Still waters

Didn't really feel myself while I lay in bed, drifting into la-la land. Things are just getting complicated, so thick lately. I can't handle it on my own.

Fitful sleep.

Jerked awake a hair before 6am, having barely slept 5 hours. Couldn't get back to sleep. Oh fuck me, I might as well make the best use of the time and go for my bicycle ride early.

Had a hurried breakfast. Did all the prerequisite stuff. Checking the lights, filling the water bottles, pumping up the tyres, before hurriedly setting off. I want to catch the sunrise. I want to start my ride in the dark and end it in the bright sun.

I'm totally sleep-deprived, but hey, I'm shifting the gears at the right time, I'm avoiding road hazards calmly. It didn't feel all that wrong to be cycling on the roads when half-asleep.

Until I realised that my sense of speed was all shot of shit. I caught myself thinking 'hey, I'm going quite fast right now' at 20kmh, and then taking on another very tight curve at 33kmh (I would NEVER have done that when not sleep deprived.) Good thing I didn't wash out when I tapped the brakes in panic!

My startle reflex's a bit wonky too. Every time a car appears over the bend, I panic. This is sleep-deprived KC, being totally unsafe on the roads.



Cut the route short (duh) because there's no way in hell I'd risk my life over a stupid bike ride.



It's all foggy and beautiful today but somehow or another, I felt down. The past few days, the harsh realities of life, the fact that the adult world's cruel and selfish and no one would give a damn if I fall. That I'd die anyway. Got my way through Bishan Park and was so close to breaking down, I just sat on the stone step, eyes downcast, bike by my side, huddled over my phone playing Prince on Persia on it just to distract myself.

Took me quite a while to regain my senses. Gee, am I really that depressed? Ack.


Dead bird. Life, death, whatever. Even death isn't that permanent. First the body rots, then the memories in the minds of families and friends start fading, then, even they would die along with their memories.

Finally reached home, plonked myself on the bed feeling bloated from overhydrating myself (I cut the ride short and didn't sweat out all that 2 litres of water.) Lay on bed with Stephen King's Dolores Clariborne.


Afternoon. Bank. Travel agent. Bought luggage bags. Much of the Hong Kong trip stuff settled so far.


Cheesy french toast from Ya Kun. Disappointing though, not eggy enough. Back home. Man, those Skoda taxis are smooooth and speedy. Then out again.



I've got a headache. But everything's fine and dandy after being happy meeting up with a friend and stuff. The sweetest thing is to know that I'm not all alone.


Why does this photo always conjure up images of a dirty old man standing outside of the toilet, pretending to read a book and preying on unsuspecting innocent guys?