What? 1 Blog a week? And it's not even interesting?
It's sad, but true: My free day IS tuesday, and it's time where I can find myself alone in front of the computer. Ah well. Other factors would also include a kind of dry spot: Typing but having nothing really forming. Yeah, sometimes with something to say, but usually nothing really forms. Or that something to say was just some figment of my imagination.
I don't really remember the past week. I remember watching peter pan (again), buying comics, reading them, staying over at Kak's place for an RP, having Sam over for a tender afternoon. Not much, really to fill up 7 days, but with the unmistakable mist of boring forming this dark cloud (let's play with metaphors) which occluded my vision like high-degreed glasses for myopics or a blindfold woven from spider silk, I am unable to truly pick myself from the ground and dust the miasma of boringness from my dirty self.
Maybe it would be insulting to others for even calling it close to boring (for that's not what it truly is), so I shall rephrase it as such: The past week has been less memorable than other weeks, but still, it was a good week, if unremarkable.
What I know is that I need to (a) watch Last Samurai (b) watch Stuck on You (c) watch 21 Grams (d) watch Lost in Translation (e) watch House of Sand and Fog (f) amongst other things like reading my readings.
It really pains me to know that sometimes I'm just missing out on some really good movies just because I have nobody to watch them with me: be it because of time or money (cost). I know that not all my choices are golden (see: Stuck on You), but, well, I just love my movies. Give me a well told yarn and I'll be there. It really, really fustrates me to know that I missed out on watching Master and Commander. Now, if Academy Awards were an indication of quality (not always true see: Titanic), I've then really missed out on something big, but of course since, according to someone, trailers are everything, and hence let's not watch Troy.
After reading what I just wrote, another reason would be how stilted my language is: It doesn't actually flow. It comes in little spurts, goes nowhere, and then fizzles out. If people who write don't read here. Or something.
They sat on opposite sides of the same carriage. He was reading a book when she stepped in at Admiralty, snuggled up close against the corner of the rows of seats, trying to prevent his head from wiping against the oil from somebody's hair. The last train of the night droned towards City Hall, as she smoothed her skirt and sat down, closing her eyes and leaning back. The man looked up at her book and the woman behind it, stealing glances. He held tight his eyes, sucking in his breath, chancing another look.
She wasn't asleep, not yet, not in the bright startling lights trying to pry her lids open. Her lids fluttered as she shifted to find a position more comfortable, bag held closed to her. He pushed his glasses up as he traced her features, her vaguely bronzed skin, hair straight but ending in tight curls, tinted brown. She shifted, and he turned his glance back to his book. Not a page had been turned since she came on, nor a word read, just slowly biding his time, to steal another precious moment.
She opened her eyes, and looked around. The trains doors whistled their intentions at Bishan and buzzed closed. She glanced at him, and read the title of his book. She grinned and got up, moving towards him. His heart raced. She spoke before she sat down.
That's where it started, questions about the book, on how she'd had to read but couldn't bring herself to. Was it any good? Did he have a summary of sorts?
This went on until they reached city hall, and she went west, he, east.
(vaguely inspired by Clarissa Oon' article in Life today, very uninspired by myself and now I shall go watch Ghost in the Shell 2nd Gig)
