My 2008

Today is the last day of 2008. Never will I experience such a tumultuous, yet enriching year. Never will I put "o8" as part of the date on my laundry slip. Never will I spend one whole year without touching the soil of my homeland. And never will I forget this episode of my life, a year to be commemorated.

From Sichuan earthquake to Beijing Olympics, I have witnessed how a nation rose up from disconsolate dispirit to uproarious celebration. From global economic crisis to Mumbai terrorist attack, I foresee what kind of legacy this uncommon year would leave us, a mission yet to be fulfiled, and a dillemma yet to be solved. From the beginning of my Sec 3 life, to the dawning of my graduation year, I have experienced what growth really means: you have to live through it.

People usually wish each other "happy" at every celebrating occasion. Happy birthday. Happy Labour Day. Happy Valentine's Day. Happy April Fool's...Finally comes to Happy New Year, which marks an ending to the whole year's "happy" wishes, and heralds a new year's anticipation of joy. Joy does not necessitate hilarious sensations. For me, the last day of this year was spent in a "sublime" way, quietly exhilarating. Some go to Marina Bay for the countdown; some share the last day of 2008 online with their friends; some are hurrying back Singapore for a new school year; and some welcome the upcoming of a new year for the sake of a "new" year, as the night draws to its end. When the time comes, won't we enjoy the same excitement? I wonder.

As we are about to wave goodbye the passed year, I feel a strong urge to look back the path I come, or, if possible, tread back to the starting point, when I was nothing but an uncertain "new" student in Nan Hua, everything was unfamiliar and everywhere cast an unforeseen shadow. I did not know when the mist began to disperse, nor did I know the exact time when what had befoged me died away. All I knew was that I lived through it, and I did not know why.

Now, think about what I was feeling one year ago, I feel invigorated, refueled, buoyed, and bolstered. Facing the unknown, I was so optimistic, and so undeterred by any possible setback. Facing the unfathomable, I was so carefree, and so light-hearted. Now, standing at the threshold of 2009, I know what I am facing, and I can foresee what is awaiting ahead. Only that I hope I will never lose my origianl optimism and determintion; only that I hope time does not and will not abrade my passion and belief for what I am pursuing.

Also comes to an end is the school holiday. It is subtly unsettling when one comes to his or her graduation year. Unlike China, when there is literally no school holidays before graduation year, here we could still relish a relaxing holiday before we sit for our O Level. It's like wrapping a caterpillar in a cocoon and seeing it metamorphose into a butterfly. This holiday let me find my cocoon, a place to rest, and a place to change, for which I shall forever hold a gracious attitude.

Finally, my mum and dad. Though I saw your faces for a meagre ten days' time in this 2008, I am sure our hearts are meeting every day. Though I seldom express my love in an explicit way, I am sure you can hear what my mind says. Though we occasionally went through tirades from both sides, I am sure we never let a grain of unhappiness tarnish our pure and mutual love. In the aforementioned aspects, I find great solace and strength to work hard on.

Faraway friends, I heard your voices. I thank you for your touching letters and your heartwarming encouragements. We shall always rotating on our orbits, and see if in some future time fortune will bring us to meet again.

One year has passed, 365 days, 8760 hours, 525600 minutes, 31536000 seconds. Now, let's hope that in the next 31536000 seconds everyone will fulfill his or her wishes through hardwork, mutual understanding, and love, which is a basic requirement for us since we came to this world.

Happy 2009!

Changes...

The new term is looming, and everything changes so quickly. Daniel and Mia have returned back, which reminds of how quickly everything will relapse into the original style of life. I see a void...I see a blank sheet of paper, tinted with the paint of the Past.

The school holiday is over. We will be entrusted to new tasks. We will stumble over new barriers, and we will have to fill the void, again.

"Brain, character and soul----it is only when one sees enough of the world that one gets to know how distinct they are."

Arther Conan Doyle

The Thirteenth Apostle

It is with a bit awe and disquiet that I finished Michel Benoit's "The Thirteenth Apostle", a mixture of religious thriller and suspense fiction. The plotline is rather remarkable, beginning with the mysterious murder of Father Andrei, who had discovered the top secret that would have the potential to threaten the very foundation of the Church and denounce the belief upon which the whole Christianity was built. Darkness hovers over the whole book, leaving little space for me to heave a sigh of relief. But in the end, I am quite reassured that righteous characters had found peace and contentment in their search of truth, which led them to the way of eternity.

