of blue couches

here is my current vent when i'm rushing for assignments.
i'm currently drawing data flow diagrams (there is still the exponential headache of pseudocodes coming) with a perfect skill for making mistakes hence the need to readjust the whole diagram, shift the words, circles and previously drawn boxes around. and haven't anyone told you that mistakes are consequential and they bring along the ripple effect, in M.Word at least. Frustrating? it's 1.30a.m., my eyebags grow on fertile soil.

update: it's 2.45a.m

mighty mutterers

Every night, I feed the hungry mosquitoes. They like me, but I don't like them.

Nights like these ( rushing for assignments due) make me hungry. I found myself back in Perai on a pleasant night, at Wai Sek Kai in Chai Leng Park. I would be trailing along the street with mom, and occasionally brother if he doesn't have tuition, waiting for dad. I would always want fried chicken and apam balik. And they taste so good to me, I was reluctant to share them with anyone. The warm sensation of apam balik felt on my tongue, and the slow acquisition of the taste, that was close to bliss for me, among other childish fantasies. And fried chicken was how fried chicken is to any kid- crispy and yum. Then at around 10+, dad would come out from the badminton court beside Wai Sek Kai, and he'd drink whatever chilled tong sui brought to him. I'd finish up my food, brother will finish up his, and mum is our helper. We'll go home. And I go to bed feeling contented.

I wonder how is Chai Leng Park now? And wonder too if the apam balik aunty is still there?
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(Nights like these make me do things like this-blog about fried chicken and apam balik for goodness sake, and waste a big portion of time.)

hole

And the night time creeps in, with such calmness, yet carrying a slight note of caution. You see heads of black, brown and golden everywhere, bent low, or raised up displaying a perpetual frown. Worries cast over their young faces, the faces which hold all the candour of youth, but only for now. Nothing is fixed, nothing can be certained.

And then there were them, the category of punksters, wild with youthful lust, giggling with absolute gayness, uncontrollably and physically attached to one another.

A few seats away, seemingly calm on the surface, yet inside- battling with self, core, beliefs, mind. I looked, trying to read any slipped faint contortion of the face which could mean anything, anything at all.

I stared downwards again at the endless characters, little ants are all I see. Love and some verses is all I hear.
That was hours ago.
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It's 2 a.m. now, what am I doing in this small confined space of a virtual diary? I should get back.