Soliloquy...at work.

Eight hours of chaos. Two more to go.

Working on a holiday. Welcome to the hospitality industry.

I was a journalist once. I'm used to working when everybody else isn't. The most news-worthy stuff often happen during the festive season. Holiday for you, field day for us.

And my current job is no different. Full house today. Luckily only three arrivals, and no check-outs. It's crazy how many familiar faces I got to see today. Returning guests, all here for another dose of this place I call my hometown. All foreigners--not a single Malaysian on the list. Dutch honeymooners, Australian families, American expats based in Laos, a Scotsman traveling solo, and even a gay couple from Belgium.

And Terry's back. Apparently, he loves Borneo so much, he simply couldn't leave. The journey home to Newport Beach is now two months behind schedule. Always a hiking trip somewhere. Invitations from friends he's made throughout his travels. What an exciting life he's got--this favorite guest of mine. How unlike the one I have.

So here I am, finally able to take a breather after eight straight hours of frantically trying to get everything in order. The place is terribly under-staffed today. Typical Christmas scenario, according to my boss. One hell of a workaholic, she is. I don't think the term "festive season" and "weekends" exist in her vocabulary. She was here earlier, and she's coming back in a bit. If it wasn't for the family dinner she has to attend, she would still be here.

And I have a feeling I'm turning into her as well.

Everyone's gone out to explore the city. The place is suddenly quiet. I'm running things solo at the moment. It's just me and a couple of guys in F&B. I hear them chatting away in the restaurant from my workstation. There must always be someone in the lobby--so yes, I'm chained to this place. Keeping an eye on the door in case someone wants to come inside. Every time I look at it, I'm overcome by loneliness.

Loneliness, even in the company of so many people. My existence is indeed a sad one.

Lonely and sad. That's what I've been feeling the entire day. It's been extremely hectic, but I managed to steal a few quick glances of my phone. Whatsapp, to be specific--and I didn't like what I saw. There was a text about someone bringing over some food for le monsieur on Christmas Eve. Someone he's mentioned about many times--and no matter how hard I try to make myself dismiss that as an innocent gesture, I always end up disliking it even more.

It's a hard blow to my face, that thing is. A reminder that I've lost so many precious hours with the man. That I haven't been giving him the attention he deserves. So caught up in the things that I have to do, all these expectations I need to fulfill. Everyone's expectations but his. I'm such an awful person.

I'm an awful person. I'm also awfully sad and lonely.

I think I should probably stop writing now, before I burst into tears and the guests start pouring back in.

Joyeux Noël. Feliz Navidad.

Thoughts at midnight.

You get the air out of my lungs whenever you need it

And you take the blade right out of my heart

Just so you can watch me bleed

And I still don't know why, why I love you so much

Go on, fill your cup with my blood. Fill it till it runneth over.

Then sip on it to your heart's content. That is, if you can find it in your heart to be content.

Knowing you, though, I'm certain you're going to bleed me dry before you do.

I am not a walrus.

Lights out.

One glance at the laptop screen.

Media player on. Check.

Playlist selected. Check.

Headphones connected. Check.

Correct sound settings. Check.

Stray thought pops up: Damn, I’m one hell of an audiophile.

Stop it already. Time to plug in.

And so, I assume my position on the bed.

I lie still, as still as I possibly can. The only visible movement is the rise and fall of my chest as I breathe, slowly and evenly.

My eyes are closed. It’s time for them to rest.

Touch and hearing are the only senses left working: hearing because it’s the only one I need, and touch because it’s impossible to turn off.

My sense of smell is already screwed up, ergo it’s out of the equation.

No, I am not relaxing. This, in fact, is an exercise. A workout.

The music in my ears is not Mozart or Chopin, but Armin van Buuren.

It’s music for dancing, not for lying motionless like a corpse.

And yet, here I am, doing exactly that. Fighting the intense urge to move in time with the music as the thumping beats relentlessly beckon me to, like sirens among treacherous rocks.

All that chaos, while appearing completely tranquil on the outside.

This is an exercise in restraint. In stifling emotion-driven tendencies so as to form a protective veneer around this broken self.

This is an exercise in being cold. So cold, that touching my heart will give you frostbite.

Self-preservation through turning myself into a mere stone sculpture: Apathetic, emotionless and yes, cold.

And it’s all because of the fact that passion nearly killed me.

