December 2, 2012

“I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because ‘romantic’ doesn’t mean ‘sugary.’ It’s dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can’t attain.”
Catherine Breillat


The Things You’d Rather Forget.
August 23, 2012

I just keep thinking about that night, that ride back.

The god awful smell of ‘herb’ and spice and the not so subtle sour twinge of sweat. The alternating light and dark as we zoomed past streetlights. The stillness or about as much of you that you can get riding around Kuala Lumpur in an old taxi cab in the wee hours of the morning. The annoying whir of the engine groaning and our steady breaths. Your head on my shoulders. Contentedness.

But I find the details slipping from me too quickly.

I don’t think I even remember your face anymore.

And I keep listening to the songs that make you remember the things you’d rather forget.

It’s been two years.

I miss you.

“This is to a girl who got into my head,
With all the pretty things she did.”

April 21, 2012

Watching the video for the umpteenth time, I can’t help but feel slightly melancholic. It’s a longing for something that seems gone forever because how do you recapture your childhood when the things that made it so memorable is spread out so vast and wide and out of reach;

The sun. And trees. And sand. And grass. The playground. The creepy forbidden areas in school with the ‘Keep Out’ signs. The gravelly back roads. The gravelly front roads. The window grills. The couch. Books. And pens. And paper. Colour pencils. Shiny swirly coloured pens. Paint brushes. The kids at school. The neighbourhood kids. The kids at the park. The stray cats. The stray dogs. Grasshoppers. Butterflies. Those dumb openable egg things with like a toy car in it that breaks after a week. Ice cream days. Junk food days. Long walks. Short walks. Running. Sprinting. Bicycling. Recess time. Play pretend. Made up games. Monkey bars. The badminton racket. Discmans. Walkmans. CRT tellies. Cassette tapes. CD’s that cost a lot more than a week’s worth of pocket money. The bath tub. Everything the sun touches. Everything the sun didn’t.

The world was our playground. And the video does an excellent job capturing these memories.

It’s odd to think how this generation could make a video about their childhood. Hard to make pre pubescent children and adolescents staring into computers and phones and tablets strike a chord like this, wouldn’t it?

“People Change. Memories don’t.”