So I did a little digging and found some really old photos and some pretty recent ones.

I think I miss my braces. I certainly don't miss the mouth ulcers but I miss the sharp "s" sounds. The kind that makes the shrill whistle whenever I pronounce any words with an S.

And I really wonder how the dearest corruptor is doing these days.

I miss our coffee jaunts escaping from production meetings.

And I'm suddenly tired and lazy.

Maybe I'll continue next time.

I am terribly tired. My arms are screaming in pain, my eyes can't open properly thanks to my lack of sleep and I'm worried. The baby is sick.

While I'm typing this, lying next to him, I've to stop every few seconds to stroke his back to calm him down in his fitful sleep. Every few minutes, his body will jerk as if in shock or maybe because of a bad dream. And he's whimpering in his sleep every few seconds.

But still, at least I get to rest while he sleeps.

He whined and cried everytime I tried to put him down this morning. We spent an hour watching the trees and the birds and the occasional train, and it seemed to make him happy at least for awhile. But . the funny thing about babies is that... they look like cute little cuddly bears, feel like them too, but they definitely are not filled with cotton. My arms wouldn't be complaining if they were.

12kg cuddly bears?? Uhh.. yeah, I don't think so. More like a sack of rice.

He was already feverish yesterday but he still tried his best to laugh and play and I thought perhaps the fever broke already. Of course, I spent the whole day cuddling him when he felt sick and playing when he felt better. And I kinda think that perhaps it might occur to some people that I kinda know the boy is sick since I was the one carrying him around when he was being clingy!

The boy was making fake crying noises (which I happen to know was fake since, hell, I spent 12 hours a day with him for the past 2 months!) And then I said, "Baby! Stop pretending!" The boy looked at me and gave a blank pseudo-innocent face and continued fake-bawling.

Of course, I was chided for the comment. Ironic. Totally ironic you should tell me the boy is sick... since.. didn't I mention? I spent the past 12 hours caring for his erratic fever-induced moodswings?!

Oh. Yeah. I am too stupid to realise that a body temperature like a portable heater and weird clingyness should classify as "sick". No. No. I need someone highly classified to tell me he is sick.

The sister and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. And I felt a moment of bananas in pyjamas are-you-thinking-what-I'm-thinking?

Yeah. There's nothing here. Just empty angst.

These people sometimes have interesting hobbies, like flying kites, painting, gardening.

Things that are usually the total opposite of the brainless monotony of what they do at work.

But for people who are, say, professional kite flyers, or painters... what they do for a living are what most people do for leisure. I don't know if that's lucky or really terribly boring.

If you're "doing what you love" eight hours a day... would you turn to something you hate for leisure?

Imagine an athlete doing a full set of accounts for leisure!

Or a gardener who types annual reports as a hobby!

I'm trying to think of something reaaaaaallly mundane to fill up my leisurely hours.

Not.

I have to say, though, that I've found the evidences severely lacking despite their claims that the answers provided are based on solid evidence. I realise that I am sort of disappointed because nobody I asked seem to have the right answer to give. They always seem to clam up and squirm uncomfortably in their seats whenever I ask a question too many and in the name of peaceful cohabitation, I would always stop there.

Perhaps the yarn has been spun too many times that it can no longer be held straight?

I think. I need to find new avenues to understand.

Understanding breeds peace, afterall.

I'm quite sick of people telling me what's what when they were what.

I dusted off the gramma's biggest luggage and it sparked off so many different opinions that it's making my head spin.

Looking at it, and knowing myself, I know it's not big enough. And then the sister said, "The bag I brought to us of A for three weeks was smaller than this!"

"What, are you gonna pack, like, clothes for everyday?"

No, I said, I'm only packing for half the trip, I'd have to do laundry there.

I'm sick of hearing my own voice-in-my-head nagging at me that it's too small while I try to convince myself that it's enough.

So, I tried packing.

Really, I only put in 2 weeks worth of clothes and toiletries. and it was 90% full.

"Well, isn't that just good enough?" some might argue.

But I think people (myself included) tend to forget that I don't have anyone waiting for me there, I'm not going in a large group with any school and I'm not going to be living in a hotel and that my daily meals are not accommodated for. And that the nearest halal food is not just a phonecall away.

So. Anyway. I'm only left with these few tiny things to fit inside the remaining 10% of space.

Books.

Jacket.

Towel.

Chargers. (Handphone, laptop, camera)

Plates / fork / spoon / knife.

Shoes.

Food. (Coffee, Instant noodles, dry snacks)

And I'm very very very very sure these tiny things can fit into 10% of the luggage space.

Very confident of this.

Right.

I feel bad for being all pissy and as my mum said, "counter-arguing" all her suggestions.

"Why don't you think for yourself, since you're arguing with all my points?" she had said before leaving the room in a huff.

But you know, underneath it all, I'm terrified because I have no idea what to expect and I'd rather be over-prepared for all emergencies than get flustered when something unexpected occurs.

I feel like it's such a waste. but perhaps, I really should get a bigger luggage.

Or maybe, bring 2 small ones.

Crap. I'm so confused.

The lecturer for this module is a petite, masters-wielding, pocket-sized young woman 2 years older than I am. And I believe, she's my favourite ever since she exclaimed "WHAT THE FISH!" in the middle of the first lecture.

I don't envy her the job of lecturing adults, some of whom are more than twice her age but she trudges on like a bull and always has fresh, modern ideas that make more sense to the contemporary society.

If I fear someone, I would carry out all their orders. I would not dare voice a grumble, but I would not be happy about their orders. It would be purely selfish. I carry out their orders merely to avoid any punishments to myself. My heart is not in it.

It's a matter of survival.

If I love someone, I would carry out all their orders. I would not voice a grumble because I would not have any. I would be happy to do anything for the one I love. It would be purely selfless. It would be sincere. and I would hope that by doing whatever to please that someone, I would one day gain more of their love.

I'm trying to keep a good balance of both.

I replied, rather despondently, that I'm not watching any.

"No money!" was my first reply.

The mother knew better of course. She knew that I just got my pay last weekend.

She gave a snort of disbelief.

"Okay, fine, I admit. This year's line up sucks," I told her.

"Hmm. That's good," she said, while staring passively at the tv.

I gaped at her in confusion.

My bank statements had reflected a large chunk of money being transfered to s i s t i c last year. And I have always been a firm supporter of the arts.

Not to sound hoity toity or anything. But the adrenaline and excitement I feel after watching a good show . . . I'd say it's about a muted albeit deeper and longer lasting feeling of adrenaline pumping in your veins after a good run.

"Save your money for Mona Lisa," she quipped, snapping me out of my reverie.

Which actually, threw me into another reverie. I imagined walking the halls of the L o u v r e, sharing the same air as the mona lisa, standing less than a metre away from an original Picasso, sniffing the oils from a genuine Rembrandt .. or those painted by his assistants, anyway.

I imagined scrutinizing Van Gogh's sunflower, imagined hearing a resonating scream from Munch's painting. I imagined stroking the rusted metals Gustave Eiffel had worked in.

And suddenly, I realised, I'm not so disappointed in a r t s f e s t 2 0 1 0 anymore.

Paris is calling me, it's hard to be disappointed by anything else.