Teenager: On Christmas

The warmest time of the year

Under the pelting rain

Where calories burn

In jet-lagged bodies

and wet blabbering mouths

Crystalized on beads of red, yellow and blue

Smiles exchanged

The fragrance of Jasmine floats 

Beneath the ethanol stench

of blue ticks

red ticks

and lipstick stains

Buzz.

He looks onto ebony 

Loneliness spells a larger consequence than the colours of friends forgotten

And fiends who linger 

in a circular pace

The Beach

One day, I walked along the beach
Sand in my feet, light and bristly
Caught beneath brittle nails, each
pink with youth, softly tingling
Warmth inching into cold skin

Wet with blood running within
Red unseen
Sand with a buried history

An Athlete's Farewell

When you taste success, mediocrity eats you
Like a dull worm writhing in your lungs
Short of breath
The end of the roller coaster ride
Leaves the unsettling hunger
Of what can be

You strain your eyes
Looking far beyond 6/6
The horizons betray the vague dreams
Glistening sweat stains the track of the fallen
And you stand

Do you go on?
Do you trudge willingly
Destroying your psyche
In the pursuit of perfection?

For no one said glory was easy
And with life's cards dished out in uneven droves
And blood drying out with each second
You are weighed down by what must be
And what has

You smile, someday
You see that dreams end
A picture portrait
A fleeting moment
So yearnfully immortalized in tiny images
And battle scars
But as the climb ends
You must go down
And life goes on

I believe in humanity -

Depression

Excessive bloating
Shortness of breath, tingling
limbs and palor, with
Heavy-set eyes
and tired sighs

Insufficient qi
an orange sheen
meridians reversed
An inconsiderate mind
and frozen thighs

Every doctor he visits
comes cautionary tales
and fairweather reports
Pain strikes a chord
Unmeasured by metal rods

But no doctor can diagnose a broken heart

Late night thoughts

A friend recently asked about my secret to juggling a successful artistic career in the midst of academic commitments. Being not such a greenhorn in this industry, I am tempted to paint a tropical picture of what life is being a mini-celebrity, with a myriad of gigs to look forward to and a fat pocket, perhaps just like what my Instagram shows. 

But I'm not near enough to where I think I should be.

I am struggling, with bouts of depressive moments and days on end where I lie on bed for hours, wondering if anything will ever work out.

I wait sometimes for days, for the next call or email to come my way, wondering if my big break will skip this long queue of actor and host wannabes and come my way.

I sometimes chase the dream so much I forget to dream.

I know this path comes with great sacrifices: No more scholarships if you are just an ordinary person with limited mental resources; no dean's list to look forward to. You'll be happy to get through, living a double life.

Any wrong move could land you a broken reputation and no more media jobs.

I feel lonely sometimes, and I look around, with friends going into law and medicine; and with so many rag-to-riches stories, I know the artistic path is not the path to take for a comfortable life.

And I feel lonely often: I feel like I have to fight alone in this industry; you'd never know when you'll be left behind.

And this feeling weighs you down like a faltering breath till it reaches an illogical suspicion: every call from a friend becomes to feel like a plea to either fill in a survey, to buy insurance, or to introduce him or her to a casting director. Never just because they just want your company.

And you feel lonely because there are so many things you can't say.

I know that I was never able to do this alone. My hope alone runs out, but I know where this hope comes from, though I always forget from time to time. This is my calling, and with the knowledge of who's the one ultimately in charge, I'll rise above all the petty politics I've encountered in this life, all the hearsay of failure and resignation - all these thoughts begging me to stop doing what I love and enjoy.

Through all these heavy-set moments, I pray; and you know that you don't have to carry these burdens alone, with God behind you all the way. There's many things I still don't understand, and I still battle inner demons that feel so natural to me... But I know somehow God has a plan, and He has a reason.

And that's why I am still here, today, chasing what I dream to be.

And that's why I remind myself to be grateful for every little success I encounter - for each acting, hosting and singing gig that I have; for each friend that calls up just to say hello; for a purposeless hug; for slightly bigger successes on TV and otherwise - I have journeyed a long while, but these little joys spur me on.

I've heard or read somewhere that God doesn't give you more than you can shoulder. I guess it's true for successes as well, and I'm just getting ready for the time where God knows I'm ready to tackle a big fish and reach my dreams.

And when my journey ends, perhaps I'll know everything.

The Ancestral Home

A grey wall bears heavy memories.

