Fight World Hunger

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Saturday, March 23, 2002

I am not

I could burst into poetry,
I could write a song,
I could write a story,
but then it'd come out wrong.

I could learn something,
I could watch tv,
I could learn to sing,
no, to think of it, it wouldn't be me.

I wish I could be somewhere,
far away from here,
I wish I could escape reality,
into my world of a dream.

You shouldn't be there,
you shouldn't live a dream,
ahead I look in a stare,
in deep thought it may seem.

Sometimes when I sleep,
I awake suddenly as if from fear,
its as if I just went on a life trip,
filled with sweat and tears.

But it isn't joyful,
it isn't a documentary,
I feel genuinely afraid,
of something, I don't know what.

The fear lives on,
it has now invaded my conscious,
I try to find a song,
to make it more melodious.

The happiness, the contentment,
is like a decadent facade,
perhaps I should just stop everything,
stop pretending that its alright,
because at the end of the day,
it really isn't.


when I wake, I dream,
when I sleep, you appear,
so many ways to screw up,
so many ways to see you,
and so many ways to screw up later.

so many possibilities.
the mind works up a cauldron of mixed thoughts and emotions.
mixed being the imperative word, since you can't tell what's real.
and what's not.
though all the camouflage, the carnage, is a barrier that seems indestructable.
or is it just because your beauty is too captivating?
perhaps that is why i stare. although i try not to.
but sometimes, i can't help it.

i have a message to deliver that makes me the messenger.
although the message may never get delivered due to distraction problems.
for who am i?
except a nobody.
unless you are a nobody too, perhaps...perhaps.
perhaps i will never know.
and things will never change.
and we will always be on both sides of the counter.
leave it to fate, to determine what will happen.
and i will attempt to forget you,
only to be reminded whenever i walk past,
therefore the only solution would be to not walk past,
if i can only resist the temptation.
or the beauty.

Thursday, March 21, 2002

In bed with Synflex, Zinnat and serratio peptidase

It is as if things haven't changed ever since last week. I felt crippled, I can't do this. I can't do that. It was quite fun at first, responsibilities seemed to be the last thing on my mind, it was like a paid vacation. Nurses came in to check on me every now and then, that was cool. I kinda liked that. Now I'm bonding with my bed, my notebook is back to normal again, sprawled on my bed are CDs, newspapers, pillows and etc. I take my pulse and blood pressure less regularly than I have the urge to check e-mails. Hmm, seems as though pressure went up.

Can't work out, can't go to the gym, can't drive. Great. So what else is there to do?

Something came up on the newspaper the other day that caught my attention. This little 5 year old girl needs your help. Her name is Quin-Lynn and she was born with a serious congenital heart problem and I quote 'the blood vessels to her lungs are not connected to her heart and she also had two holes in her heart.' She needs close to RM300k and the family has only raised RM70k. They will need the money before the end of May. That's in two months. I don't know if it was because I just got out of the hospital or because I am emphathetical but I feel like she really needs help, and what I went through was nothing. What made my heart cringe was when the mother said that some people advised her to 'let her daughter go'. Seriously, what the hell is that? Nobody should die that way. Not when they are five years old.

You can send a cheque to:
Kiwanis Club of Klang - Children's Fund
Write 'Ng Quin-Nee' behind and send it to:
Ng Quin-Nee Appeal,
Kiwanis Club of Klang, 28 Jalan Kampar, 41300 Klang, Selangor, Malaysia.

For those with newspapers its on Tuesday March 19, 2002's The Star - Main Section Page 15. Personally, I'm going to write a cheque, I'll see how that goes and keep you updated. Its funny how one's problems seem so insignificant when one feels charitable. Really makes you think twice the next time you say 'Life sucks,' because really, it doesn't.

Tuesday, March 19, 2002

feel >> PAIN

Being carted out from your room was a surreal feeling. I watched as I passed through rows and rows of florescent lights. I felt weak, limp, faint. With no indication or sense of direction, I just lay there. Being as calm and composed as I could.

I had always imagined myself to have a high tolerance to pain - that plus the ability to not moan about my predicament. I guess that would come in useful after the operation. Suddenly I was 'parked'. It was like a dizzying MTV come to a sudden halt. I was left alone. Perhaps the operating theatre wasn't ready. I thought to myself, 'I could hop off this bed now and make a run for it.' I wondered what would be the implications though. Then I remembered the last thing the surgeon said, 'Sign here.' Imposing? I didn't know what to make of it then. I was in pain. I did my research, and the operation was necessary. Sign here. The words echoed in my head a few times before I lifted the abnormally heavy pen. I glanced at the documents but I wasn't reading it. 'Consent. Operation. Patient' seemed to dominate most of the words on the document. 'Sign here,' said the surgeon, pointing to the void above 'Patient'. I did.

The nurse took out the documents as I lay there on the bed. 'Is this your signature?' she asked. Of course it was. Fear and anxiety prevented me from checking. But as I lay there in the waiting bay, I wondered - what did I agree to? It occurred to me that I didn't even know what I was agreeing to. Should I leap off this bed and make a run for it?

'Sign here,' said the accountant as I checked the transaction slip from the credit card payment. Hospital. RM3,000. Cardmember's signature.

I stared blankly at the ceiling. What if there were complications? What if I died from the surgery? 'There are no complications,' reassured the surgeon from behind his desk. I was trying to figure out the situation. Was he trying to help me? Or was he trying to make a sale? He looked sincere. I thought to myself, wouldn't it be strange, if I died? I would have paid for my own death. But that was a tad too morbid. It was just a simple operation. Well, not that simple. Perhaps I still had a shred of positivity.

That can't be good. On my left were rows upon rows of bottles. On my right, a few nurses chatted excitably over something. But the voices were just garbled, a concoction of blurry voices and maniacal laughter. Perhaps the anxiety over-exaggerates everything. But I wasn't in the mood to tune anything down. What did I sign for? I asked myself yet again...

I guess they weren't kidding about the part where there were bright lights. I felt like a lab frog prepped up for dissection. 'Please give me your arm,' said the anesthetist. 'I am going to insert a tube in your vein, this might hurt a little.'
'I am going to inject the anaesthetic now, this might be painful.'
I felt a cold fluid being injected directly into my veins. I could feel the coolness being transported with every beat of my heart, pumping the drug into my body. Nothing. No pain. So that wasn't as bad as I thought. I could hear beeping, that's probably my heartbeat, I thought to myself. 'Why is it taking so long?' I could hear somebody saying. I was proud of that. I relished in the fact that their so-called anaesthetic didn't do anything to me. Unfortunately, that was the last thing I heard, or remembered.

I still don't know what I signed.