As a prominent religious scholar and novelist, Michel Benoit possesses every trait of a good writer. His "The Thirteenth Apostle" is qualified in every way to be compared with "Da Vinci Code", which is also a religious thriller, but far less plausible. From those delicately composed chapters which contain the "flashback" scenes of the life of Jesus and his apostles, I could see Michel really had remarkable scholastic repertoir.

Language-wise, the novel is less promising because the poor translation irked many a reader and became intolerable in their critical eyes. There is quite a lot of repetition in the use of words that perniciously abates the literary value of the novel, though its original French version might be better. Some commentators on Amazon.co. disliked the book for its lack of suspense, which is quite contrary to my point of view. Not only does the writer make a great effort on pushing the plot forward in a logical and progressive way, he also pays special attention to set up suspenses, which made it hard for me to repress my "oohs" and "aahs".

It is also not a novel that ends badly. Till the end of the last chapter, it reveals the author's clairboyant perspective on the independent and interdependent relations between Christianity, Judaism and Islam. And the close sentence "anyone can be a successor to the thirteenth apostle" reveals the real thesis of the novel----not to set up conflicts or to arise upheavals between followers of different religions as it appears to be, but to advocate people of various faiths to procure peace and harmony which are of capital importance.

The writer is a genius, and so does his book----a work of genius.

Merry Christmas!

This Christmas is much more silent than the previous one, during which we watched an opera and had an exclusive buffet in a western restaurant. This year everything was subdued that our excitement was greatly abated. Fewer people stay in the hostel. Fewer outing sessions. Fewer activities. And I am less activated. The financial crisis has sent the whole world's economy into a grinding halt. It has become harder and harder to pique custoners' purchase desire, and less and less possible for us to get many Christmas presents.

However, love is not defined by presents. In fact, I find this year's Christmas mood more pervasive than ever. A Christmas tree has been set up in the lift lobby of our hostel and I could barely resist the temptation to put a well-wrapped gift under the pine needles. Though I begin to ignore those advertisements in the Life! section, I find myself more and more riveted to subtle changes brought about by this Yuletide season, like a well -composed poster, a specially packed dinner, or a surprise treat. Right back to November, when I rambled around the Orchard Road, I could smell Christmas out of the air. Various shopping malls were decorated to fit the joyous mood, and almost everywhere I was greeted with smiling faces of customers. Lee Hwa Jewellery Ltd. continues to give out those alluring handouts, but I seldom browse through them like I did last year. On the contrary, when everyone is out for another crazy Christmas, I am more inclined to have a silent night, relishing those sweet days leading to the 25th December.

I recall with suppressed elation how I laughed my tears out when I watched the comedy "Four Chirstmases" with our juniors, L and PVJ, laughing about their plight with some sadistic amusement. I recall with indiscribable warmth how we sat around a table having steamboat dinner, watching the spiralling steam rise and "befog" our glassed. I recall how L. drank coconut milk from a lover's goblet, how my juniors literally "ate like men", and how we marvelled at the night views at Marina Bay.

I recall with heartened relieve that I did not lose contact with a childhood friend after "disappearing" for such a long time. I recall with silent joy when my essay on Tsing Hwa was published in today's Popcorn. I recall with sweetness the time we had log-cake together, enjoy the surprise from the best Santa Clause ever. And, I recall with gratitude the time when I received my first ever ang-pow for Christmas as a token of love.

So many sweet moments are more than enough to make this Christmas a memorable one. What does it matter to have a silent Christmas Eve? After all, isn't it supposed to be a Silent Night?

The night is descending. The Eve has drawn to its close. It is time to sing the carol which is particularly attributed to this special night. May everyone find happiness and peace at this special moment.

"Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright
Round you virgin
Mother and child.
Holy infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace."

May everyone have a blessed Christmas!

A Thread...

A thread of friendship, childhood, and hometown is straightened up again after one year of obscurity and reticence. For the frist time I realise that fitful contacts can just be as heartwarming as regular ones, while striking a sense of surprise at the same time. Being loved and cared is a great feeling, and now the thread is straightened up, I do not want it to recoil again.

Maybe it is just the same as polar bears' hibernation, after a long winter of freezing coldness, spring begins to melt off the snow and greenery begins to glow...Everything is resurrected ever since.

Or maybe, humen beings need more than one hibernation...

"Congratulations" to this post for being my 100th published one on Blogger!

