mental garbage

Hola! I've migrated over to wordpress. Do drop by and leave a comment!

www.altheawesome.wordpress.com

I'm not a writer nor a photographer - I'm a storyteller.

I'll paint you a story, write you a picture and weave an art of worded pixels. The world is my palette and through the canvas of words and pictures, i will tell stories so poignant the world will stop to listen.

So the weekend was awesome. The shoot at PF's place went pretty well and i'm satisfied with the quality of the pictures, though i think i'd stick to the 24mm instead of the 35mm the next time for the extra depth of field. Kristy was such a diva, but an utterly adorable one at that. The problem with family portraits is that it's so hard to filter out the photos during post-processing cos the kids are always so darn endearing in the frames.

The belated birthday party at Red Dot was nice. Close friends, not so awesome beer and lots of laughs. Am i the only one that thinks Red Dot beer tastes like long kang water?

I guess i was pretty disappointed with not making it to the top 3 for the Golden Point Awards. Well, i guess my story wasn't all that fantastic. It's funny how i don't/hardly write anymore, considering how passionate i was about it a few years back. I still love to create, but the words don't come to me now. Priorities change. Interests change. Now i just want to shoot more, build a portfolio and secure myself a lifeboat - in the event i get sick of this janitor's job and leave this forsaken place devoid of meritocracy and racial equality.

Would you be so kind as to let me tell your story?

An act of God, a violent shiver
Broken dreams and shattered bones;
a mangled mess of bloody matter
Blaring sirens and hysterical moans,
too many have met their maker.

Too often, too deadly -
China, Myanmar, Samoa, Indonesia
lives are heavened too suddenly
Let's do what we can, light a brazier
the victims need hope, desperately

And so i lament. I didn't win the $9.7 million Toto jackpot. There is so much i could've achieved with that kinda money - no more headaches over raising funds for the next wedding party, no more need to settle with 3rd party lens and an antique camera body and finally, the chance to see the world before this life passes me by.

Money.

I never used to think much of it. I aspired to be the passionate fool who would eat dirt off the curb so long as i stayed true to my calling. People change, i guess. I change. Priorities shift and now i find myself scouring forums and passing the word to secure myself more freelance writing/photography jobs to supplement my average income. Why? Cos money opens up a world of endless possibilities. It's not shallow to think that way.

It's called being practical.

The last two shoots for Angie and her sister went pretty well and i'm actually very pleased with the results. I guess those jobs gave me the gut to wanna go out and do more. But then arises the problem - competition. Well, not just plain competition but CHEAP competition. For the past few weeks i have been surveying the competition and they are sometimes decent, but mostly crap. Honestly, you can't really except to get much outta a $488-a-wedding-photographer.

So i price myself according to what i think i'm worth (and really, it's not a lot) and i find the inbox empty. Sure i've got some more jobs coming up through word of mouth but that's no way to sustain a constant side income. Don't get me wrong, i'm not lamenting. I'm just trying to kickstart this dead engine of passion before it becomes lost to the abyss of ennui and procrastination.

The results for the Golden Point Awards will be out in a few weeks and honestly, i really wanna win it. No just for the $5000 prize money, but more for the boost of confidence; the shot of self-recognition that i've been craving for like a fucked up druggie; the one important pat on the shoulder.

To picture or to write, whatever. I yearn to create. I need to manifest what i see in my head, even if the world does not understand. This is what makes me.

This is what keeps me alive.

LJ is kinda dead, no?

Those whose life stories i love to read no longer blog. Everyone's just tweeting these days.

I think i'll write a story in tweet language. If you would like to read the summarised version, just use tinyurl, that's one boomz application.

I'm very happy with the end product from Angie's wedding, much thanks to the awesome 24mm F1.4L lens louis lent me. No flash? No fret. Sweet piece of glass indeed.

Another random flicker of curiosity was all that was needed to get me writing again. I've stopped for a while - too long a while. But i guess it's always good to jump start the rusty engine of words once in awhile.

