Thinking Soldiers Think

It is only in recent times that the phrase ‘thinking soldier’ has ceased to be an oxymoron. The entire idea of soldiering evokes images of medieval men in tin helmets rushing mindlessly into storms of arrows. Taken even from a somewhat more modern context, one cannot help but picture battalions of cannon fodder charging forth in wave after wave of green/grey, only to end in a shocking shade of maroon. The First World War itself is a prime example of the prevalent military philosophy of the time—a time when using a bigger hammer was the solution for all strategic conundrums. The characteristic wars of attrition are but testament to a mindset of massing, where quantity was king, and where critical assessment and thought of the average foot soldier was abandoned in favor of unswerving loyalty, dogged determination, and sheer brute force.

The structure of a military organization is built in such a way that the twin towers of discipline and obedience form its very foundation. The concept of having ranks, commanders and superiors was formed on the basis of creating order, and as a result, improve the efficiency and effectiveness of the organization as a whole. All this thus enables the issuing of orders and the subsequent execution of these orders in double-quick time, theoretically resulting in optimum efficacy. Behind every order and command comes the underlying assumption that the commander has himself given a great deal of thought to his course of action and all possible contingencies. In other words, the commander has himself negated the need for the foot soldier to consider the situation himself—“many intelligent and experienced people up the ranks have already given it sufficient thought, so this must be the best course of action”, was probably a common sentiment at the time. And even if it were not, deviant thought was suppressed as being disobedient and hence, going against the values of the organization as a whole. In such an organization which flourishes on its efficiency at getting things done, where then, is the need for the soldier to examine and assess his orders? Orders are, after all, orders.

However, in the conflicts of late, such a mindset has begun to reveal leaks in its plumbing, and the cracks are becoming more and more evident. 9/11, the Bali bombings and the like aren’t evidence of an enemy who fights with drunken fists. In the face of a thinking enemy, how can we not position ourselves as a thinking army? And if that is true, what better way to mould the military is there than to reach out to its soldiers? The face of battle is changing, and so must we. In order to go about doing this however, we must first establish the characteristics and makings of a thinking soldier. A thinking soldier is one who receives his orders, then puts it upon himself to carry out his orders in the utmost professional manner, and in a manner most suited to the circumstances he is in. He is the multiplier, he is the catalyst. With him, a relationship is formed between him and the commander. A relationship in the sense that the commander is able to trust that the orders he has given will be carried out by the soldier in a manner most suited to the mission. The thinking leader, together with the thinking soldier represent a new age of cooperation, of communication. In these times, efficacy requires more than just speed and blind execution; it requires both critical thinking and shared understanding. The thinking soldier takes what he has been given, and makes it better.

There is a fear, nevertheless, that the rise of the thinking soldier brings with him an age of deviancy. The once utterly revered concept of rank is now seemingly under assault. What if the new-age thinking soldier contests his orders? What if disobedience and ill discipline run rampant, as soldiers ‘critically assess’ their commanders and find them wanting? These are the concerns which surround the issue of producing thinking soldiers, and they are very much valid ones. If such anarchy were to erupt, the entire purpose of creating greater efficiency in the military organization would have been defeated.

It is thus imperative that we approach the development of thinking soldiers and leaders with special care. We are not out to create a culture of contention. Rather, increased cooperation is what we should seek. The thinking soldier thinks and assesses not to challenge out of audacity, but to augment the process and outcome of his mission. It has once been said that we think, and therefore we are. In light of that, and in the hopes of creating an ever more effective army, let us do just that.

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NB: Written for some reflection thing we were asked to write. (Gasp, the army actually requires essays!)

More NB: You might have been somewhat distressed by the sorely out-of-contexted Descartes quote there. Or if you are a normal, sane human being with even a semblance of what they call 'a life', maybe not. Nevertheless, for the sake of clarification and the appeasing of my obsessive-compulsive virus, here goes. Cogito ergo sum ("I think, therefore I am") refers to the existentialist idea where one 'proves' that he exists through questioning his own existence. And there we have it, the not-so-very-fun fact of the day.