"Translocation"

After the whole night of hard labour, finally we have moved to our new "house". By the time we have almost finished everything, it was already early morning. This is my third time to move, and my current room will be my last location in this boarding school. RB 05-08.

The location of the room is relatively desirable comparing with my previous ones. After facing the school gate for more than one year, this time we get the chance to change the view. Ahead of us now is an expansive peace of land leading to NUS High school canteen. High altitudes bring us fresher air and a more impressive view of night sky bedecked by twinkling stars. Fewer insects will pester us now since those crawling ones are unable to reach that high, leaving out only those with wings like mosquitoes, flying bees and occasionally dragonflies. Sometimes I think this hostel is a wonderful place for entomologists to carry out observations.

More importantly, it is the peace and serenity that bewitchs me the most. At night, there will be no shouting from nearby Block A and no light will penetrate our window from Television room. Situated in the deeper part of the hostel, my current room allows us a higher level of privacy, which is being more and more highly regarded in this modern world where imfringement prevails.

It is good to be better located, but it takes tolls, too. What we had to pay was late-night transfering between Level 3 and Level 5, with all our household goods: piles of books, bags of clothes, drawers, electronic gadgets as well as other adjuncts like calenders, pen refills, articrafts and even a mask. Scurrying up and down like mouses, we toiled unstop until our hair was all wet dripping perspiration. Upbolstered by a tremendous sense of achievement, we witnessed how our room in Level 5 was filled with goods form Level 3 and eventually, Voila! Our new nest was settled. Thanks to the trolleys which were highly imburdened by our goods, we were spared of the gruesome and the most back-breaking task of transfering our books, with a height challenging Himalayas.

We are not the only ones to move, though. Tonight, Alex, Runy and Jason have moved from Level 5 to Level 7, enjoying an even better view of the skyline lit up by neon lights.

This would be my last room here, and I really cherish it. This is my nest that I will spend my whole Sec 4 year and I believe it will bring me good luck.

Sorrowly taking off our name tag from RB03-02 and placing it on our new door, I still find it hard to think that the next time we take off our name tag, it would take forever to place it on any door of this building again.

We are migrating birds...We will continue to fly, far and high.

Library-Maniac

In this holiday there seems to be an invisible bond between me and my library, and for the first time I find myself partake of some characters of a library-maniac. Since I registered as a member of National Library Board in November, some connections have been built between me and the library and then naturally, I began to put "going to the library" on my schedule.

Once a week, I would make a tour to "the cauldron of books" and dive into the scent of bookpages, sniff the fragrance out of them. Comparing with slouching on the sofa watching TV, or eye-soring in front of computer screens, gluing to a library indeed is a desirable way to spend a day. Not too plain, not too exciting. While you get to meet strings of people, you do not need to build any relationship with them. While you can observe the surroundings like a theatre-goer, you can also be a part on the stage. Nothing is more inclusive and more exclusive than going to a library. Pitch up a book and that will do. Relaxing, refreshing, inspiring, and RECLUSIVE. Every visit, undeniably, would blow some fresh air to my stale holiday-life.

Today was a red-lettered day. That means my Library Day. The ten-minute bus trip could have take me to anywhere, but I chose to be taken to the library that I had missed one whole week. From outside, Jurong Regional Library was dark and lifeless. Due to the one-way-mirror property of the window panels, people inside can easily get a clear view of what is going on outside while people outside are being exposed and exhibited, which is, unintentionally to both sides. Walking through the over-head bridge can be a relishing process, especially when heading to somewhere that gives you a possessive feeling, warm and secure.

Picking a place to settle down is the easiest and freest thing here. Be it the businessman with a briefcase under his armpit, or a bunch of teens frolicking together, they all can find the exact desirable place to sit down, to kneel down, or even to crouch down. Unlike libraries in China which have a tendency to promote a sedative lifestyle, there are not rows and lines of chairs and tables, but there are ample seats enough to meet the needs--here lies the magic. Not only are the chairs and tables positioned near large windows for sunshine to filter in, but those seats are also of various styles catering to "all and sundry". Standard wooden hard-back chairs, mini-sofas, soft benches, even some sofas in the silent-reading rooms that ensemble seats on the Singapore Airline, all make the library a conducive place not only to stay, but to enjoy.

One day's busy life began as the sunshine shed into the library: a young lady picking up a "Twilight" and cross-legging on a wooden chair; a man in light-orange jacket typing on his "minuscule toy laptop"; a group of teens painting out some project work; and two middle-aged women sharing some domestic secrets. All was well that began well. I fit in one of the empty seats and began on part on the mega stage.