Photojournalism - its future, its viability and its challenges in this age of utter media saturation. I Googled my question and Eric Schmidt along with his trusty crew again provided the answers. As usual, there are the two different camps of thought. The dichotomy. The divide. The discourse.

Me? I think photojournalism will never die. Newspapers are dying, true. But as much as this technological age pits photojournalism against its arch nemesis Video, there are elements in a still image which will always enable it to stand on its own. I don't want to write a freaking essay on this but there is one key element which i think is the saving grace of pictures if all else fails. My friends, meet Poignancy.

Sure, everyone loves a good movie with powerful action sequences. We love action. We love seeing things as they happen. Unless we're going to be rapidly flipping a wad of pictures, we're never to experience the same sort of dynamism. But you see, what pictures lose in the form of a constantly moving reality is also its redeeming factor.

Much is lost in the ever-moving reel. Poignancy finds its habitat only in the stillness of the frame because inaction forces one to channel all focus onto the image at hand. Most movies have a poignant scene where everything goes into slow-mo or sometimes still action. With the right composition, lightning and subject, i believe a still image is inadvertently more powerful than anything.

There's a hell lot of focus on the multimedia industry now. Pictures and text and audio all create a three dimensional multimedia experience which defines the age we live in now. Some might say multimedia involvement is photojournalism's last ditch attempt to hold onto its legitimacy to exist, but i certainly beg to differ. This world's all about marketing now. It's about selling out, about giving clients what they want, about the need to generate revenue. After all, money does, unfortunately, make the world go round. So this new fad to multimedia, maybe it's here to say, maybe it's just a stepping block to something more technologically bizzare, we just have to wait and see. But the fact of the matter is that this is the way to go right now.

So that's the exact reason why pictures have to enter this collaboration with its neighbours of text, video and sound - currency. Let's not confuse survivability with the need to keep up to date with the times. Photojournalism is doing just the latter, because it will always survive. In-existence is impossible because losing the element of a still image in life is, to me, unthinkable.

Let's talk abit on the issue of newspapers. Sales are dwindling and people are closing shop as technology mercilessly ploughs through the rituals of newspaper reading. Fading into oblivion are the generations of people whom wake up in the morning and head straight for the papers and a cup of coffee. Everything is online now, even i, as much as i hate to admit it, get my news updates on the blackberry before i head to work.

The world is becoming an amazing, yet horrifyingly scary place to live in. Passwords after passwords keep us logged on to different online accounts. Everything is virtual now. The touch of the tangible is inevitably becoming a thing of the past. I find E-books, the latest recruit in the vanguard against the demolition of paper-made books, the final war cry before technology launches its final assault on the crumbling castle of our rudimentary rites.

But amidst all the fighting, pictures can still prevail. Everyone loves a good picture to match a story. Everyone needs to see something to relate to a news story. Still images are eternal, they are immortal.

Or at least that's what i want to believe.

So i'm tasked to document the proposal, not that i'm ever going to forget it but ho well.

11.34pm - I arrive at Char's place and after our usual smoke and chat at the staircase i decided to commence Operation White Bling. It was to be a purely covert operation with no one except one colleague knowing anything about it. So a little backgrounder: A few days before the operation i had this idea of place the ring within a book - you know, those kinda spy flicks when people hide their pistols in books...yeah you get the drift.

I need a hard-cover book because i was pretty convinced that anything flopsy would result in the ring falling through the pages even before i could spring any surprise. So i found a large hard-cover in the form of The Ground Beneath Her Feet by Salman Rushdie. Don't get me wrong, he's an amazing writer. But his style of writing is just too...longwinded for me. Lovely imagery and stuff but after a few chapters, you kinda get the GET ON WITH THE DAMN STORY ALREADY feeling.

11.35pm - Ring in place, i set out to deploy the decoy - an old picture of me and char. I told her something like "Hey i found this picture of us when i was still really really skinny".

She fell for it.

So target was ensnared in my decoy, and it was moments before she would see the surprise.