The Glass Box

There comes a time in life when you get out of bed and find that nothing at all seems different in the world. You go about the usual activity of brushing your teeth, eating your breakfast, watching the telly like you usually do; things which you have grown both accustomed to doing and accustomed to liking (some say that the brushing of teeth has a host of hobbyists, and that they are proud owners of their very own clubhouse by Hougang). And yet, somehow something seems different.

Realisation, at this moment, doesn't quite come upon you as a falling piano would. Rather, it creeps up on you like the fall of darkness as the sun makes its ponderous journey westwards. While everything seems to be happening in a manner which things happen, you find their presence somewhat less tangible, their character less discernible, their existence less felt. Your senses grow dulled, and you pace the room in search of an answer.

Then it hits you. Quite literally in fact, for the answer is a large thin sheet of fiberglass. You scramble along it, searching for an escape, but all you find is the circumference.

This, is the Glass Box.

You throw frantic blows at the sheer face of the Box, but it yields no more than a dictator bent on conquest. Days are spent devising ways to break free--thinking out of the box, however, fails to produce a solution, for it merely proves to be but a flight of fancy, a fruitless escape for the mind. Yet, the person, the body, the soul cannot leave, for fiberglass is both man-made, and too good for man's own good.

Weeks pass, and you discover that the Box has shrunk, almost to fit your very person. Now more resembling a film of cling wrap than Plexiglas, it clings to your skin, every much as debilitating as before, save that you are now left able to interact in some manner with the rest of the world. Such is why so many believe in adaptation and evolution.

This by no means signals improvement of experience; for colours still lack their vibrancy, food forsakes its flavour, and you hold objects as one who dons heavy rubber gloves--unable to detect texture, unable to move deftly, unable to feel warmth.

You, being human, then come to the most logical of conclusions: that escalation and intensification are what is needed--that if all else fails, use a bigger bat. You consciously ramp up your efforts at achieving sensory experience in order to be moved, to feel. So you eat more, you ran farther, you dance faster, you play harder. All this in the spirit of neither hedonism nor self-destruction, but of desperation. A desperation to escape, a desperation to exist.

Some say that the Glass Box disappears with time, for man is the master of adapting and overcoming. Others maintain that the Glass Box is but a season of winter; one which arrives, chills the bones, then leaves, all part of the myriad seasons of life. Yet others believe that the Glass Box simply does not exist, and is but a construct of our own--an affliction cast upon us when we fail to see beyond our shortcomings and circumstance.

Many have devised ways to melt the castles of ice, to shatter these walls of glass. Some find inner strength, some find escapism, some find the counsel of friends, some find a life philosophy, some find religion. Nevertheless, the Glass Box will always be, for we are human. Even so, this is not to say that there is no way out, for one need not necessarily think out of the box to escape it. It, in essence, is really up to you to find your way. And in time, we all do.

Another Kind Of Green

Green is the colour of envy. And the colour of pea & brocolli soup--though that's not quite the topic of today's post. I know this because my cookhouse serves food which has a look and texture quite like the latter, and also because I have been both a participant and witness of the former.

Considering how it's always been said that the clothes maketh the man, it should probably come as no surprise then that if you were to don green for a good five days of the week, you would not only give off vibes of a certain sort of vegetable soup, but you'd also inevitably start to get more chummy with our good friend, jealousy. It's something that's unmistakably prevalent in your daily activities; probably the most prominent of the lot would be the envy those in green have of those of the outside world, in their ted bakers and ben shermans. A host of other instances come to mind: a weary and disillusioned trainee covets the carefree and unterrorized life of an out-of-coursee; a disappointed infantryman bemoans his lowly caste, all the while eying his dream exotic vocation (that's you, rarely-seen-after-fives); a dejected young chap mulls over how he didn't make it to the cadet school he'd been hoping for; a member of the aforementioned cadet school who abjectly resents his thirtyish hours of freedom. We all know at least one of these people, for it is most likely that we ourselves are one of them.

As those who are unfortunately afflicted with this curse of emerald, are we then subject to two years of lamentation and loss? Such a question begs an answer, but we all know that sometimes, we just don't have the change.

Yet, some possibilities present themselves:

To those who are religious, you can hold your ground, knowing that where you are now is the best place for you to be. Someone knows full well what you are going through, and this Someone has placed you there for a purpose--a purpose you might not be aware of, but a purpose which you can look back and be unashamedly proud of.

