't be the kind of person (and I know a few) who can operate in disregard of all these kinds of things and just do whatever they feel like doing. Find myself limited in so many ways; find my thoughts getting in the way so often, there's a tendency to over-complicate things. Can't help it though.
Watched Green Lantern last night/this morning with my father (source unrevealed :D). Pretty standard fare; brings me back to those English lessons in Pri Sch or at Morris Allen, (don't remember which) regarding storycraft: So you have a new sheriff in town (that's the example I was taught with), he settles in, a bandit raid on town is hinted at; he defeats them during the climax, everything winds down, story ends. To add a little spice - and allow for a sequel :D - maybe at the end, you have the sheriff looking out into the desert, and over the horizon, a dust cloud rises...dun dun dun DUNNN. One of the only things we learnt all those years back which has retained its relevance even till now xD
One of the lines I liked was something about fearlessness vs admitting that you have fear and facing it. (Fear being a pretty impt issue since it was about the green light of "Will" versus the yellow light of "Fear", with Fear "eroding Will and making their constructs weak") Shall not proceed to over-analyze this line as I usually do; and instead, state this little opinion of mine that in a similar fashion, Good is not the lack of evil; but rather recognizing the evil within us and overcoming it ourselves instead. Maybe I have a bias; cause I find myself to be chock-full of evil; and it's always been a constant struggle to not let myself be ruled by it. I prefer to think of it as the human condition, btw; not sure whether any of you would disagree with me. And I'd like to think that I'm not utterly bad xP (Note that I'm choosing to clearly delineate between good and evil to make this easy; a huge grey area exists in between, of course)
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