Definitely not what the shrink ordered, but I couldn’t care less.

Emotion-driven deletion.

I have a photography project that isn't even halfway through. One of the major perks of the job: I get zero time for anything not work-related.

I have to say, it's totally awesome. NOT.

The creative juices aren't flowing anymore. The pressures of work have robbed me of what's left of it. There's simply no room for hobbies or passions now. The unfinished project desperately calls out to me, begging to be completed, promising to be my personal magnum opus--but I am forced to ignore the cries. I'd sit in a chair for five minutes, and someone calls me a slacker already. So how is one supposed to finish something that'll take hours and hours of sitting in front of a computer screen every day?

There is simply no way I can continue this, like, ever. Leaving it in the folder would just piss me off, so I decided to pull the plug on it. Delete the project. Delete the original files. I even uninstalled the Photoshop software. No one uses it anyway. I'd have tossed the camera in the trash too if I hadn't considered the fact that it's worth about twelve grand--accessories and all. My last name isn't Gates or Trump or freaking Vanderbilt. Getting a new one is out of the question. I can only imagine smashing that thing to pieces in my head.

Now, if only I could smash it on another person's skull. That would be awesome indeed.

Loving things.

Found a quote on Twitter a while ago:

People are made to be loved. Things are made to be used. The world is in chaos because things are being loved and people are being used.

 It got me pondering for a while. Just for a while.

And then I stopped thinking.

Le soleil glorieux.

The sunset was especially glorious yesterday evening. Don't ask me how I know, or why I say it was so. Somehow, yesterday's sunset was unlike any other sunsets I've seen. Too bad I didn't catch it on camera. The image still sticks in my mind--even now, when the new day is halfway through.

There are words that go with it too. Verses from my favorite chapter in the Quran. One can't help but marvel at the way the words are placed together. There is a musical ring to it, a poetic resonance that, even when recited by the most ordinary person, never fails to captivate you. And if you know the language, it's even more profound and beautiful.

They say the words of the Quran are the words of the Almighty himself.

And by these words, the protesting skeptic in me is (temporarily) silenced.

By the Sun and his glorious splendor;

By the Moon as she follows him;

By the Day as it shows the Sun's glory;

By the Night as it conceals it;

By the Firmament and its (wonderful) structure;

By the Earth and its vast expanse;

By the Soul, and the proportion and order given to it;

And its enlightenment, as to its wrong and its right;

Truly he succeeds that purifies it,

and he fails that corrupts it!

-- Ash-Shams (The Sun): Verses 1-10 --

Err...tant de temps?

"Mon passe-temps favori, c'est laisser passer le temps, avoir du temps, prendre son temps, perdre son temps, vivre à contretemps." ~Francoise Sagan

My favorite pastime is to let the time go by, to have time, to take my time, to waste time, to live against the times.

Sixty seconds in a minute. Sixty minutes in an hour. Twenty-four hours in day. Then come the weeks, and the months, and the inevitable year. It's never enough. I always end up with no time at the end of it all.

Makes me wish this planet could trade orbit paths with Mars, or any other planet that comes after it.

To err is human, to purr feline.

Here's an interesting fact: Cats don't meow to other cats.

Meowing is a sound they make specifically for humans. They meow only to us--and they purr only to those they love.

I have nine cats. Oh, wait. It's eight now. Lost one a few months ago--killed by a speeding car. The youngest one of the bunch, Sam, especially loves to purr. Touch her just a little, and it starts. Stroke her fur, and she does it. Pick her up and it gets even more intense. I have a nickname for her: 'Silent mode cellphone', because of the vibrations I feel whenever she's on my lap or in my arms.

The purring of a cat--I have to say, has a very soothing effect. It calms your nerves. It even brings out the happy in you. When a cat purrs, it's actually telling you that it loves you. And to know that you are loved, it sure does make you happy.

I can't even begin to explain just how much I love my little furballs. I think they are the only ones I love who seem to genuinely love me in return. None of my faults matter. They simply take me as I am--the good, the bad, the ugly--and still purr like crazy at the end of the day.

If only humans could purr. I wonder, who would do that for me?

The first post, obviously.

I'll keep it short and to the point.

These are my journal entries, posted online.

This is how I voice out my thoughts without actually utilizing my larynx, because some things are better written than said aloud.

And that's it. The end.