Even if you aren't quite the pope's best mate, it by no means compromises your ability to gain from your pain. As patheticly romantic as this may sound, there are times when you can't help but notice that you've developed in physique, in character, and as an individual. It's amazingly paradoxical, in fact, that while during your time in green you gain a greater sense of self, you are also led to learn the virtues of selflessness.

Such are sentiments you need not necessarily share, no doubt, but you can be assured that there is still hope in the trenches--a hope that there is still significance of where are you now, a hope that there lies some value in what appears to be a foolish waste of time. It is a hope which, while arguably idealistic in its slant, provides us with the possibility of discovering meaning in where we are now.

As humans, perhaps one of the most pressing needs we have is the desire to find meaning in life, and in what we do. It is truly my hope that you come to find for yourself this profound signficance in where you are now--be it as part of a divine Plan, or simply the potential value of your experiences.

Maybe in time we can all safely say that

I don't need another kind of green to know,

I'm on the right side

***

Editor: Speaking of which, as I was thinking about what to write on my bus home, it started to drizzle. In keeping with the macho spirit of a guy in green, I decided to brave the rain despite my converses (which in their messed up state probably have more hole-in-ones than tiger woods). Anyway, knowing my golden luck, it started to rain cats, dogs and various other forms of livestock, and I tried making a quick dash home. Yet even with that act of gusto, I was well and truly soaked. I couldn't help noticing though, that I somehow found the whole thing rather humorous (as did this jogger who I ran by, though she was probably laughing at my sorry state), something which I probably wouldn't have found quite so were I not a member of the Being Uncleansed For Multiple Days Whilst In The Jungle Association.

NB: Ahh I know the are lyrics completely taken out of context, but it's just too brilliant a line to not use.

Crisis

I have lost the ability to write.

Let us never lose the ability to think.

Of Quarantines And The Failure Of Logic

So here's the beef (or, well, the pork): we have this little bugger called the Influenza A virus subtype H1N1--which we affectionately call H1N1 for short--running around our little island infecting everyone it can, in a passionate attempt by demonic forces in the hopes of bringing about an early armageddon. Usually, these hellish fiends would be banished with ease by the holy triumvirate Panadol, Paracetamol and Vitamin C. However, it appears that this time the diabolical schemes of the netherworld are showing signs of innovation to the effect of marginal success. The essence of its accomplishment can be said to lie in the sheer stealthiness that this mini-Mephisto adopts in its spread ; the crowning glory of our good friend H1N1 presents itself as none other than the 7 day incubation period which it leaves in its infectious wake.

The genius in a plan this devious lies precisely in this 7 day period of uncertainty. In these 7 days the common populace becomes utterly overwhelmed by the dually destructive nature of the virus:

1) The silent assassin creeps from victim to victim, and each knows nothing of how he abets the murderer in claiming another, for one can act as a carrier even before symptoms present themselves. This is a particularly clever trick, as the virus avoids detection until the time comes where it is too late to adopt corrective or preventive measures. A smart move and one point for H1N1, for it brilliantly exploits the reactive nature of humans; people only take action if they detect outward manifestations of illness. The thing is, unlike conventional illnesses which insist on first making their presence known before proceeding to harrass passersby (not unlike a boisterous drunk in a bar), this bug simultaneously searches out other victims as it subtly drains the life out of its target at hand (or a gold digger, as kanye would put it). Dangerous, huh.

2) A cloud of suspicion thicker than haze from Indonesia begins to form as the general populace begins to point fingers (also on occasion, 'finger' in the singular). Since no one knows who could be a possible carrier, every person who clears his throat or blows his nose suddenly gets stares as if his name begins with a Mas and ends with a Selamat. It is in this atmosphere of fear that something far worse arises from the fires of Hades (and this is the magic of it all, that the devils who crafted this disease could foresee what was to come): Quarantines.

"And what makes you say that?", you might be asking.

***

Let us try to analyze the effects of a quarantine of a hypothetical scenario involving specimen "I":

Background: Specimen 'I' is given home quarantine for having been in contact with one who has tested positive for H1N1. Since this is still within the 7 day incubation period, the underlying rationale for this quarantine would be to hinder the further spread of this virus.

