Workouts…Dancing It ALL OFF


Evolution of My Music Taste

I remember a time when the music I listened to was mainly from Pop artists — Britney Spears, Backstreet Boys, Spice Girls, and the like. I was probably around the age of 7-8 back then and I thought I was so cool.

Specifically, one of my two favourite songs were Spice Girl’s 2 Become 1 and Britney Spear’s Lucky:

2 Become 1 by Spice Girls


Lucky by Britney Spears

The song Lucky is pretty harmless, as Spears sings of her loneliness. However, now that I’m older, I now know the meaning of 2 Become 1, which is quite shocking to know of since I sang it quite often as a child (go read the meaning here).

Anyhow, around the time I was 9 years old, I started to listen to R&B music, enjoying the smoothness of the music. And again, I didn’t realize the meaning of most of the songs that I listened to, which I now most certainly do.

Nowadays, I listen to all sorts of music genres. But it really all depends on the mood.

Below are two songs that I enjoy putting on repeat due to their meanings.

Battleships by Daughtry


Can’t Stop by OneRepublic

Eh, this post felt very all over the place.


A muse? An Apollo? What?

Dude Muses or “Duses”: Do They Exist? by Sarah Ogar on the University of Michigan site.

This. Just this.

In centuries past, there never was a male equivalent of the ideal female muse that maestros and artists associated their final works with.

But recently, I found this thought floating around in my head and just needed to put it down somewhere, while simultaneously researching about it.

And that link up there is what came up. It contains pretty good advice too.

If people, regardless of gender, inspire you, use that inspiration for the good of your art.

I certainly have used the specific feelings she mentions in her post to create what I can and be inspired.

But really though, why couldn’t there be a male equivalent of a muse? Duduse anyone? Or just plain Apollo?

Just a thought.


Verbal Diarrhoea

Verbal diarrhoea.

Or as is the proper term in psychology, logorrhoea.

Defined by psychologists, it is when an individual becomes excessively wordy, with talk that is devoid of logical coherence. At times, it is when ideas from the mind just leak out randomly. Supposedly, its causes aren’t clearly understood, but somehow it has to do with the frontal lobe structure of the brain that is related to language.

Of course, it would make little sense if the brain structure causing logorrhoea were to be related with eye-hand coordination. But I digress.

Interjection aside, it is a great inconvenience to be afflicted by this malady, especially since verbally spouting out nonsensical phrases annoys most people one comes in contact with in life. Also, logorrhoea is known to be associated with the presence of some psychiatric disorders, some of which that were listed are aphasia, mania, and catatonic schizophrenia. It is also seen to reflect the presence of tachypsychia, which is when thoughts go through the mind in an accelerated fashion.

Think Sherlock Holmes, with Robert Downey Jr. playing the titular character — His character is endowed with tachypsychic abilities, as well as his arch-nemesis, Professor Moriarty, as shown in the video above.

Logorrhoea, mind you, is vastly different from tachyphemia, which is characterized by rapid speech that is difficult to understand due to poor syntax and the insertion of words or phrases that are unrelated to what needs to be communicated.

The majority’s opinions on people who are afflicted by logorrhoea vary and there’s numerous accounts and offhand comments about verbal diarrhoea out there that will help illuminate you on those opinions. But being someone who, on occasion — well, almost frequently actually, but I try, try, try to be careful and control it as much as possible for fear of being called schizophrenic or bipolar (which I have been called once) — says randomly bizarre comments that just pop into her head, it’s quite a revealing, tell-tale sign of nerves. Or rather, that’s how I perceive it, since my nervousness is always the activation key to my verbal diarrhoea.

“My verbal diarrhoea” — that sounds funny *giggles*

I recently said a random phrase that made absolutely no sense and I realized this immediately after the words left my mouth. I wanted to retract them so badly, but what’s said cannot be taken back. And that’s obviously horologically impossible. It was perfectly harmless, I suppose, but it was such a stupid thing to say that the person I said it to probably thought me completely ludicrous. It left me no choice but to quickly walk away and try not to be too embarrassed about it.

Well. Logorrhoea. It just happens sometimes. Hope I’m not schizophrenic. Although it would be cool to have tachypsychia.