With the scent of old paine,

and weathered chalk,

distant sounds of clatter in the kitchen

And a lone dog or two barking a tireless rebuttal to my arrival

I look up at the long flight of unpainted steps,

beckoning silently,

up.

A stone table, heavy set chairs lined up against,

green and chipped with age.

I sit, but the cold bades me in,

past heavy metal grills and open doors,

into the darkness of within,

yet warm with what was.

A light shivers tungsten,

swaying with the smell of rain,

yet outside lies the damp night air,

and crickets cry in vain.

A small screen, news droning within,

and the distant smell of dinner peeps in

past tired eyes and dry hands

into eager nostrils

Clanging of the wok

and vegetable oil dancing amidst dead greens

I sit, head furtively to one side,

balanced on a stoned arm

As a voice calls the time from long ago

I stand, as the floor crumbles 

a moldy cake

I open my eyes to a gluttony sea of green

drowning what's left of these memories

I awake to just grainy images

and an echo of what was

Betrayed by the greed of children

She smiles a lonely goodbye

I awake to just grainy images

and an echo of what was

I awake to just grainy images

and an echo of what was

I awake to just

you and me

The Boy at the Pet Shop

The boy down the street came by, day by day
At my shop window.
He stared down at the little cots,
Where my little babies slept in,
quietly,
sometimes not so much.
My shop shone pink and blue,
pastel colours, and matted fur
Baby cries and pretty purrs

The boy looked with batted curls
Face pressed against cold glass,
Palms sweaty and eager
against invisible barriers
Much to my dismay (those handprints!)
Months torn away
And babies grow
The warmth of June left, and came rainy days
Where damp-pressed skin battled against humid winds

And one day as I closed shop amidst a sleepy thunderstorm
I saw him again.
He was wet, translucent uniform
And little frame
Backpack left aside
As he stared at Foo Foo
I locked up, and I came over,
a gentle hand ready to wave
a practiced smile displayed

And I chimed, "Why hello there young man, not going home in this heavy rain?"
He looked at me a little,
Face but a coy smile
Beady eyes with fond memories.
"I will go back soon"
I pressed on, as curiosity got the better of me.
"Why boy, why do you always come look at my animals? Do you want to ask your mummy or daddy to get you one?"
He then said, "Well, they say if I wished hard enough, my efforts will pay off, so here am I..."
I wanted to say more, but I wasn't a generous one,
so I bade him good day and left him to his own devices.

But ain't him barking up the wrong tree
Where we never perform charity
and it's all but wasted trips?

For if you wish upon a star,
It may one day fall,
But it glides above your head and over the horizon
to yet another beautiful dream.

The Painted Glass

Why must we see the world through irises?

For these rounded glass approximate the beauty of the world

And we see not the truth

But our truth.

Why must we hear through our clouded thoughts?

For words which we hear, don't come in close

But through learning we hear and not listen

and fear and it deepens

And memories add to the present a pretty little filter

Why must we feel?

For we smile through thickened creases

Chaffed lips hide a heavy heart

Light is the load

But heavy is what I hear

Bogged down are the number of colours in the box

And my trembling hand

Why must we understand

Before loving,

and understand,

before wisdom?

A journey to the Upper World

He scurries along dark pavements,

Scraps of leftovers beckoning

Friendly colours of brown and black

Amidst roads of grey and 

Smells of delicious meat in the broiler

He sneaks a peak out of darkness

Bright tungsten glares from heaven

While a steady whirl 

A constant distraction

One. One. One.

Zero.

He climbs a steady climb up folds of heavy fabric

And musty smells of bleach and dog furs

Brown amidst maroon and yellowy white

While the television blared in a faraway place

Danger contained within metal and plastic

Then he paused.

There, in a tiny pink box:

The It.

Nestled within luscious layers of hay and straw

Toys within reach

Clean water to one side

And a little bell, hanging from the little ceiling of pink and nil

And a little wheel,

all cute and yellow

paradise in the universe

The It slept peacefully in a corner, breathing little, quick breaths

An imaginary squeal waking its little limbs

In an air struggle

An imaginary predator
and an imaginary freedom

He turned, and scurried back into the Under
free

Under the Silvery Moon

Under the silvery moon,
Stars we cannot see
Shining a peaceful melody
Over the purple skies
Of tungsten and green

Padded cushions
Hiding twos and fives
If dreams cannot be seen,
If life cannot be lived
I can't be me

I can't be me

I can't be me

The Man In The Mirror

But why must love be the answer?
To a life
Where we chase dreams that we hold and touch
To a face
Which we see but not our own,

For in the mirror lies a lesser us
Cold and unconscious
But very much as alive
As our tendencies
A dark, burning fire
Dancing with the cold winter
But why must love be the answer?