So now we have two possibilities:

Possibility One: 'I' does not have H1N1

Possibility Two: 'I' has H1N1

If Possibility One were true, then these 7 days would be a complete and utter waste of time, for specimen 'I' has just been left at home to watch reruns of Days of Our Lives for the fifteenth time in a row in a sorry bid to pass the time.

Now let's assume Possibility Two; that specimen 'I' does have H1N1, but is not showing any symptoms yet. Specimen 'I' then stays at home, where he does not head out to public places, and hence does not come into the relative proximity of specimens 'Members of the Public'. However, due to the limited area in containment unit 'Home', specimen 'I' instead comes into markedly more close contact with specimens 'Family Members'. Due to the very nature of containment unit 'Home', specimens 'I' and 'Family Members' are left little choice but to reside within the same walls and breathe the same air.

Due to the airbone nature of virus H1N1 and the close proximity of the two specimens, it can be seen that the chance of infection for specimen 'Family Members' increases dramatically. However, it has already been established that even if one were to catch the virus, the 7 day incubation period would be such that in the event that specimen 'Family Members' were to contract the virus, they would nevertheless still essentially be none the wiser.

As specimen 'Family Members' are not issued with home quarantines, they are thus able to venture forth from the confines of containment unit 'Home', to other facilities such as 'Work' or 'School'. The limited confines of these two containment units then places specimen 'Family Members' in close contact of specimen such as 'Others'. It can thus be hypothesized from statistics already gathered that virus H1N1 will eventually be transmitted to these specimen.

This hypothetical scenario thus presents, analytically and scientifically, the proposition that the act of quarantining members of the public who have come into contact with patients with confirmed cases of H1N1 is one which, while appearing to be highly civic-minded, ultimately proves to be utterly and completely pointless in light of preventing the spread of H1N1--an ultimately ineffectual strategy residing under a facade of organization and professionalism.

***

Such is the calamity that we face today:

An epidemic engendered by micro-organisms, but propagated through panic.

The crisis lies not so much in the threat that this virus poses to us, but rather the danger we pose to ourselves

Weekend Warriors

The concept was simple, the strategy straightforward. It was the plan which would bring in some dough on the side, without me having to actually step inside a breadshop. Or so I thought.

Oh how wrong I was.

***

Flashback two weeks to a sleepy bunk on the island of what we shall call, for the purpose of retaining both its anonymity and my clean criminal record (military police are all inherently sneaky buggers), Stekong. A soldier sorely laments over how the grass not only seemed greener on the other isle, but also contained markedly less people in pixelated prints. The soldier finds himself unable to be completely at rest, and yet a state of alertness evades him as his muscles scream silent rebellion. His eyes gaze towards the ceiling, and as metaphorical thought bubbles make their way casually towards the sky, this is what we see: a spirit subdued by the banalities of the week; senses dulled by sheer lack of stimuli; philosophical questions such as "I wonder what's for lunch?", and the like. And yet, amidst these we catch a tiny glimmer, a quiet flicker of hope for the Friday which is to come.

For Fridays signify his weekly genesis; his ritual fresh beginning, his breath of fresh air, his lease of life, his shackles unbound, his tabula rasa (you knew it was coming). Well, it isn't quite a new birth of biblical proportions, but rest assured our soldier's feeling mighty fine.

He has served his time the better of five-sevenths of the week, and he'll be damned if he wasn't going to spend the rest of it actually living life.

But let this not be just about the military--the daily grind's a battle in its own right, and one also heretofore unrivalled. Our hearts go out to the nine-to-fivers as well, for we empathize with long bus journeys and even longer ez-link top-up receipts. It is for these valiant individuals--individuals dedicated to taking the lemons that they get for freedom, and making not just juice, but sherberts and whole assortments of citrusy goodness--that theviewfromhere would like to honourarily recognize, for their testament to life, living, and everything in between: the Weekend Warriors.

For your very own Aide Memoire to the Weekend?

Read all about it, after the jump.

Weekend Warriors:

http://weekendwarriorsonline.blogspot.com

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NB: I realised I never really mentioned what the money-making plan was. Well, to put it simply and in a nice footnote-friendly bite-sized piece, let's just say that I don't quite deem my online ravings as yielding evidence of any potential editorial prowess just yet. So it's probably safe to say things'll be sticking to the blogosphere for now

Edit (14/6): Apologies, I haven't uploaded the latest content to WW just yet, but I promise it'll be up soon. Check back in a bit!

