I apologise if some parts of this post do not sound altogether coherent, or are even grammatically incorrect (O! The horror!).

While lying awake in bed with nothing better to do than to reflect on life and life's great problems (tried thinking about determinism and such other great philosophy concepts but I kept getting off track - the more analogies I tried to draw up to understand the concept, the more the concept slips away from me. I swear that the ancients simply enjoy working complex issues into even more complex sentences to torture lesser beings a couple of centuries later. First comes the figuring out of the language, then after the language you gotta figure out what the hell they're talking about... fun, yes, on a lovely afternoon, fanfiction-less, but very much sweat-inducing and sleep-chasing at 3 a.m.). Ahem. It seems that I have managed to meander about the subject without actually coming into contact with the subject matter.

Okay. I was in bed, yeah? Let's return to that. I don't look particularly ravishing in bed or anything, but lemme get to the point. So I was reflecting on my writing and the various ills of my writing attempts recently and my lack of talent and shameless purple prose, then one thing led to another and I thought back on the feedback given to me by various teachers + well-meaning people who have read my work and given me feedback.

The general consensus was that one: my language was complicated. Two: my concepts aren't helping any. Three: My characterisation, or lack thereof, was piss-poor. Technically they did not say the third, but my Arvon tutor more of less implied it, and I do agree with her. The only 'gift' of mine, if it may be termed that way, is my way with imagery, and nowadays I don't even have that.

So now you see the nascent link between my earlier seemingly desultory ramblings of philosophy and my writing.

In short, Good imagery + convoluted writing + near ostensible lack of plot + poor characterisation = purple prose.
Then, the most recent development: cheesy imagery + bad metaphors + nonexistent symbols + putrefying characterisation + no plot at all + no emotion + trying too hard = Stephenie Meyer.

Oh no. I'm turning into her. *rips hair off and screams like a banshee*

Now you know why I am so bloody miserable. Writing was all I had to distinguish myself, a part of my identity. I took pride in it. "I'm a writer, and a failed poet," I would announce proudly to whoever I met. "That's why I'm different. That's why I have crazy ideas and want to try them out. That's why I meander off sometimes and stare at people and their smiles and frowns and bad hairdos. That's why I stay up at unearthly hours in the morning to blabber. That's why I use such odd words to express myself, and have an strange opinions.

You'd think that I would feel right at home with a group of fellow writers. Oddly enough, I didn't. I felt like a nervous thumb sticking perpendicular to a fist, a bump on the road, a curve in a spine. I felt like my lips were melting, or perhaps they were sewn on in thick, controlled stitches like patchwork dolls. In short, I felt even more out of place, even more an oddity, even more useless and undeserving of whatever I've managed to achieve. I have an inferiority complex a mile wide and an ego made of plastic containers bought at the dollar store. At first glance it looks sturdy and perfectly normal, able to withstand normal pressures, then you pour hot water in to sterilize it first before readying it for the cocktail of life there's the smell of melting plastic hooking its fat fingers into your nostrils and the bottle is a little bent, a little warped, never quite the same despite the damn hot water being there for a few seconds.

I have a lot of cause for blame. I know I shouldn't be whining about it like a petulant five-year-old who's denied ice-cream before dinner, because there are people out there with fates worse than mine, like abused spouses and child prostitutes and muzzled whores and the many people out there with relatives in hospitals. People with AIDS or cancer or some other animal disease gnawing at their eyes and voices. I know all this, but sometimes being mature is kinda difficult. Something has got to give.

You know when you're a kid looking at mummy or daddy or watching those movies you'd think how glamorous it would be to be an adult - no supervision, being able to walk to the local cornershop without someone tagging along, earning your own money, voting, marrying, falling in love, buying a car, buying whatever you damn well please. Movies and adults, sadly, don't really show the tedium of being one. The neverending bills and work and more bills and taxes and hungry mouths and a marriage, maybe dying or soaking up shadows of people's insecurities, things people throw in closets and lock them there so they don't have to deal with it now, but eventually they run out of space and everything comes spilling out. No, movies don't show that - even prisoners of afganistan or russian spies, in movies, are still amazingly beautiful and they somehow get their happy ending at one point.

