Know the ones that you ought to hurt, and know the ones that earn the right to hurt you.

Regardless of how happy a song is written to be made, there are lyrics that imply sadness. Some call this adulthood. Some call this the process of being jaded with reality. Some call this the practicality of a human being's defense mechanism. I call these choices.

"It's the smell of burnt toast. You made the toast. You looked forward to it. You even enjoyed making it, but it burned. What were you doing? Was it your fault? It doesn't matter anymore. You opened the window but only the very top layer of the smell goes away. The rest remains around you. You change your clothes but its in your hair. It's on the think skin on the tops of your hand. And in the morning, it's still there."

The sight of engraved nostalgia welled sore in the deepest recesses that have been buried. Silenced was the only unintended keeper to outline the facades of the chitter-chatter. Indecision and decisions; a fine line separating them and the utmost difficulty differentiating between either. Around me, there are pasted smiles everywhere and my fingers cannot begin to lift to paint an apt description. Your name is becoming a little to irreversibly etched in what I cannot control to think of. "Bittersweet" doesn't necessarily need to be the only word that best literates what was supposed to make people happy living beings. We have evolved jaded, and for which rhyme or reason? The intercept whereby lovers become spiritedly stronger without one another as a limb, as respiratory required to vitally breathe, a seed that was planted to stop growing.

To date, I have but made poor choices to remain drowning in the sorrow of many history pages of yesterdays. Melancholy has turned into a familiar prick in the back that I can't reach to eradicate but I am fruitlessly trying. I've been trying for such a long time coming that I don't even know if my kind of trying is actually defined as trying.

The littlest things in this God-created world are the greatest things that can happen to anyone in the other childlike-forgotten world. We're all slow dancing in our own burning rooms. Please stay, and dance with me. We'll repeat this same sad song and remember happiness and may that joy derived from nostalgia, take us back in time to the childlike-forgotten world.

The table's a little neater. The ashtray's a little emptier. The music's a little more subtle, that it numbs the sounds of coherent breathing. The shoutings are a little kinder. The outlook of life's a little brighter. The coffee's a little sweeter. The night's a little darker. The morning's a little earlier. My heart's a little stronger. My love's a little stranger. The ashtray's getting a little fuller. The phone's getting a little silent. The coffee's getting a little colder. Confusion's getting a little wiser. The music's getting a little futile. The ambiguity's getting a little harsher. The home's getting a little foreign. It's getting a little too foreign. It's getting foreign. Love's getting a little frightening. It's getting frightening. Home is getting a little frightening. Home is foreign. Love's getting a little too foreign. Love is foreign.

Confusion is playing a wise game. My musing is tangling a strange manipulation so unkind. The shoutings are frightening. My heart's getting too cold.

It's all about the wordplay.

Where sense and sensibility falls short.

If birthday wishes really do exist in an invisible immortalised fashion, I'd wish for Mummy and Daddy to stay together, till death do they part. Never in my life, can I ever imagine my life being lived without either one, what more swallowing the processing fact that the divorce is materializing.

Setting my being at the lawyer's firm this day and having to familiarize myself with divorce and marriage annulment jargons, felt whole-heartedly cruel. It made me vulnerable, and as fragile as a child, and it hurt me uncontrollably.

Lord, grant me unwavering faith and impeccable strength. Please, just fix me.

There are tears biting inside my eyes but I am not willing to compromise strength with vulnerability.

If there is one thing in this world I could ever pray with my life's might for, is for married couples to love one another as God loves us, for every fight to cease in existence, for sorrow to never stain any poor soul as it has done to me, for divorce to be abolished from the face of this universe, for hurt never having to be unbearable enough to permit tears falling down anyone's cheek.

This is me, on the edge of relenting to hopelessness and giving up on family. This is me, utterly split in character and emotions. This is me, alive yet dead and dead yet alive.

There is much to be contented and grateful for. For the food that is served everyday on my table, for breathing without medical inhibitions, for disasters never setting history in this little country that I reside in, and even for the little one (Baby) that sticks around whenever I'm home.

But why does sadness always stay for the long haul?

SIM RMIT Student Council's Pioneer Dinner & Dance. Themed Hollywood.

Where friends and fellow councellors come together. A night never to be forgotten.

I thought back, and I actually miss the thrill of the dark romance from my wayward past. No doubt it was painful to swallow and turn around to reminisce, but it was the most exciting years of my love life.

Everything stands monotonous now.

Me turning twenty two happens in fifteen days!

• Nokia E71 in black / Blackberry 8900 in black
  
• Hard disk drive
• Polaroid cartridges (they've stopped retailing these in Singapore)
• Black/brown leather laptop 14.1" casing
• Dark denim skinny jeans 25"
  
• Calculator
• Faux pas black leather jacket/blazer
• Faux pas black leather bandage short skirt
  
• Turquise-green/orange-fuchsia plain bikini
• A boy whose smiles make everything worthwhile
• H5 to get together
• Pots and Desmond to be here again for this year's birthday
• Parents to get along
  

A birthday slightly physically lonelier, but with more love showered by good company and loved ones here in little Singers, what more could a twenty two year old to-be ask for?

So much blood of a heart, splattered mercilessly over the grounds you once treaded on. The pastures have enriched in greener tones in the self-centred choices you have implemented on both our lives. This pool of blood is leeching me and it roots me to the debris of the broken foundation you turned your back on.