Regeneration And Cure

I had such plans for what I'd do on my first bookout; entering civilization for the first time in two weeks should technically have involved immersing myself completely once again in what I was deprived of while wasting away on some remote (a debatable point, really) offshore island.

There was even a procedure to divorce myself from that world and to marry right back into the world which people who don't don green as their perennial garb usually live in; a process which involved a multi-level, targetted approach of associative substitution. Meaning, I swap everything even remotely army-related for a much more appropriate alternative with connotations of a free life. 

Namely, my monstertruck glasses get traded in for my mangled and self-repaired pair (yes, the one with the splint, scotch tape, masking tape and a topping of black permanent marker); my belligerent pants get swapped for bermudas of non-triangular geometry; my broccoli-inspired shirt leaves the building, and one of less obvious vegetable-derived origins takes the stage; my stage wagon for a backpack gets pawned in favour of my coupe of a sling.

Alas, the only exterior piece which I fail to replace in this little transfusion is that obstinate black forest sprouting on my head (no, cakes and confectionery do not actually take to my scalp). In a desperate bid to complete the civil civilian image however, a green jockey abdicates for the likes of black suede cap.

And this completes the transformation. Not quite worthy of enlisting the likes of Shia LaBeouf and Megan Fox, but it's good enough for me. Though I admit Megan Fox would've been nice. Oh well.

But I digress. It so happens that booking out on a Sunday night, while an amazing feeling in its own right, also meant that in the larger scheme of things, people were either at work or in camp. And with that understanding, all possibilities of hanging out eventually dissipated. As I spent the better part of the day mulling over whether to head out, I came to realize that it would've been merely busying myself in the hopes of keeping myself occupied. Nothing much would've been achieved, other than filling up the space-time void. Sure, I could run a few errands--my bank account needs to be checked, I have yet to get a couple of army stuff, and the hunt for a new pair of glasses is on, but I reckon that checking them off my list of things to get done wouldn't quite have scored many points on the satisfaction charts.

And it was in this passive and ultimately unreactive state that I sat around the house and exercised lethargy. Perhaps this was the sort of rest I actually needed--not quite the sort of escape you'd conventionally think of (it's not the Maldives, you're not actually going anywhere). Rather, maybe it was the sort of retreat that doesn't take you away, but instead takes you in. Maybe your soul's telling you that you shouldn't be taking off, you should be taking stock.

Or maybe all that's a whole lot of bull, and I just managed to somehow come up with a way to rationalize away my time-wasting. Oh how this post vascillates.

The notion that army takes hold of your life and subsequently puts on hold everything you'd originally sought to do never seemed ever truer, and I must say it's rather debillitating. Countless discussions with friends about where this is all going, and what to make of the next two years continue to make their rounds, and I'm beginning to wonder--and maybe even worry--that my 'making the best of the shit we're in now' outlook isn't quite one which I can continue to believe in.

I don't quite know what to make of it all yet, but I'm grateful for the moments of respite and for the bunch of people who don't mind killing some of their time with me. As this post rounds itself up, it also tries rather hard in its own metaphorical way to stand in sedia in a desperate bid to do away with all that rounding, and to curb all traces of malignant sop (root word of soppiness) before it festers.

They say that prevention is better than cure

But what we can't prevent, we run from

What we can't run from, we ignore

What we can't ignore, we fear.

What we fear, we mock or destroy

What we are left with, isn't right.

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NB: Thanks for the fries, made my day haha

Edit: Holy hell, army really does make one rather incoherent. Apologies for the disconnects throughout

The End's Not Near, It's Here

Oh hell, it really is here. All the months of living vicariously through fellow bald-folk while whiling my time away with top-level slackers (you know who you are) are finally near an end, and God knows how much I'm going to be missing everyone back here. As much as I probably don't show it, it's the darndy truth.