Not.

Target became too distracted and was yabbering on and on about how she used to be so skinny too. Then as i stood there in certain bewilderment, she just asked what the hell i was laughing at. Puzzled, she shoved the picture back into the page and closed the book.

ZOMG anti-climax.

Anyways, i demanded she open the book again and this time round, she finally saw the bling nestled in the little cubic crevice. So i followed protocol - kneeled and asked the question and she laughingly agreed. Doh.

At least the ring didn't fall out of the book.

It's 2.25am and i'm exhausted. I only managed to pull off a 3-hour nap after my overnighter so i really dont understand why the heck im still awake. Insomnia eats the mind, again. Char's sleeping now and she's probably going to be shocked when she reads im sitting in her computer room typing this blog entry. Argh why cant i sleep??

So anyway the story's done, much to my amazement. I hadn't been able to write anything since like 2 mths ago and for the first time ever i actually managed to just churn out words, as forcibly as it was, to form a somewhat coherent story. I'm glad 80% of the piece is fresh, in the sense that it was written for the first time. I initially planned on tweaking an old piece for submission but as it turns out, i ended up doing a major overhaul.

I've waited for this competition for 2 years now. I'm not harbouring high hopes of winning anything but hey, i guess i could eventually look back and say i did it. I mean, what's the point of waiting 2 years for this and not submit a single word? doh.

I think i'd better go TRY and get some shut eye. It's going to be a long day tomorrow.

But maybe after i scout for a replacement lens on CS or eBay....

Tamron 17-50 or Canon 17-40? ARGH

Fuck.

I'm sorry but that's as far as i can go with thinking of a modern day cuss word. Yes, that's how constipated i feel. It's almost as if all the vocabulary i have learnt throughout this twenty seven years have been sucked dry by a vacuum set on dismembering my ambitions.

Four days to the submission deadline and i'm stuck with a blank palette. Zero. Nada. Zilch.

Oh god, what's another good word to describe emptiness?

Maybe it's the environment, the phase in life, the state of mind. I don't know, words don't come to me anymore. Well actually they do, but they sure don't make any sense at all. You see, writing a story isn't just about stringing words together to make a grammatically coherent sentence.

It's about the storyline, the tease, the build up and the magnificent climax. Everyone loves a good orgasm. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand and you fall into the abyss of a serene obliviousness for those few precious moments.

It's not hard to get a hard-on. Excuse me, i mean "to start writing". I mean, i can write a story about how an apple met an orange anytime, but the fact of the matter is that it won't quite be a story, no? I'm trying desperately to recall how i started writing back then in university, when I was seemingly as powerful as Magneto from X-Men. Words, phrases, puns and metaphors flew to me at the simple exertion of my will.

I stare at the blank screen in front of me, channelling my utmost concentration toward the keyboard. I type, i type harder, i type like a madman on a mission to convince the nurse that he's really quite sane. Two minutes later, Miss Backspace comes along and i practically fall in love with her, much to the dismay of all the other lovely alphabets i've made swoon over me.

I'd probably have more luck shooting myself dead with an empty revolver than getting a story out by Friday.

So someone, please, shoot me.

Random spurts of ingenuity, of resplendently creative ideas, of hope that the one important epiphany would occur...and then...

Nothing.

2 weeks till the submission deadline and i can't bring myself to write anything new. Maybe i've lost it. Maybe it was just a naive facade.

No time to fret anyway. Wedding preps.

ZOMG i'm getting married.

Afghan refugee children play in the Kochi refugee camp on the outskirts of Karachi February 12, 2009. There are two million Afghans in Pakistan, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) said. REUTERS/Athar Hussain (PAKISTAN)

I'd buy happiness if i could. I'd pay anything to wear those smiles and feel the infinite lightness within those innocent souls.

I am happy. I have a decent-paying job, a loving mate and a group of insane friends whom i've known for 10 years now. But as i sit here and weigh the pros against the cons, which eventually enabled me to make the decision that yes, i AM happy, the fact of the matter is that there ARE cons.