And I dance along,
In silent solidarity with friends
Every move a mimicry
Every smile a glazed shine on a little mirror
In beady, friendly eyes
Squinting under lines of eyeliner and mascara
For in the mirror lies a lesser us

Breaking free only in dreams,
white on white
on silver and grey
Clean teeth, sharp and ready
To make a point
But why must Love, love us?

Someday we will learn to love
Out of the grainy soil
Of times past

For to love the mirror
And not the man in the mirror
Is but a pity.

The Bogeyman

From a corner of my eye,
it lies.
Slithering from the depths of my dreams
Into a muddy consciousness

I walk alongside the pavement, a heavyweight on my back
Its voice whispering sweet nothings from long ago
A gentle hand
Translucent, slimy, wet with passion
Runs through my hair
Dry with the Sun

And dusk falls
I start running
for with nightfall comes the beautiful nightmare
Hands outreached, it grabs my limbs
Was it my hand, or my leg?
Or did it take?

Stones count its years
And stones replaces heavy hearts
When we stop looking
The Bogeyman smiles, and then it collects its dues

But I can't resist
and I take its hand
Or a gentle kiss on the cheek
So much more we yearn,
but with memories
All comes broken
All comes like a sick breeze from the canal below
Beckoning you in a stomach churning realization

That good things aren't meant to last
From long ago

$10.00

The fear of poverty is real.
The pain of poverty is real.
The constant dig in your stomach,
As your numbers fall gradually, when you have not even swiped a dollar
The numbing feeling when you lend someone your cable
And he disappears with it
That $10.00, so insignificant
Yet so precious
The every day struggle against taxi rides
Or lunch is no more
Or dinner is no more
Yet you smile
And you pay gladly
Every eye you see

The Tarot Card Lady

Thirty.

She took my hand, and led a prayer.

Then saw the moon in my eyes, a dulled ear
Seconds turned to moments of revelation
the witching hour's clock turned

To me, as I looked earnestly
in dim anticipation.

Pulled out numbers from days far gone,

Counting stars, and grave markers doth fond
counting scars and smiled a chore
for the past, is a reckoned simile forgone

I listened, ears red
and mouth dry for the truth is no further gone

With faith

Lessons learnt and wishes wished
Fond memories and what could be -
Time, did stop for a while

With the suspension
of disbelief,
Gently, she prodded
Words mellow, weighted measures
cold hands and warm shadows
Crowd watched from afar
But there were none

With faith

Cards resonate
Life atoned
Smiling more, she was God
and the universe
she spoke in rhymes
for plain words turned happy pills

resonates in thine mind.

The devil, the advocate
The minion in each card tells a little lullaby
Or maybe just
As I twirled with darkness
I could be no further from the truth

But to believe, makes it truth
and truth be told, and truth told
Makes what truth is left in what we perceive truth to be

But stories told do come true
And fairytale endings promised to you

You smile, renewed.

Ignorance? - Maybe.


But... happiness is worth it too.

Classroom 7A

How does it feel like to be alone?

Is it laughter in the distance, where you look through the window panes of your silence?

Or is it the delicious scent of sweet bakes, melting in your mouth
But one bite, just one bite -

Or is it the sound of music in your ears,
sweetly singing undiscernible tones
as you sit, smiling in sweet memory of something long ago

Is it laughter close by, where you laugh a merry laughter, but it reaches your arms
a cold breeze wafting by

Or maybe laughter in your face
At your face
While you cover your face
With your soul

10pm by the roadside

She stood in the rain, beside the pavement
Wearing a shirt of white and grey
Red showing beneath the water stains
Red on teeth,
black on black the clouds grew
In the dark of the night

A frozen leg shook
As her heels dug into old earth
And her legs stained brown
As the cars passing threw her furtive glances

A little clutch lay by the kerb
"More important matters come first"
She muttered under muted breath, again and again,
Measuring the breadth of her own ego
As she counted stars
In the Singaporean night sky

But all she saw were faces of green and white staring
And teeth black and gold
Rotten breath
And a happy smile.

Random musings on a Monday night.