I'm tired I guess. Part of it is physical, because I really should be sleeping but my brain is like this hamster which overdosed on crack and is still hallucinating lovely dreams of purple afternoons. Some of it is borne from frustration - frustration at how stuff you imagine never quite turn out right when you apply it to paper or onto Microsoft Word. Characters which refuse to walk off the plane of your mind and slip into neat rows of characters (pardon the weak pun) and spaces, instead ambling off like a past thought and burying themselves somewhere in the graveyard between subconciousness and forget-ment. Forgetment sounds nicer than forgetfulness and forgetting and forgotten, anyway. It's like the process of forgetting, but past tense since the present is the future's past (I probably sound like an idiot) but less past than 'forgotten', which is a definite. Nevermind. I'm confusing myself too.

Perhaps my age is an advantage. I'm not too sure how many people look back to their teenage days and wish for it, but it's still a pretty crucial growing period. Since I'm in this minty stage I might as well use my perspective to my full advantage and capture the prevalent sentiments of hope, of fear as well as impetuosity of teenagers. I think I know why most of my writing failed. I failed because I did not fully understand the issues I was writing about - huge, life issues like love (bloody difficult to define and capture), hatred and family. Rootedness. Responsibility. Lust. Sure, if I'm a good enough writer I can fake it, but I find myself lacking. I find that the pieces I wrote on a subject matter I've had the opportunity to examine up close and lend my own perspective are actually my most successful, and not those where I tried biting off more than I could chew. Teenage jaws are still in their formation period, I guess. My jaws are too small, I can't bite into the core of the matter, the glistening, golden bead every poet wishes to touch and present in their cushioned stories.

I guess it is only when you, as a writer, as a person, understand an issue, then you can properly teach or share your perspective. It wouldn't do to come off as brash and ignorant.

I need sleep.

I had a nightmare last night.

The term 'nightmare' is quite a misnomer -- it can happen any hour of the day, morning or early afternoon, in between lessons in the creak of gears in your teacher's voice, or hiding under the hoarse throat of the overhead fan as morn turns to noon. Or it could be sneaking under the intangible static under the clouds, that magical moment where night ceases and day begins.

For my nightmare to occur precisely between the time of 0715 to 1345, it pretty much proves that the nightmare in question is of another league. The contents of the nightmare itself, having occurred during normal operational hours of non-lazy humans (i.e. anyone who is not a slob a.k.a.
me, slob extraordinaire) has made it more real than the mumblings of sweat-filled sheets in the dark. Real enough to occur in life itself.

I would say I was never so relieved to wake up, but that would be a lie because I had once dreamt of dying when I was seven and when I woke up I held my breath for as long as I could so I can feel the burn in my lungs and tell myself that I am alive, and not dead but alive in some weird alternate dimension. Besides, dying in sleep has got to be one of the most pathetic, though least painful deaths ever. If I die I hope to be drowned under a sky pouring down torrents of money, (preferably of whatever currency that's the strongest at the moment) or hot gold or chocolate. But I figure I wouldn't be very happy dying that way because for the thing you like to be the cause of your death is probably going to be very traumatic, and I'm going to die with a newly-minted trauma, which is so...I'm rambling again aren't I?

Anyway, let's move on to the contents of the nightmare, shall we?

In my dream those people who had scored extremely well for O-levels had the honour of receiving their results early and having their names announced to the general assembly. The setting was largely informal, but everyone was (oddly enough), attired in p.e. uniforms. I was glancing down my class when the principal, newly bald, went up the cardboard stage that had been set up for this very occasion, it seemed. I remember the setting was moving, like a mirage, sometimes beaming the image of the polluted cchms lake, sometimes of another town square in a foreign land. Anyway, he skipped the speech and went straight into announcing who did well.

I didn't recognise any of the names, or the faces that lit up with joy, but I was still waiting in expectation when the final name was read out to a volley of cheers before all went silent. Then I heard the talking.

"Where're the RP people?"
"No-one from MD or LY was called out..."
"Funny, they did well in prelims didn't they..."

I was swept along in the general confusion when the vice-principal ascended the stage and spoke (in surprisingly good English).