Adulthood comes with responsibilities. It also comes with an inevitable decay of our morals, our previous ideals, our humanity. We learn to be cruel. We learn that selfishness is sometimes the only way to survive. We learn that morality is nothing but bullshit set up by society to instill an arbitary truth to life.

We learn too much. So much so our innocence fades with every new bit of knowledge about the world. The more we pride ourselves in being worldly-wise, the closer we get to the realisation that the world is a cesspool of hatred and chaos.

The less we learn, the more intact our bubble of innocence is. I want to be reborn; i want to feel the unrivalled magnitude of happiness that only an unadulterated innocence can bring.

I want to be just like these children.

Marcie Lane, the wife of late Master Corporal Scott Vernelli, salutes her husband's casket while carrying their daughter Olivia, at Canadian forces Base Trenton, March 23, 2009. Vernelli died in Afghanistan March 20, 2009 along with Corporal Tyler Crooks, Trooper Jack Bouthillier and Trooper Corey Hayes. All four soldiers were killed by improvised explosive devices. REUTERS/Fred Thornhill (CANADA POLITICS CONFLICT MILITARY IMAGE OF THE DAY TOP PICTURE)

........................

It was a pretty boring nightshift with nothing that caught my eye except this gem. I just stared at it, cringed, smiled and paid a silent salute to Master Corporal Scott Vernelli. This picture just holds so much emotion within - strength, sorrow, honour, love...etc.

Poignant.

Absolutely poignant.

I've always had a certain fascination with clouds. And just as i was taking a break a few minutes ago, i looked up and was awed by the sight of an absolutely immaculate cloud formation.

I don't even know how to start describing it in a way that could possibly serve justice to its beauty but within the spatial constraints of the language i'm confined to, this is it.

I'm guessing "fluffy" would seem too frivolous a term to describe something so magnificent (and too stereotypical for that matter). So maybe i'd go with a metaphor. A portion of it resembled wraithful fingers, gently curling as if trying to grasp something - perhaps it was hope it wanted to hold onto, for in this world so devoid of compassion and unadulterated selflessness, the one thing we need to so cautiously and delicately envelope is that. As i'm sitting before the computer now, i see pictures of the Pope in Italy departing for Africa. To some, he's the closest we'd get to the Messiah. And now the Messiah is heading to argubaly the most war-torn region in the world, where decades of bloodshed and atrocities against humanity have been perpetuated by the one of most sinister yet rudimentary desires - power.

Another portion resembled a silky, intricately threaded scroll with one end spiralling outwards, as if dissipating into the lush blue hue of an infinite canvas. A scroll, a documentation of laws and rules, the arbitary voice of an "objective" reason which is quintessential to the maintenance of sanity in this reality. Defiance, human nature, the need to subvert - the scroll is gradually being unwoven. Rules are being redefined, democratic ideals are being absorbed into the nothingness, lives are changing.

Then there was that spectacular, disjunctured streak of a white javelin streaming across the blue sky. It was broken into several parts, though these portions were still lined to maintain its ultimate integrity - our dreams and aspirations, only effective, only whole, only sharp enough to pierce the often impenetrable armour of fear and failure when we're able to muster enough light.

So many thoughts, so much to behold, so little time to appreciate. I headed back to my desk, and this is my account.

The world,
our life,
our dreams

are beautiful.

If only we take some time to look around.

Cab rides are always an adventure.

From the reckless drivers packed with road rage to the kind, ever-so-polite to the lively chatterboxes - there's always something about this medium of transport that gets you thinking and feeling.

A couple of months ago i got into a cab after my morning shift. The driver seemed like a quiet, pleasant person until the moment another car cut into his lane. Consumed by an unfathomable rage, the almost deranged yet outwardly calm driver tailgated this apparent nemesis for a good five hundred metres of so, highbeaming him as they went along. Then came the inevitable drive past when the driver would stare so meanacingly at the other person.

