On Teacher’s Day Last Year

Last year was the year after my graduation from secondary school. I went back there on Teacher’s Day to rekindle the memories and attachment to both my alma mater and the teachers. There was even an invitation sent via email.

Contrary to my intent, I and several other students who had kept their hair long and/or dye it were barred from entering. The pretext for that absurdity was our influence to the ‘innocent’ students there. Well, my previous sentence should suffice on what I feel about this treatment.

Now when I remember it, it seems I no longer feel much for that place. Yes, I remember my experiences within the school compound, and the constant hide-and-seek game with the discipline committee. But in some cases I’ve disassociated many emotions to that place. You can even call me crazy but I felt betrayed.

Imagine having few links that attach you to the past. And with time, each link breaks. You would expect the link to a building to be broken much later because mainly it is an inanimate object and doesn’t change much. Well, so much for expectations… People who set any expectations bound to be disappointed.

At least I’ve hung out with certain friends after.

Ikea Evening with Friends

Let’s see what happen this year…



This Old Kid Wants To Draw

When asked about my hobbies at the age of 7, I’d say I love to draw. But, as years went by, my interest in it dwindled.

Anxiety, whenever the teacher graded art, replaced the joy and freedom of drawing. Besides, I wrongly believed that sketching was an inborn ability that cannot be learnt. So, I eventually gave it up as a leisure activity.

And now, I want to take it up again. I hope to do portrait drawing. However, time, plus my knack to procrastinate, does not permit my desire. I admire kids for they can do stupid things without being mocked.

I shall add the below to my life list. Come the school-break, I must work on it.

To do a good portrait drawing



Logen is Logish

Eyes shut, trying a blazer

Hi, I’m Logen. Above is a picture of me. My friends think I’m crazy. I agree, though I can’t explain why.

My head brims with stories, which I’d soon like to pen. They come to me when I dream, fantasise or feel depressed. They act as a talisman against my reality that sometimes is sad. I fear it.

Reality is what we perceive to be true, while fantasy is what we hope will exist. The line is blurred between the two. One can only be hopeful.