I'd like to count my blessings, from the little smiles in people, to a simple hello.
Days do turn to weeks and months pretty quickly, and my virgin internship experience has been quite a roller coaster, with so much more to learn, so many more to experience and yet insufficient energy to tide me through.

I'd guess I'll try to change up my schedule, and insert a little exercise every morning. Just tried it today (Monday, 20/6/16), and it seems that I came to work feeling so much more positive and ready to face every tired Monday blues face. <3 p="">
God watches over me, and I'm happy that through all the different doors that close, more doors open for me, in my own time.

This, and many more nights, is time to remind oneself to be appreciative, to be grateful of how wonderful life has been treating us.

I'd sleep wanting more, but dreams should be dreamt with no restraint, for only with big dreams, come big goals, and come bigger opportunities.

Cheerios! 

When The Boogie Monster Appears

I like bedtime stories.
Those that keep you warm, in the winter cold.
Where blankets and little cuddly toys
Only disappear into the layers of fabric
And the Boogie monster looms large and free
Just under that dark corner, where Fifi used to play.

I like bedtime stories,
Where a voice, gentle and mellow
Plays a singsong melody
Where fairies fleet
and doggies dig
and little nannies kidnap children

(And feed them gruel for breakfast)

I like bedtime stories,
Sometimes they lull me into a beautiful dream
Maybe just deep satin black covering beady eyes
Ne'er a cause to fear
For tomorrow is but another playtime
For an innocent soul

I like bedtime stories,
Where we snuggle,
familiar smells of family lingering in pinks and blues
There! Where Fifi used to play,
in the beautiful garden below
With the bushes blooming orange and green

I like bedtime stories,
And I tell them to myself -
Now that the Boogie monster has taken them away
And Fifi
Where's she?
Rest in peace...

The Pauper's Daily Recount

Fresh leaves, dampened in lathers of yellow
Sit wrapped in a speckled sea
As hot layers of pink settle asleep
in dreamy droves
On a clear bed of white

The fragrance fills the air
so clean, so bright, so tantalizing
He licks his lips in gleeful anticipation
Of a bite into that gorgeous creation

It travels, carefree
No eyes to see
No nerves to feel
But just a singular aim

And he raises it to his lips,
they part,
and they reveal clipped, white teeth
with little rounds of shine dotting the individual pillars

And down they go,
dancing
parting ways
each cell traveling down in a sea of darkness
into tomorrow

I sit by the side, and watch.

The Old Lady Who Lived In The Bushes

There was an old lady, with a wishing well.
She lived in the bushes, from stories they tell.
A little cottage garden, carnations she grew.
Stories they say that may be just true.

I believe, though, and I walked down
Day by day through smoldering forest ground
Till the forest stopped me bare
Branches hindered me, and fabric tears.

There, days numbered weeks, and weeks turned to years.
Or maybe not, but counting numbers, this my fear.
Without many a standing hair
And hearing God in words unfair

We grew up, and with life we bear.

I Skyped My Ex's Mom In a Dream (A Poem)

It was a chance encounter.

I would say.
I didn't know she would, but she answered, a pleasant,
middle-aged, made-up face answering a video call
from
far-away. A call I made to my memory.
Dorothy chirped, oblivious to the certain strangeness of it all,
Mom, answering her daughter's computer?

"Hi, Oh you were looking for her?"
If only she knew what I was looking for,
wasn't her, but the scent I've long forgotten
the ruffle of her hair when she turns
her unfamiliar gait

"She's just away from her desk for a minute,
How are you dear friend?"
Dorothy blinked expectantly, her face a neutral smile
awaiting my reply.
But I was awash with mucus,
Flowing out of my nasal passages
Of my mouth
Silence was her answer.

"Oh she's here,"
As her familiar face clicked into view.
She had not aged a bit through all these years,
still wearing the exact same clothes she slept in
day by day,
the pajama affair
A pretty sight
Her face betraying her untainted features,
an awkward twitch overcoming her left temple
And the glow from her desk in a far corner.

"Erm, hi?" A bright voice emerged from the speakers, tin-can vibes reflecting the sheer distance
I faltered a hasty reply,
Heart beating skipping twice a beat too soon
Hands clammy
It was the first date all over again,
She was beautiful, there and there

"Oh yeah I am, to a cute sailorboy,
yeah he's cute; What about you? Are you too?"
A lie ensued, a retort in jest
I smiled, and chuckled with a cackle at my own soul

"Oh sure, let's meet tomorrow! Oh okay I'll bring him too though that's totally weird,"
But she had moved on,

As I jolted to life, bedsheets stained a crimson memory
Consciousness rushing in
I knew it was my time too
But she did not wait for me
And memories keep pulling back
Year, after, year

It was a blank screen when I went to bed again.