The chill of the library and the continuous dripping sound from the fountain made one oblivious to the calling of sleepiness. One hour passed like twenty minutes, and I did not have to collapse on my cosy bed as usual after finishing a chapter of "Inviible Man". After staying in the air-conditioned ice box for too long and facing the threat of hypothermia, I had to move up to the third floor and bask in front of the giant windows where light rays were readily accessible. Once you sit there, it is your nest, the blaided man next to you your neighbour and the blonde nearby your guest. That is what a library means. A community of strangers distantly bound together and closely related to each other, in a process without vocal words, eye contacts, nor even a greeting. Everyone is a shareholder and everyone feels possessive. "My" library is also "our" library.

That is where the magic lies. That is what makes the place so oftenly frequented. And that is what breeds so many library-maniacs. Count me one. At least in this holiday.

The Law of Meat

“The aim of life was meat. Life itself was meat. Life lived on life. There were the eaters and the eaten. The law was: Eat or Be Eaten. He (White Fang) did not formulate the law in clear, set terms and moralize about it. He did not even think the law; he merely lived the law without thinking about it at all. The world was a place wherein ranged a multitude of appetites, pursuing and being pursued, hunting and being hunted, eating and being eaten, all in blindness and confusion, with violence and disorder, a chaos of gluttony and slaughter, ruled over by chance, merciless, planless, endless."

----"White Fang"

Jack London

Back To the Middle Age

Today we watched the movie "Pride and Prejudice" with some Malaysian friends, on a whim. The riveting show set our imagination in motion almost immediately as the story began in an obscure village Netherfield.The background music of piano solo was too brilliant to hypnotize us. In consequence, we sat there watching the whole show and munching on cereals without yawning until late at night we found our necks were too stiff to turn properly.

Pride and Prejudice has always been one of my favourite literary pieces. Despite its old-fashioned usage of language, I still find myself extremely partial to it. In that era characters lived an old way of life, simple and sweet, with treachery not so detrimental, and love not so fierce and passionate, which was of great contrast to the Jazz Age, when people had unrealistic "American Dreams", their backyard gardens stinking of the smell of gin and vodka, and frivolous laughters hovering over their houses till late night. Comparing with the modern age, people in this novel lived a far too sweet life, a life more alluring, attractive and imagination-provoking.

In the time when women had to wear bonnets and high hats and men had to behave like gentlemen, there were not so many varieties of rituals. Lower castes performed curtesy to their higher counterparts and mothers felt proud if their daughters were married at a young age. Sewing, cooking and picking flowers made up the daily life of a normal rustic girl while receiving a letter from a messager usually meant bad news. For an ordinary household, having the opportunity to partake in a high-class dancing party was enough to blow their young ladies' minds. To those who were better-off, ball parties became their peculiar way to relish a cultured and socialised life.

That is why almost all romance in 19th century novels began in ball parties. If a casual encounter was not enough to bring two parts together, then a well-composed invitation and the magnanimous manner of the host might well set a young girl's imagination in motion. On one angle, this kind of story was quite cliche, but Pride and Prejudice stands out and makes a masterpiece due to Jane Austen's superb writing skills and great empathy with characters, which set silent pulses in every reader's heart.

The 2005 edition movie with Colin Firth as Mr Darcy can be seen as the best one to transfer the message of the literature piece. Though my first impression towards Miss Elizabeth was not very promising, I soon found that she the most prominent actress in the whole show with her motherly look and angelic smiles that send warmth down into one's heart, comparing with her meek, compliant sister Jane, stoic, book-addicted Mary, opportunistic Kitty and her most frivolous younger sister, Lydia. Miss Elizabeth is surly the most rational person in the movie and she displayed her amiable and understanding nature to a degree that no one might dislike her, even her marriage-oriented and shortsight mother cannot deny her good traits. However, she is not the good-good girl who restrain to herself and take in everything, oblige everyone. She is headstrong, adamant and brave whenever her personal happiness and family fame is concerned.

Mr Darcy played by Colin Firth, on the other hand, add more colour to this classic movie. Featured for his steely gaze and stern face, he is a piece of ice with hissing flame burning inside. His kindness made him overcome his prejudice to wipe out Mr Wickham's debts in one stroke. Moreover, his fidelity and unwaverly quest towards Miss Elizabeth draped the movie with heartwarming elements that make it a must-watch. When the two happy pairs finally held a quartet wedding together and the holy oath resonated in the church, we all clapped for them, hoping our benediction could eternize their bliss that they had searched for such a long time.