Today, it was the nice chatty uncle. He had allegedly gone to take a piss at the nearby garbage dump when my taxi booking came up on his monitor. He hit the 7-9 minutes button, arrived at the block 4 minutes early and was taking smoke. As i approached, i signalled that he should finish up his cigarette, since those little sticks these days aren't all that cheap anymore. But he very energetically greeted me and stubbed out.

There are two kinds of chatty cab drivers - one that would entertain you with incessant chatter about his life, the world and irritating ERP gantries. Then there's the other - the angsty ones, type that curses the system and laments how tough their jobs all. I personally prefer the former because the latter annoy me with their self-indulgence.

The uncle today spoke to me for the entire cab ride, about the usual ERP gantries (of cos, it's a must-have topic), the overhead bridges where traffic police officers love to camp at, his son, a pilot, who had so fortuitiously secured a HDB upon his very first ballot but even more fortunately that it was before receiving his "wings" (else he would've had to settle for a condo because of his salary cap) and how i should approach my MP and shower him with absolutely acceptable white lies so as to get myself ahead of the HDB queues. He was hilarious, to say the least, when his lively and somewhat loud persona took a turn for the mellow when he received a call from his wife, which he exclaimed was a "spot check, she want to make sure i'm not out sianing char bo".

So at my destination, he returned me my change and laughingly wished me luck with my HDB applications. It felt sincere and honest. It was a good cab ride.

It was yet another 20-minute adventure i won't forget.

Cautiously sipping a 1998 pinot, which cost a staggering seven hundred dollars, i asked my long lost friend about his meteoric rise to success in the trading industry. Actually, i wouldn't quite consider him to be a friend, more an acquaintance, of whom which i had this accidental drink with. All i could remember of Keith from twenty years ago was that i didn't like him, a single bit. He was the tyrant in class, constantly lurking in the shadows before launching a cheeky assault on fellow boys, pulling their pants down as the girls screamed in hysteria.

Being the scrawny boy i was, i never stood a chance at the taller, stronger Keith. After Primary 1, we never did make it to the same class again, thankfully. So a fateful twenty years later, my best friend Noel, reacquainted with this brute of the past via business dealings, decided to initiate a get-together - only for him to back out at the last minute because of "domestic" issues.

So i was stuck with Keith, now a person most would consider filthy rich, as he had so generously demonstrated when he ordered a seven hundred dollar vintage red to START the night with. I reeled in anxiety as to whether i had to eventually go dutch. Devious plans brewed in my head, now a cauldron of one too many wines (i'm not a good drinker), before Keith asked about my occupation.

There was this sense of arrogance in his tone, and for a moment i saw the past -- my pants down, in the assembly hall, girls screaming, Keith laughing.

"I'm a feature writer for a magazine" i replied calmly.

"A writer? Man, you guys don't earn much do you?"

"No we don't, not really".

"Well if you're ever interested in joining the industry i'm in, feel free to give me a call" Keith reached for his namecard, during which he made great effort to flaunt the gaudy gold specks on the edge of the card.

Yes, gold. Genuine gold to be exact - sprinkled by his manufacturer as part of his intention to "give a little something to my friends". Could things possibly get any crazier?

I quickly reverted to my question about his success, throwing him the fundamental journalistic rules of the 5 Ws. I'd rather he kept on yacking about himself than me having to make conversation. Afterall, i could simply tune out.

As i smiled and ever so attentively nodded away, i thought about the deadlines for next week's travel feature on Bhutan, the upcoming performance review, the incredible durian ice cream i had last week and whether i remember to feed my pet chihuahua Maya.

Just then something within snapped as i heard him utter the words, "You see, i'm a fighter, ever since young, i've..."

"Fighter", The word resonated in my head repeatedly. Then, i felt this overwhelming urge to break my silence.

"I've had so many setbacks. I've lost hundreds of thousands on forex, almost mortgaged my house and sold my Lambo, so i know..."

"Nothing" I interjected.

Keith went quiet and squinted curiously at me.