When Death Pays a Visit

She wasn't afraid of dying,
but dying alone.

He was Death itself, and it pained him to bring to life, life's curse.
He came, sickle in hand, a shroud covering his chiselled face
Cursed in life, and conscious only in death
He walked, bringing the end to a close
collecting his dues

But she wasn't afraid of dying,
but dying alone.

He walked through the quiet corridors, on a gloomy midday
the skies as if to ascertain his presence
powerful, but a powerless release
He walked, he knew what was to come
A wrinkled hand, maybe, or a bloodied face

But she wasn't afraid of dying,
but dying alone.

He reached the room. It smelled of fresh flowers;
Someone had replaced the dying blooms from a fortnight ago
And the remaining rays of the midday glow
cast its gentle eyes on her
Eyes closed, a peaceful smile.

She knew.
She wasn't alone.

He watched, the black folds of his shroud reaching out like streams of tears
They should have cried with
enveloping the creases on the weathered floor
She breathed laboriously, glistening sweat on her temple
As the fresh blooms engulfed the room in a sickly sweet scent

She wasn't afraid of dying,
but dying alone.

And she knew she would never be from then on.
Her Lover has crossed the unending river to take her home
For life has always belonged to death
And memories to the deserving living
They did not deserve it.

She was ready.
She reached out her hand, ready to

Hold the nurse's hand that gripped hers tightly.
"You'll be alright,"
Was a gentle whisper.
Who was it?
Through blurred vision her eyes dreamed beautiful faces from her past

She was ready
And she wasn't alone

Death sat by the bedside,
Black tears raining through plastic veins
Then streaming through scouring membranes
He came, and he went away
Alone.

She was ready,
But We would not let go.

Flu

Whirl! Whirl!

Your head churns an ungodly tune

As rivets of brain juice, blended into a fine silvery consistency

crushes your consciousness 

an hourly alarm clock

You dance a foxtrot,

no, a box-step as you lay down

clockwork turning

a kettle past boiling point

boiled till the metal caramelizes

Knock knock

the devil appears in your dreams

as a dreamless sleep

marred by the strings of paracetamol

weighing on your heavy head

on the littlest frame

your body has now become

           You awake, yet you are struck by a constant melody

The beat of your own drum

Counting a 2 by 2

Thumping heavy

Thumping heavier

THUMPING-PING 

as it is dulled into a lifeless sleep yet again

For days become minutes

and daylight your enemy

The warmth an inviting enemy

The cold cast out, a forlorn thief

And it

Back agin

The Mango Cake

I came around on a sunny weekday,

Hands in my pockets,

Acting out little fidgety stories

Vasaline on my cracked skin disappearing under thirsty pores

Enough was the fear.

And so I walked into the bakery,

Cancelled the order for a delicious mango cake,

Returning favors had never been so easy.

Under the orange tree you lay,

Seated grudgingly on a stone pedestal

How small it was.

Only that you were waiting in vain,

No time could have waited but you

Musing about the possibilities that it could have been.

Under the orange tree we lay,

So long before

Hidden memories under these layers of cream and candy

I sat there once, and ate it all alone.

Just a thought.

It takes very little to be happy, but the knowledge that you are in control of your own destiny. Not the words of others, or material possessions, for they are all but temporary.

When the heretics speak

Amidst this lingering madness,
I plant the seed of optimism,
growing into numerous vines of white and yellow
red blood gushing through tired veins
till it falls
spent but valued.

But who more to live for but yourself,
and for the smiles of many, hungry men?

And the voices of many a authority,
whispering thunders of proclamation
drowning your elephant ears
Bellowing in the gentle breeze?

And the whispers of the dead
silently beneath the cold pressed soil
yearning a turn of the shovel
so as to breathe the fresh country air
wafting green and green over
whilst people toil in grey
repeated patterns quiver a monotonous heartbeat
A single continuum of blue
as red gushes into the green soil above
and into hungry, little mouths of the Fathers
with ne'er a rectum

But many mouths
all chanting the same tune.

Smiling.

The Before Book - Poem

For doors open, yet you don't see them
Only looking back at heavily watered grass
Wishing that in it lies flowered seeds
That break from the thrashed soil, with
Toiling arms not rested
And all of which falls back to a single voice.