There isn't actually much to complain about, considering that from what it sounds the confinement for our batch's only going to last a grand total of twelve days, which isn't actually enough time to cultivate new species of fungi in your boots yet. That's a great plus, I reckon. Especially since I was expecting a close to three week stay-in, which would probably have been enough to start a multinational corporation of bacterium in my then hitherto bagged and unwashed uniforms. So thanks for the hopeful news people, it's the one glimmer of hope I'll be clinging on to all this time.

And so here I am now, at a loss for what thoughts I'd like to put down before I get, well, put down in Tekong (images of SPCA posters and euthanasia debates spring to mind). Apart from the unsightly, unsoundly and ultimately unhealthy act of mourning, there isn't really much else I can say. You would probably know by now what goes through a typical mind when confronted with the prospects of what appears to be the synonym for prison, and it would do little good for me to rant the same to you in an unrelenting verbal torrent reminiscent of an overzealous phone salesperson.

'But then wouldn't we have a lack of a point for this post?', you might be asking. I'd be hard pressed to find a satisfactory reason for why I had to bore you with all this, or why I'd even bother to write paragraphs upon paragraphs explaining why I don't actually have a purpose for including said paragraphs.

Perhaps I just needed to get things out of my head.

Perhaps I wanted to get myself into the frame of mind that yes, army is indeed tomorrow.

Perhaps I didn't feel right including more than the vague.

Perhaps I needed to leave something before I left.

Perhaps I hoped that exposition would feel reassuring.

Perhaps I should stop here before attempts at being poetic vacate the building and melodrama takes up residence.

In all honesty it hardly feels as if by tomorrow I'll be sitting on a ferry, nameless save for a couple of initials, bundled with the rest of the statistical thousands, travelling across a vast body of water which, while being immeasurably vast in its own Asian right, still cruelly allows you to despondently view your home island from a distance. On the right contrary, I'm still sitting around with my bag glaring empty, my phone readily sporting a camera, and my blog draft staring me back in the face. It is time though, and I better start wrapping my head around that fact.

Here goes nothing

It's Not Where We Go, It's How We Go

Who'd have thought that selecting a course to take, applying for a uni and gunning for a scholarship would be this much of a complication. The prospects of everything are undoubtedly daunting to say the least, by the very nature of how vast the possibilities are. I recall once aspiring to become creative director of a prestigious advertising firm--something which I kept assuring myself would be something I'd love to do, and would be willing to sacrifice the lives of thousands of coffeebeans for. That engendered somewhat of a targetted approach to choosing a course; I figured I'd head headfirst into a course about something I love, since everyone knows that if you like doing something, you can't quite call it work. And it was with this sunny-faced optimism of the joys of work and the passion of the abovementioned that I planned my route.

But we all know that plans, being plans, have somewhat of a tendency to lose their state of certainty--not quite unlike a particularly determined souffle which attempts to rise, only to deflate into a sorry looking pile just as it was about to attain its full culinary glory. With the haters and the realists (the pessimists in denial) on my back though, I began to question these ideals which I had only just recently become so sure of. I won't go into the grisly details, to save you the pain of having to read through them only to fling canned tomatoes at my simple ignorance, but in short it seems like a business course would be the safest option. It covers the most ground, it opens the most doors, and it doesn't sound half as boring as nineteen-hundreds Greecio-Roman historial-cultural studies. Not to mention there seems to be a distinct possibility that I end up losing my interesting in advertising (something which I don't quite see happening in the near future though) and end up instead taking up interest in the flight trajectories of exotic butterflies. If that ever does happen, at least the business degree would come in handy, should I wish to open a shop selling memoriabilia and collectables of the said insects. Or I could also open an enterprising joint selling traditional snacks at not so traditional prices, something which seems to have picked up here, as the hordes of kaya toast touting franchises can testify.

As far as plans are concerned, I think I can safely say that to most, there aren't many boundaries to how far you can go, or what you could achieve. Having the end goal in mind was never the problem; after all everyone's heard of how if you aim for the stars you'll at least land on a cloud. Alas, naysayers also say nay, characteristically enough, and they pointedly highlight the fact that contrary to popular belief, clouds aren't very suitable objects for landing on, thanks to the fact that you'd be hard pressed to find a clump of condensation tenacious enough to want to hold your weight. But nevertheless, I maintain the metaphor still stands.

