I'm really addicted to Pucca and her various antics.
How bold can that girl be!

In a roundabout way, I recognise my own timidity.
Why, I don't even dare to watch The Way Home !

I fear for my conscience.
I fear the overwhelming revelations that may weigh down upon my bloody conscience.











It was all cold and rainy today.
Not that I had any cause to complain, seeing that I adore such weathers.
I made my way home from the library, under an umbrella and thoroughly enjoying the dreary skies.
Then I had great books for company in the evening.

O how lovely.

The flowers on the dining table are withering.
In a very graceful manner, though.
So beautiful yet so melancholic.








I have a new notebook!
A big, scented, beautiful notebook!

I get awfully excited when I have new notebooks.
Especially when it's a gift.
Even more so when it's a gift from my brother. "


I must have had at least thirty notebooks thus far in my life now.
They are seldom filled up to the last page, because I don't bear to finish them up.
It's a queer notion, yes.

My most treasured notebooks of them all will be those I kept during secondary school years.
Not for academic purposes, mind you.
They were my faithful company for services and oikos.

I spent many an awesome service scribbling the newly gained insights with much fervour.
Then the Fridays came and the notebooks followed me to 10 Aida Street.
Those were the times.


The times when I devoured each opportunity to learn with relish.
The times when I pored over the notes again and again and again.
The times when I spent sleepless nights wondering about Heaven.
The times when I prayed that God will use me someday.


And when I flip through these notebooks once more,
I realised how faithful God has been.
These are beautiful memories strewn atop the ragged pages.
Even more beautiful than that imprinted in my meagre mind.

I have recently taken to scrawling stray thoughts for further meditation.
'Tis a brilliant way to not let Him pass me by.


Won't you allow some paper and ink to nab the fleeting moments of His magic in your life?









I look back in the past with two whole sacks full of regrets.
Not even just the distant past, three hours back is bad enough.

I can be such a wretch.
I am continually amazed by why He was willing to die for me.

It didn't come cheap, but I got it for free.

Regrets constitute such a heavy price tag for mistakes.
I never want to do it again, but words are really cheap.










I don't mean to be as anti-social as I seem to be.
It's just as how Desperate Housewives aptly puts it:

Trust, once earned, puts one at ease.
And trust, once betrayed, is almost impossible to salvage.

Sometimes, we withhold or doubt trust so as not to get burnt.

Is that right?
What if I had been wrong?

I get paranoid over human relations.
I get even more so when it's about true friends.
And the worst is yet to come for I don't even want to think about my ribcage.


I started by writing about frogs.
I end by writing about frogs.

I can hardly trust my so-called instincts.
Especially on issues like differentiating between frogs and princes.
Well, you never know which is which.
After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
That slimy frog could be a prince - just the right one at the wrong time.

And the right one at the wrong time is still wrong.