"You know nothing. You call yourself a fighter and yes, indeed you are one. But do you expect me to treat you with some sort of reverence? Well go screw yourself. Fighters, fighters, yes this world needs more fighters. We need more to perpetuate the fight against evil, against the infidels, against the infinite problems that plague society. You guys sure are a resilient lot. You never give up. But know you know? I think you're sad. You're pathetic. You're nothing but slaves to your egotistical crusades. You need to win. You need to overcome all odds, so much so it becomes an obessession. But you don't realise that once you've started the fight, there will be NO final triumph. Yes, you can emerge victorious over certain battles, but the war will never be won. Never. You see the insurgency in Iraq, in Afghanistan? It will never cease, because the chain has been started, and the flames of it is continually fanned by the Americans and muslim extremists. Until the day BOTH parties decide to just stop fighting, blood will continue to flow, bombs will continue to drop. It takes a collective effort to just stop, look the other way and move on. Once someone starts fighting, the other will respond, inevitably. Then it all begins. And that's what wretched world is today. It is a battlefield. A fucking battlefield."

Keith stared at me with his jaw hanging.

"You probably don't understand what i'm talking because you're just ignorant, you pig. All you care about is fighting, no? Fighting to make yourself a success, fighting the war that you think will eventually get you into Forbes. Oh come on, everyone just needs to learn to breathe and walk away. Just walk away goddamnit."

And so Keith stormed off. I caught my breath as i realised i had actually finished the bottle of pinot while blabbering. But it was ok, i was happy high and it was good riddance that Keith left anyway.

I never liked him anyway.

And i hated him even more when the bill came.

So it seems that irony has once again made a cameo. I used to grimace at Sel whenever he told us he was watching Gossip Girl, along with the many other US television series. Now, i'm pretty much hooked onto the show, on the grounds that it is a piece of modern literature (who am i kidding?) and that it boasts an excellent, witty script.

Maybe it's all about the fear of growing old - that i need to imbue myself with a renewed sense of youth simply by watching this show about a bunch of kids living the opulent life.

Maybe it's all about the innate, silenced desire to live the life of the cast. To be able to spend freely without a care in the world; to be decked in designer wear; to be able to snub the "lesser" minions of society.

The plot is simple - ordinary boy and rich pretty girl get hitched and everything else just kinda revolves around it. The show is a mish mash of Desperate Housewives/Veronica Mars/OC and what have you. It's an interesting collage that doesn't overdo things and the plot doesn't get too outta hand and melodramatic. Well, at least i think so. Ha.

It's funny, this whole thing about growing old. Every tick of an age we draw closer to the next pitstop in life, so arbitrarily decided by society, of course - get married before 30, get a car/house thereafter, get a kid (make one, rather), send kid to school, kid finds a partner, i interrogate the bugger or buggeress...and it goes on and on.

I feel like there's so much more to life than just following this set of predefined steps. I wanna travel, take pictures, write, sing and lose myself to the ethereal lifestream. I know i'm still young, well, relatively. There's so much more time for me to acheieve that certain greatness i seek but then one has to realise that age means nothing - it is nothing but a number, a useless indicator of how long you've lived. You may be 18, with decades more to live, with a seemingly abundant headstart to go do something with your life. Afterall, life expectancy rapidly increases with the advancement of technology, doesn't it?

Then come tomorrow, whilst walking home, a branch snaps from its place 20 metres above and comes falling down, only for you to thwart its suicide. And that's it. Game over. It doesn't matter whether you're 1, 18 or 50, death comes for you like the merciless harbinger it is.

We don't have time. We are but hapless puppets of this opera show of life. So we are taught to live vicariously because the infinite amount of rules in life shackle us to decrepit customs and faux values.

So Gossip Girl is my conduit. And i ain't ashamed to be proud of it.

You know you hate me because i utter the truth.

XOXO

A good conversation is like a thrilling ping pong rally.