So we have established that people dream of going places. But it seems like many don't give up on them just because they're particularly lofty in nature. Rather, questions about how to get about getting there bubble to the surface, and honestly most of them are pretty rank. They say that engineering students have become successful creative directors, and I know of people who haven't taken degrees at all, but who've ended up with rather respectable positions. Hell, even the fish & co startup story in the papers the other day wasn't all smooth sailing, but look where it's got now. And there we have the success stories. Cue awe, applause and apple sauce. So yes, everything appears to be possible, as evidence has shown. Now the question is this: how do we take this square peg that we have, and get it through the round hole of where we want to be. Oh the ways of doing so are endless; you could try to smash it through with the force of an overbearing intern, or you could try to slowly shave away and smoothen the corners like you would with an all-rounded university course, you could also proceed to hack determinedly at the round hole until its misshapen form allows you to push the square peg in a form of compromise not quite unlike those cloud-landers. The possibilities are endless. And honestly, that scares me.

Because with so many different ways to go about achieving your goal, how would you know that the route you've chosen is optimum? Does the round-hole-hacker somehow have it better than the square-peg-smasher, or did the shave-and-smoothener somehow get the best deal? And if it's really like they say, and it's all about the journey, not the end point, then I want to be pretty damn sure that I'm taking the right path. And yet, there sets in the famous Analysis Paralysis, the metaphorical equivilant of this being staring at the round hole and decidedly scratching your head with your square peg.

But I must conclude somewhere here, for this post has stretched for too long. As things are looking right now, I'm still somewhat decided on being undecided (something I usually end up doing, unfortunately). Maybe the round hole will change by itself, as I embrace that beach resort on an island nearby (April 13th never seemed this near), and maybe by then I'll be in a better position to consider.

Other issues wrestle for centrestage as well, and my mind's beginning to look like a very schitzophrenic pizza, but this post is probably not the time to bring those up. But it does remind me; I need a break. Heaven knows what sort of break I need, but I do need one.

So many things have to be considered and thought through. But as for now though, I'll just rest uneasy knowing that I just don't know.

Writing The Wrongs

During my time of absence from the blogging world at large, I've come to realise that trying to quit blogging's somewhat like trying to get an exhaust pipe to surrender it's carcinogenic activities amicably and dispense nicorette gum instead. There's something largely therapeutic about putting pen to paper, putting paper to shredder, and then starting all over from scratch with nothing but a sliver of a thought and a sense of purpose. Unfortunately however, both of which usually end up either largely incoherent, wholly misguided, or a gourmet concoction of one measure of each.

It seems like shifting the writing process into first gear often involves clutching, often rather clumsily, at whatever straws happen to pass by on their way to wherever straws head to in their leisure time. At other more enlightened moments though, there tends to be a faint flicker of inspiration from somewhere which stirs up the desire to wax lyrical. Though it is one thing to think of something to write about and what to say, and yet a completely different thing to finally get to click the gloriously orange 'publish post' button down below. Knowing my ocd self, it takes roughly about five re-readings and edits before any form of exposition gets to see the light of day, and we're not even talking about the number of times the baby had to be thrown out because the bathwater just wouldn't go by itself.

Sometimes the words just don't fit right. Sometimes the tone of the piece flows so poorly it makes you think of something which would've been written had Roald Dahl a bit too much green eggs and ham to eat. Sometimes you finish with the body, and realise that the tail doesn't quite stick the way they do on donkeys. Sometimes you lose your train of thought (happens that in the world of writing, locomotives aren't particularly as conspicuous as they should be). Sometimes you don't know how to express the ideas swimming around your head. Sometimes you'd just rather go watch an episode of House.

But it's a love-hate relationship like that. Eventually you know you'd want to put your thoughts into words. And when you do, you'd want them to come alive for everyone in the same way that they're alive for you. It's a form of catharsis, almost.

Continue a blog? It just seemed the write thing to do.

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Note: I realise that the photos selected have seemingly less and less significance with regard to the content of the post, but I shall blame it on the lack of exposure my camera's been getting. If my camera was a person it would probably look albino from the lack of going outdoors.