The voice of reason resonating in a chamber.

A little man in a little city owned by Big Men - A Poem

We are an old soul, with a young heart. 

A grounded individual with large wings, soaring high in our dreams, only to crash next daylight

So as we sleep, we ponder

And we give thanks to the bread we break

It melts on our tongue

Not reaching our ravished, hungry tummies

Crying foul for capitalism unfair

But those are only words

Which we eat

and we chew

And we listen

And we grow full from the promises our forefathers sung

The foot does toil

the hands filled with callouses

The dry, rabid mouth

Speaking of sticky, sickly sweet words

We look through the drool, and then we see God

in the mirror.

The Past vs the Present

Our parents might have had it harder in terms of standards of living. No air conditioning (or perhaps inefficient cooling), noisier vehicles, no trains to take us around, less shopping malls, no electronics, terrible television quality...

But somehow they had it better too. Everything was more predictable. Change was slow. Communication was slow, but we saw each other more often. Graduating from university was a big event, and your career was made out from then on.

Life wasn't easy, but it was easy to plan.

Now, we think of the knowledge economy, the digital economy. Basically it means - we know too much, yet we think too slow in comparison to the myriad of computers making calculations every millisecond, on stocks, on the value of currency, of businesses - by the time we graduate - knowledge is made obsolete.

And this is reason to be afraid.
 But even more reason to dream big.

Thoughts about a life worth living

Sometimes we fall victims to choice. We choose to be victims of circumstance. We choose to be victims of personality. We choose to blame us on fate, on luck, on our upbringing. While there are many situations which lead us to think that we are but actors in a scripted play - could we choose otherwise?

It has been hard. Growing up in a society laden with expectations. With overly competitive schoolmates, competing in everything from results, to number of sport medals. Growing up, I've been like the others. Chased dreams of scholarships, of good results on report cards, on getting into the best classes in the school and taking more "prestigious" subjects - my entire ego has been fueled by an appetite for approval - by society.

And unfortunately something else crept in - my love for the entertainment industry. And from then on my attention has been ripped into 2 directions, one scrambling to maintain passes in school, and attending classes on time, and the other dreaming of a big break.

The long hours of acting (and sometimes rehearsals), the auditions taking up so much time, the rejections - it has made me into a person with a lot of grit - but sometimes, don't you feel like there's nothing left inside of you, other than a worn down shell?

My ego has been crushed, then rebuilt by a flimsy approval from the entertainment world. Every job I get seemed like a nod from an invisible judge in my mind, telling me that I too - can do well too.

That I will not retire at 70, poor and void of any true achievements.

I have ceased to chase paper grades. My aspirations in law are long over (to good effect, there's too many lawyers now for too little jobs), and my grades in business school are perhaps less than stellar due to my fear of numbers (equations? no.)

And my efforts placed in the entertainment industry are not enough to bear good fruit, but too much for such little progress.

5 years is too much. Yet some actors take 20 years, or more. Do I have enough time? Recently, a poor lady named Cheryl fell down a cliff in Australia, and died. If I was her, and I fell? Would I die filled with a life of what-ifs?

What am I doing with my life? Where are the big dreams dreamt of as a teenager?

Even now, I dream of an existence where I am a successful entertainer, host and actor, getting big gigs, my timetable full yet the full control to reject any gig; with a successful side business to helm and grow my finances - and a nice house and car to boot (I guess its alright to be a little materialistic), but then I wake up, to a comfortable home, though a little small, to parents who adore me, to a stable family, to a future where I may live a simple, perhaps frugal but livable lifestyle, where I am at my best comfort to at least try a little longer to reach my dreams.

And there are so many things to be thankful about.

My new internship that is going to last for 6 months, with very diverse and interesting colleagues, a convenient workplace, a friendly and sweet boss - all willing to take me in despite my inexperience and quirks.

My good grade for a single module, with a professor that is earnest and innocent.

Friends who are there for me, silently, but surely.

Good things do happen, and it should be made a habit to end every day thinking about the positives in life, and how exciting tomorrow would be.

The little gestures of kindness a fellow intern gives, a smile leeching from an unfriendly face, a pat on the back - and seeing happy, smiling people brightens up an otherwise unexciting existence.

And every tomorrow gives hope, that I am working towards a big break in my own little way - where the toil bears fruit and I am content.

Mindfulness goes a long way.