We serve up a conversation starter and our opponent responds with his swiftly calculated reply - a downspin, a snub, a topspin, a chuckle. The exchange then continues with each individual meticulously planning his counter move, whether to embark on the offensive or to defend himself behind a fort of impenetrable slices. Ideas ping pong off one another, and like a thrilling match between two skillful exponents, the ball hardly goes out of play. The conversation gets carried to a new level - one which leaves the audience breathless, on their toes, and all they can do is anticipate the sudden surge of euphoria or disappointment when one party drops the point.

The powerful forehand smash evokes an acute reflex reaction from the other. Refusing to be beaten, he carves out a witty answer and dishes it back at his opponent. Taken aback by the intensity of his defensive tactics, the opponent cautiously returns the violent downspin with a move to neutralise the wit. He senses his opportunity and counterattacks with a shot to the weaker backhand and the opponent can do nothing more than frantically save himself with an even weaker reply - a harmless statement that displayed ignorance and feigned confidence. He waits no longer, and finishes the point with an unassailable smash. The opponent smiles, acknowledging his exposed weakness.

Livejournal or blogging has become a thing of the past. Either that or i've lost the need or inspiration to write anything anymore.

2009 started well with the parties that were thrown at Club Normanton. Nothing beats spending happy times with friends you've known for 9.5 years. Come May/June we'll be celebrating 10 years of knowing each other. I think that's one heck of feat - being able to maintain such relations with people, putting aside differences, embracing the similarities and just learning to love and respect.

It's been 10 years since we were 17. It's been a very, very long time.

Alot of people i know don't even keep in touch with their friends from ten years ago. Even if they do, it's the sporadic reunions where they get to catch up. This extraordinary bunch of people i know meet up almost every week. For drinks, for smokes, for the unfallible yet unspoken comfort that laces each casual gathering.

Ten years down, more to come. Priorities have shifted, personalities have developed and our weights, well they definately have seen much change.

The boys paid a visit to Zouk on Wednesday, somewhat eager to check out the Mambo crowd. The sight that befell us suggested the economy was nowhere near a recession - dozens of well-dressed patrons in their early early twenties swarmed Winebar and if not for the fortuitous presence of Colin's colleague, we would've had to content with standing around with our beer jugs.

Times have changed, as we began to realise. The youngsters these days are all perennial fashionistas, well, most of them at least. They spot funky hairstyles which we normally see on most Hong Kong superstars. Many boys seemed toned and fit, a result of the wohle gymming trend that's proliferating society in this day and age where health matters take the driving seat.

So there we were, a bunch of 26-30 year old men, comparatively under-dressed for the occassion, chugging our beers instead of the fancy cocktails and speaking of how these kids were flagrantly spending their parents' money in this time of recession. Hey, wait a minute.

We were once like them too.

It felt somewhat good to be able to spend my own money. It was a subtle feeling of liberation, of independence. But earning your keep also means having to save for the "natural" progression of life - marriage, kids, a car, a flat.

It's all too daunting even though we're full fledged adults but i guess somehow, we'll all eventually learn to grapple with it.

Anne sat by the edge, hands outstretched behind her, head left to hang loosely as she faced the sky. It was a beautiful night, a starry sky and a full moon partially obsecured by thick, foam-like clouds.

She blew little circles of smoke into the air and stared hard into them. It was fascinating, the guile movement of the smoke - how it seemed to move with such fluid grace, forming a circle and then dissipating into the night sky like a mysterious ninja.

There Anne was, twenty four storeys up, feet dangling off the edge. She loved the feeling. There was surge of a certain liberation as gravity gently tugged at her feet, as if asking them to reach down a little further. Anne had not felt such tranquility since the recent spate of events - her parents disowning her, being expelled from school, her boyfriend leaving her and the fact that she was four weeks pregnant.

It was all too much for a barely mature mind. After all, she was merely sixteen. All those things she read about "sweet sixteen" in magazines seemed like such a lie. There was she, sitting on the ledge of a perceived reprieve, more than a hundred feet in the air, and she felt no sense of how sixteen could possibly be sweet for anyone.