Oh, and speaking of abandoned drafts, there's currently about four half-baked posts waiting to see the light of day, but I doubt I'll ever get down to clearing those

Permanent; nothing is permanent

It's been practically a year since i've last even layed eyes on this little space where pixels lie. That means that it's been a year since i've last written my thoughts out loud, and not exactly coincidentally, also a year since people have left their own comments and thoughts on this site (It would have been both slightly strange and bordering a bit into freaky-stalkerish if someone still continued to).

One year can be loosely translated into Twelve Months, or if you prefer the Olde English translation, Ye Three Hundred And Sixty Five Days. And given the sheer amount of hours and minutes that would have passed within the context of said number of days (My ineptitude in the handling of calculators prohibits me from attempting to enthrall with a very large string of numbers), one cannot help but wonder if anything, anything at all, has changed since the last impression we had of ourselves.

Over the course of one year we could have experienced joy, hardship, curiosity, apathy, enthusiasm, banality, love, heartache, optimism, dread, hope, despair, and a whole shopping-list of other feelings and thesaurus-approved adjectives with accompanying antonyms. Given the emotional weight which each of these carry, it would not be too far-fetched to assume that each must have in one way or another profoundly and irrevocably affected our person. "Do I still participate with the same vigor? Do I still laugh with the same lighness of heart? Do I still see things and people the same way? Do I still talk in the same self-characteristic manner? Do I still act in the manner I used to?" All questions we might have once asked ourselves, and all questions worth pondering over.

But it's ironic then that while each of these questions indubitably probe into the profundities of whether we have indeed progressed from where we once were, they also hint at a conflicted and worried soul--one which is as equally harrowed by the prospects of losing the individuality of oneself. Though I doubt the same could be said with regards to the periods of adolescence and early teen angst which most aspire to condemn to the depths of artery-constricting-jeans and  tear-stained-piss-poetry hell. Nevertheless, despite all our desires to change, to become more than the little we are now, as well as our hopes to metamorphize into that AudiR8-pimping superstar and owner of a very shiny red and gold metal suit, we realize that there are parts of us which we desperately fear changing. For all that talk of growing, developing and becoming, we somehow cannot conceive losing those parts of us which make us, well, us.

And thus begins the precarious balance of trying to change what we hate about ourselves, while yet retaining the bits which we feel make up the person we think we are. As if this metaphysical existentialist tightrope wasn't enough, the inevitability of subconscious change rears its ugly (not that we'd notice how beautiful it might have looked, what with it being subconscious and all) head. While attempting to become artisan crafters of our self, we periodically notice several deviations from our planned blueprints and battlelines. We become altered--to much dismay and annoyance--in a way which was not part of the plan, but being creatures desiring control, we attempt to push back.

Perhaps one of these ninjitsu-and-art-of-being-stealthy-as-cat-trained abominations which we should probably be most on our guard against would be that of simple world-weariness. It's an intimidating sight when individuals not even half way to mid-life crisis start considering everything worthless and balk. King Solomons aside, it seems almost as if national service itself is synonymous with becoming jaded, and that is something no promises of glory and love for country can compensate for.

But alas! Maybe there is hope yet. For now that we've begun the process of taking the sub out of the subconscious, we ultimately attempt to take to task the little changelings in us which evade our notice. One would like to believe that if we could raise our guard against these insidious influencers, only then we would we grow that much closer to becoming what we seek for ourselves to become. And by methods such as these, we attempt, perhaps even futilely, to gain control over our lives--minute existences which are but flung about the expanse of situations and happenings by the jarring multiple impacts of the everyday.

Will you change? Will I change? Only time can tell, but fortunately, he isn't going to tell how we will.

______________________________

Some time ago
I keep losing track over again
All these promises won't turn golden
Until you touch them

It's permanent
Nothing is permanent
It's permanent
We'll be watching your back, following
Indecision has lasted for years

Some time ago
Memories in my head
They're starting again
Speaking fast, still moving slow
Running through the country
Maybe they will find me

It's permanent
Nothing is permanent
It's permanent
We'll be watching your back (We'll be watching)
Be watching your back, following
Indecision has lasted for years

Like a river in Arizona
Dried up before you were born

It's starting up again
(We'll be watching your back)

It's permanent
Nothing is permanent
It's permanent
We'll be watching your back
It's permanent
Nothing is permanent
It's permanent
Time is pushing us back
Permanent