"I know you might be surprised that your favourite candidates' names were not announced. However, contrary to speculation, RP did not do very well. I would once again like to remind you that with hard work, you can displace anyone. Congratulations to candidates who have done well."

Somehow time had fast-forwarded to the day of results collection, and I glanced down at the results slip in my hand...and was shocked at the number of B's I had. Seven.

Then I started panicking, and I woke up in sweat.

Whoever coined the phrase 'woke up in cold sweat' was obviously lying because I was sweating profusely and it was goddamn hot though both the fan and air-con was on, and sometime in my
sleep I had kicked off my blankets.

When I woke up, it was 1400 exactly. My mind was clear, which is a pretty strange phenomenon in itself because normally I would have the brain capacity of an ostrich on cocaine when freshly awoken. I had the misfortune to mentally recap the papers and how badly I did and was almost convinced I was going to do very badly for every paper. Like get a B for English and English Literature, a B for Chemistry and Physics.

Somehow, in writing it down, the nightmare feels more real. I'm honestly terrified. Most of my dreams are quite prophetic, with some coming true in a weird, uncanny way. Like me visiting places I've never gone to and then visiting reality's replica of that place a few years down the road. Or seeing repeats of situations I find in dreams.

Thankfully, so far, all my nightmares of the apocalypse coming in form of trolls and combusting suns haven't come true yet. I'm pretty sure that trolls don't exist. However, considering the number of times I've dreamt of being trapped in an elevator, getting lost in a mall, traversing an unfamiliar road looking for something, I think something bad is going to happen, and soon. These dreams are more likely to happen in real life, but I'm hoping that I won't get trapped in an elevator. The suffocation and claustaphobia and the sudden drop of the elevator when the cables are severed is no fun.

Now you, my friends, know why I 1) really loathe thrill rides and 2) Refuse to enter an elevator on my own.

I hope the other shoe won't drop on my O-level results.

You know, this waiting and anticipation is a form of torture. I remember reading an article last year about an experiment proved that the wait itself is actually more terrifying than the pain.

The experiment went like this: a few victims were chosen. They had the choice to choose between getting an electric shock at any time, or getting a shock at a higher voltage, only that this time they know when it's coming.

Most people (can't remember the exact percentage) chose getting a shock at a higher voltage.

The experiment showed that it is not pain itself that we fear, but the unknown. The wait for an unknown pain. The constant fear and worry and trepedition. On a sidenote, that's how battles are won: keeping the enemy in a constant state of worry and stress. Psychological breakdown.

This is exactly what's happening to me. I am the person sitting in a comfortable armchair with one arm coiled with wires, waiting for the shock. I do not know when it will come, how many seconds exactly to wait. I have to constantly brace myself aginst the shock, and be reluctant to relax because of the fear that the electric shock will come when I'm all self-assured and confident I am safe.

I know I won't fail. I can't fail. No one is stupid enough to fail O-levels.

I'm afraid I can't live up to be what I think I was. My own expectations. My friends'. My family's. Afraid of the string of B's. When I examine it from every angle I am pretty sure of the B, even though my heart if telling me it can't be that bad.

I don't know. Ultimately, hope is a good thing, enabling us to push through and live another day. Giving us a reason to live.

Hope also destroys the perfectly-laid foundations for the walls you've hidden behind to protect yourself from yourself and your ambition.

A while ago, in the thick of exams I was lamenting that there wasn't enough time. Enough time to study, enough time to really memorise and get everything crystal clear like how I envisioned taking my exams in a blaze of knowledge and poise when I was in Secondary One, disappointed with my PSLE aggregate but determined to prove myself once more.

Now, I'm afraid, there's too much time. Too much time for regrets and calculations and artifices where I could've done something better or chosen this option. Too much time before I am proven delightfully wrong in my assumptions that I would do badly or graviously right. Too much time to speculate and open old wounds.

I have my options now. I have to prepare a safety net. A list of colleges that will accept a failure. Or just damn everything to hell and live in the moment before I get bogged down by responsibilities.

Looking back on my post, I realise that seven is a recurring number. Seven is a number of magic, from what I can remember, along with thirteen. Or was it three? No, three is a holy number. 4 is, unaminously, a number of forboding.

Here's to hoping that the recurring sevens in my life spell out a blessing.