Thinking back, the memories brought about so much anguish; one that was intangible yet so real - as if like a pain that was never meant to be felt. But she did, she felt it, and it was cutting through her, slowly, sadistically. She could've sworn she heard the heavens laughing at her.

Ben seemed like the dream come true. He was everything, if not more, than what she had expected of a boyfriend. Anne always knew it was somewhat silly to hold expectations that could only be fulfilled by boys similar to those seen in Korean drama serials. Those were too reel-life - they had complexions of dolls, personalities so "nice" and yet they exuded such machoism. Anne had it all, or so she thought, with Ben.

He was real, unlike the nice boys on television. He had a temperment, which made him seem so sexy at certain times, and on the other hand, a gently loving side. She remember how he made love to her - candles, their "song", gentle kisses upon her soft, supple skin. It was as perfect as it could've be. Anne remembered giggling to herself when she imagined how they would push the baby pram down the nearby park, occasionally exchanging kisses as the sun set behind them.

Then it all came to nothing. It happened so fast Anne could not even begin to piece the events in chronological order - the trip to the doctors, the result, her parents yelling and then Ben's sudden ignorance of their entire relationship.

It was as if the Gods had wrenched every bit of control from her, shackling her with the cold, unforgiving steel of fate. Anne felt like a ragged puppet of fate, tossed around by nonchalant will of the Gods. She was just another toy; another soul tortured for the amusement of some greater, unconceivable being.

She remembered seeing blood splatter across the living room. Anne's mother pleaded with overpouring eyes as her husband punched her repeatedly. When she laid on the ground, clutching her head in agony, the brute sent a merciless kick to the abdomen. Then, silence.

"It's YOUR fault! What have you taught this useless daughter? Nothing!"

Those words, they seemed to have been branded into Anne's mind.

She felt her sanity scream.

Anne could not think of anything else she could possibly exist for. The man of her fragile dreams bailed, her mother was in hospital, her father was in lockup after the neighbours had called the cops, and here she was, accompanied by nothing but her tears and the minute fetus inside of her. Delivering the child into such a life was surely in itself, an unforgivable act of cruelty. She would end all this right now, a favour to herself and her unborn child.

After all, she knew there was nothing she could do. She was just a
sixteen-year-old with no school, future and family to lean back on. Anne thought long and hard before lifting her hands from the railing, leaning forward with eyes closed. She knew the distance between her and the cement floor twenty four storeys down was the final journey she ever had to embark on before a salvation for her pain. It would just take a second to edge herself off, another four seconds of life before she nullified the joke that fate had decided to deal her.

Anne inched herself off the edge, centimetre by centimetre her bottom left the solid surface of reality. As she slowly orchestrated her demise, Anne looked up to the skies and cursed.

"Why did you leave me like this God? You didn't give me a choice...i am powerless."

"...powerless."

Anne felt her lungs cramp and she fought to breathe, even though a part of her questioned the very need to fight. Afterall, she was about to end her own misery. But it was not hesistation - the weary girl had lost every will to breathe and the promise of a less barren pasture just seemed too good to pass on. It felt like an evolving epiphany, as if a great emancipation was struggling to break free from its shell of a determined self-demise.

There was something Anne had to hear, and it was knocking furiously on the doors of her soul. She fought even harder to breathe as nausea set in. Something had to come out for this hard message to sink in.

Noises could be heard from the ground floor, where a group of onlookers began to gather. The wraith-like figure, silhouette by the moon, suddenly tensed. Then she relaxed, and then moments later tensed up again, as if attacked by a series of violent convulsions.

Then there was a sudden jerk, a loss of balance and a thud.

Anne groaned as a sharp but ephemeral pain flashed aross her skull. She shook her head, as if warding the pain off, then stood up and staggered toward the roof exit.

She then realised her suicide attempt was in itself, a demonstration that she did in fact have the power to choose - life and death, the ultimate elements, she held them.

She always did.

If that was so, then there was no reason why she could not change anything else.