Watching "Pride and Prejudice" was like taking a long journey back to the Middle Age, reliving the scenes when ladies put flowers in their willow baskets, gentlemen sat straight smiling on their birch-bark furniture, and ladies and gentlemen had such exciting journeys before they recognized each other as their soulmates.

The Rain, The Sea, The Smoke

It rained the whole night last night. The lightening was threatening to sever the boundless sky as the raindrops as big as yellow beans rolled down the roof like overweight three-year-olds sliding down the slide. I was awakened to the incessant thudding of the rain and the howling and roaring of the angry sky, looking out of the window panes smeared with water which blurred my vision.

Faraway, the yellowish-orange light of a church was unwaveringly glowing, illustrating the giant cross erected on top of the roof, yellowish-white against the bluish-black sky, sombre and grave. Yesterday was Sunday, the day when congregates gathered there and sang the hymns, said the prayers and gave out well wishes, when one's soul was cleansed and one's sin was forgiven. And then it was raining, raining heavily and non-stop, lightening striking between the poles and thunder growling inside the walls.

And we were going to the sea, to see the waves and to barbeque at the seaside, to listen to the rymthm of the sea moaning and to share a rainy afternoon together.

Here we goes. The rain dampened my mood but did not wean me off my longing. Undeterred by the downpour which sustained till this morning, the plan went as decided and the air was fresher. The location was East Coast Park, a place well-known to me but by some unfathomable reason, I had never set my foot on it. In the afternoon, two buses transported us along AYE towards East Coast Park.

After being here for one year, I still do not know why that sense of freshness towards this land never flutters. It was understandable for my juniors to get excited and go into the snapshot craze when the beautiful Marina Bay and Singapore Flyer were unfolded in front of them, along with countless skyscrapers erecting like bamboo shoots out of ground, forming the marvellous skyline of this "city of opportunity". But it seemed unreasonable that I, too familiar with the landscape to marvel and sigh, still let the novelty burn inside me and keep it aflame when once again faced with those magnificent scenes. So, I held a secret joy and suppressed elation as the bus slithered along the expressway, past the Fullerton Hotel, OCBC Building, the Cavena Bridge and the Theatre on the Bay. Soon afterwards, we arrived at the park and for my first time, I touched the solid sand on the solid sand beach.

As if responding to a spell, the rain stopped and the sinking sun tainted the horizon with soothing orange. We could not wait to explore and run amok on the beach, leaving a trail of small footprints which were soon washed away by the waves lashing onto the shore. Some barefooted Jing Dezhen girls began to build sand castles as T and W "played the sea" with us. We walked into it, kicked it, stepped on it, and felt it. We felt its coarseness as sands hit our ankles and hid in between our toes, we felt its grandness as the sound of the tide resonating with the call of the sea, and we felt its beauty as the waves rushing to the shore with white bubbles scattering on the sand. Oozz...the ephemeral beauty being repeated once and once again...

The BBQ began as the day grew dark. After finishing my cheese sausage, I took the stickers and tongs and became an assistant. With only the knowledge of cooking fishballs and hams, I faced the challenge of preparing more hard-to-cook food like whole chicken wings, sausages and PORK.

"Do you want medium rare, medium well or well-done?" You might hear this at Jack's Place. But if you apply the same question to the PORK, a grave mistake is done. For no pork can be eaten medium well, all must be well done. Mrs Wong told us the hidden peril of eating uncooked pork meat and we stared each other in shock and half-belief, transfixed at the fact that the man eating uncooked meat got a giant worm in his brainial artery.

Maybe this was not the most appalling part, because it may easily be taken as that kind of bedtime story aimed at scaring young children off their unhygienic habits. But the smoke spiraling upon the mesh soon began to torture me. I was about to be suffocated when some kind-hearted juniors came into rescue and frantically fanned the fresh air into my respiratory system. Occasionally, the smoke would become too thick to be fended away that my tears were driven out as if I was crying, but I found it somewhat comical instead of embarrassing. The smoke continued to spiral as the scintillating scent of the food began to tempt our olfactory nerves. I did not succumb to its appeal though, because the mere smelling of the food made me full!

We ran wild until the day went completely dark, and faraway on the shore, argon and neon lights were brightening up the "sleepless city". Away from the noice of the merry crowds, the silent sea was churning over and over, waves hitting jagged rocked and rolling back reluctantly. Against the breeze, we began to hum the familiar tune, "listen, the sea is weeping..."

