.in between baritone and alto

I just realized that my life is pretty much the same every day.

No spice. Does not kick.


So I started today with a rare breakfast. A big portion of blue rice and oversized deep fried chicken with pungent gravy. Now my tummy is rumbling Katrina. But it does give some differences in perspective. They say, change a bit of your life, and you are reborn – or something similar – and yes, my pretty much the same life now discrete. I come to believe that everyday has a flavour. It is just that some days are less impressed than the others.

I remember about last month I talked to a few current generation undergraduates while waiting for my laundry. They were playing word games. And it comes to the letter B for places. One of them said, “Berlin” and the other argued, “That is not a place.”

So I interrupted, “It’s in Germany, where is there the Berlin Wall, the wall which divided Berlin for almost 30 years with some ugly history associated with it.”

One of them asked, “Why would you know about things like that?”

She asked me “Why.”

Not “how”, far from “what”.


What happened to our future generation?


.rain, rain please be kind

It is now the time of the year when we have the most rainfall ever. I always love rainy days, the way i love coffee and books. I don’t want it to stop, but somehow it gets wild and heartless, paralysing the whole city.

I am missing home.

At nights like this – when the skies grumbling like a hungry tummy – i can never get close enough to my dreams. As if it is swiftly blown away by the wind. As if the night rains washed away all my hopes and fears, leaving me soulless and again, cleaning my own slate.

I ask myself a question a day on Twitter. It is just an attempt to give meanings and measures of my efforts – in a way that we should be grateful of every little thing that we have, or that even our smallest contribution could do some changes the world – so that i can put myself to sleep with satisfaction, every-day. These questions are prominent, pushing me over my limits and yes, terrifying. I don’t know where this idea comes from but it seems to move me away from bad habits – like a good distraction – but somehow, addictive. I think we all need our own bubble – to keep ourselves sane – especially when dealings with negativity, or people influenced by bad experience whatsoever.

Those questions are my bubble.

Remember the movie ‘I am Legend’? Every time i cross the campus for shorter route or just to avoid traffics, i imagine my small family survived such an event, hiding in one of the buildings. The harm is all done and away, just that we are trying to rebuilding what’s left of the world – or at least a part of the campus that reachable. There we then find another two small families, and a few survived students who have hidden in the underground armoury lab of the army. They have food supplies, tools and materials needed. One family has medical background, another is … ok this is where it usually ends.

I know. I hate it. I hate it even more because i don’t actually know why i would have such imagination. I have another one, i even give it a title “My name is Prakash”, and i swear, it is weirder.

And i hate it when i use a lot of ‘i’s in my post.

Wish for tomorrow: backache gone for good.

.of an old man with extra life

Let say you play a game and you are at the final stage, and you are yet having too many lives.

Will you keep going to end it, be cocky that you are immortal, never once failed any stage, but actually you used cheats? Or will you go back to other previous stages where you scored low and amend, because you ain’t that perfect?

What would be your choice?

I breathe the smell of papers and ink these few weeks. There is such a chill in the morning when i am alone, tuning on the radio and the door at the back shrieking as if someone is entering. And somehow i can overhear girls chatter about their PMS, and how it hurt so badly that they couldn’t even attend classes. And sometimes the boys was so loud i thought somebody is in trouble. And at noon, there will be this smell, almost like the smell of a cigarette, coming from the window.

There’s a big fat fruitless tree outside and some papayas are mysteriously falling from it.

Can you imagine? It’s almost like i am living in a haunted campus, like those in Thai movies.

I see big mistakes we human do. And yet we ignore. We step on the same mud, and blame the rain every-time. We opt to stay when everything’s changed.





Is our brain limited?

If so, why do we have this constant thirst in acquiring knowledge?

Why do people love lies?

Should us be living a fake life?

I think i need to reread Sophie’s World.