a little piece of incoherence

besides the characteristic navy pinafore and the occasional politically suicidal remark, i guess nobody can tell that i used to be an rg girl anymore.

I needed to talk.

talking to linette on msn yesterday was a mistake. we haven't even gotten on to our third sentence when we realised how much we actually missed each other. I mean, we used to have these hc-rj discussions in which i would extol hc and she compliment rj. now i don't even bother. whats the point of discussing your differences when you know that there is something else that binds unites your souls? whats the point of discussing the next-best-thing when in both your hearts you know what tops the list?

i vaguely remember an essay i wrote in sec 3 about 'The three rgs(s)".

It went something like this-

'There are three rgs(s). The rgs as the public sees it, a functional machine churning out machines churning out A1s; the rgs as the parents see it, a trophy whose sole use is to humble all relations into meek acquiescence of their dear daughter's brillance, and our rgs, which we will always remember."

for we are those whose shadows have glided through the same portals, shone through that stained glass irisdescence and beheld the marbled glory of Athena.

Do you know what i am talking about?

the countless soles that have come off from splitting in the foyer, the low frequency reverberations reflected off dusty mini-amphi walls, the shreds of shiny purple sticking unceremoniously out of rubbish bins, and handprints, size 7, left behind by enthusiastic gymmers walking upside down on tiles.

I know what you are thinking about.

You perceive, in the distance, a white tower, heavily guarded by swirling mists. The white fortress; cold, aloof. Far too removed from your own earthly origins, you think. Hearken! A low rumble of thunder comes from behind the pristine walls. Your mind runs through images of knights decked out in armored splendour, lined in rows upon rows of ivory magnificence; visors down, swords, unsheathed, glinting silver in open challenge of the sun. O for heaven's sake! Your ashen lips, crumpling in human scorn.

the wind blows,
and all the clouds scatter.

Get me?

parched lips. with a third degree burn.
elitism-ironed on. you walk away in your new embroidered shirt-

Forget it. Let's just talk about hc.