Mumbai Tragedy

Terrorists strike again. This time, the centre of the havoc turned to Asia, to the origin of Indian civilisation, and to the city which is to be a burgeoning metropolis in one decade. Countless innocent hotel dwellers have been held hostage and the death toll is still on the rise, prickling every nerve of those people who are concerned about this tragedy, who grieve over it and who are plodding to seek justice for the victims in this upheaval.

Unavoidably, it makes people think of the U.S.A, who had experienced a similar attack seven years ago, when the explosion of Twin Tower shattered the peaceful dreams of many Americans, and relived the fright and terror they had experienced 60 years ago, when Japanese flights bombed its naval base in Pearl Habour, along with the defeat of the "invincible" Pacific Fleets.

Ironically, history chose to relive this horror, not once, not twice, but like a sharp needle inside a bag, prickling occasionally yet hidden hideously. Mumbai attack emanates that the serpent is letting loose its tooth again. It not only went for the kill this time, it also went for the terror, which is definitive to its terrorist nature, or as somebody puts it, "serpent nature". Suspense is all they want, they want to see the world shock with anxiety, and so put loop nooses around the necks of hostages, waiting to tighten them at any time to hear the world moan, to stoke the fire of their anger.

They are fighters, but they are fighting for nothing. Indiscriminate shooting at a 5-star hotel is not the way to get what they want, not in this world when the majority are law-abiding and are determined to fashion a peaceful life.

One pathetic fact in this attack was that the passport holders of the most developed countries turned out to be the prior targets in this human-slaughtering. Those gunmen knew exactly what they want, they want those who are the most influential to stand closest to the abyss, and to be the first to slide down the precipitous cliff where no life can hang on safely. They want the revenge, they want the retribution. That, is the most sadistic side of human nature, when moral code no longer guides people's way of thinking and doing.

The death of the young Singaporean lawyer evokes my memory of the novel "Hijack". The description of the extreme fear and anxiety experienced by the Canadian hostage still makes me shudder involuntarily. His pleading for life, his prayers towards the god and his strong love for his family did not shield him from his predestined doom. As the words put, "he fell like a bird with broken wings, to where no light can be seen, no voice can be heard, no thoughts can flow as freely as they used to". I wonder if the young lawyer, in her prime age and anticipating for a promising future, experienced the same trauma in the last minute of her life, if she ever pleaded with a bleeding heart, if she ever lived out of her terror and welcomed her death with ease.

When a flower is plucked off before it is fully blossomed, it irks the gardener to find the mischievous plucker. But when it comes to the lives of humans, when it is not merely a flower, but a florescence, or more severely, a flowerbed, it is not the mere criminal to be blamed for, but the whole syndicate behind this murky business.

I moan for those victims who were robbed of their lives in such a ferocious way, I sympathise with those living people who are now bereft and waiting for their incurable wounds to be healed, I feel even more sorrowful for those attackers who dipped their hands in other people's blood, for their "greater freedom".

When some people are superior to others, the beer goes sour. But does absolute equility exist, given that differentiation and variety in species is the foundamental law of nature?

And, should any discontentment or even loathing be expressed only by violence?

Broken...

Computer products are as unreliable as everything else. Everything else! Anything faces the most tormenting peril of being washed, destroyed, devoured...flushed, even a thumbdrive is not spared. Hard discs can be damaged under strong heat, high pressure, or get flooded by water, oil or other ungodly liquids. But the most unbelievable thing happended when their contents were"washed" off right in front of my eyes, without me knowing how and why this happened.

The result of the disc capacity check was appalling:

Used: 0 bytes

Usable: 0 bytes

Everything was gone so easily like water being flushed down the sewage pipe after someone's business. I cannot find anything to express my frustration towards this corrupted computer system.

Then it suddenly dawned on me that our hostel's system administrator just recently restricted all those functions they consider "undesirable". Dark shadows of "purging" started all over again and I do not know when all of "these" will come to an end.

Jesus Christ!

It can just be broken like everything else!

The God of Small Things

"Perhaps, they were the worst transgressors. They all crossed into forbidden territory. They all tampered with the laws that lay down who should be loved and how. And how much. The laws that make grandmothers grandmothers, uncles uncles, mothers mothers, cousins cousins, jam jam, and jelly jelly."

Arundhati Roy