Yes, I’m aware of my tendency to have “the diarrhoea of the mouth”.



Cycling Thoughts


That’s what I wanted — what I desperately needed.

And so I ran.

I ran to get lost in the scenery. I ran to forget. I ran to move forward.

I ran from my thoughts, only for them to confront me at the end. Again.

It’s a cycle I can never escape.

Memories; they run through my mind constantly. I desperately hold onto them and I relive them every day. But they only hurt me, knowing what it’s like now.

As my legs pound against the pavement, propelling me forward, a few cars and motorbikes drive by in the dimness of the back road that is part of my jogging route.

Reaching the sea barrier, I stop short to breathe in what little air I could from the suffocating summer heat. I look out at the Bridge of Friendship and take in the nightly spectacle of lights connecting Taipa and Macau.

The bridge has a strangely anthropological sounding name, I know. But the name’s association jolted me as memories past bombard me. Thinking that running them off proved wrong, but I persist anyway. I really am not one to give up easily.

I focused harder on my quadriceps and hamstrings stretching and contracting respectively. I imagined my calves absorbing the impact as I ran. I tried to think of all the muscle groups being affected by my jog. Anything. But try as I might, I couldn’t ward off the impending arrival of my memories.

All the conversations, the looks, the times spent together. I still remember them and I truly miss those days. Along the way, the line between friendship and something more grew hazy. But I grew to hope a good thing would come out of it.

Maybe he felt the same way. I don’t know. But actions speak louder than words, don’t they? And it seemed like he felt the same. But I don’t want to assume. I didn’t assume. He never confirmed with words. But the gestures? The looks? I don’t know.

I admired him. I still do. His presence, comforting. His humor, engaging. His mind, riveting. And from what I garnered, his values so closely aligned with my own. I enjoyed whatever time I had with him.

Neither of us was ready. He said he wasn’t. I concurred. But only because I assumed that’s what he wanted to hear.

Then suddenly, things changed. Confusion. Uncertainty. Avoidance.

It hurt. It absolutely did. I don’t understand why he avoids me. I tried all that I could to get him to talk to me again — to at least tell me why he was doing what he was doing. But nothing. And it hurts even now.

I care deeply. And that may be the reason why I still hold onto the memories. But allowing myself to think back to them only depresses me. There was even a time I told myself not to care. But I just couldn’t. I just can’t. My friend and confidant told me he wasn’t worth it; she says his actions weren’t right for any man to do. But she doesn’t know him. There must be a reason to his actions.


Or I’m just a fool.


A slight breeze comes wafting from the sea and I look over to the bright lights across on the side of Macau. The night was still early, but the gambling deals all over Macau were most likely nigh on beginning. The buses and taxis come to and fro on the Taipa-Macau Bridge, all following their routes and seeing to their destinations — all very straightforward and methodical. I liked that.

I wish I knew more — I don’t know what I want to know, but I just want to know more.

I miss him. Now, nothing but memories seems to remain.

Was it something that I did? Is it how I acted? Did his feelings change? Was I even right in that regard? If he feels differently now than before, couldn’t we at least patch up things and try to forget? I know I won’t, because of how strongly I feel. Settle on just friendship? I’ll never be content with that, but if only to talk to him again, I’d take it.

But is it too late? Am I too late?

I say that what others do don’t affect me, but I know it does. I say I’m not sensitive, but I guess I am. I hide my real thoughts and emotions, just like I always did in the past. The façade is back. It’s only all an act now. But I know I’m good at that. I always have been. But if it numbs the pain only a little, it’s all I can do.

I’ve been depressed. I’ve hoped. I desperately want him to say something — anything. But he won’t. He hasn’t. And every day, I grow fearful of talking to him.

I guess I should have listened to him. It’s complicated, he said. I don’t know why it’s complicated, since it never seemed to be for me. It is getting complicated now — only now.

Every single day, I just lose a tiny bit of hope. But I’m never one to give up on something that was good. That seemed good. That felt good. That felt right.

It affects me so, despite my denials. Does he think about the past as I constantly do? Or am I The Crazy One?

The night grows deeper and I really need to head back. Today, I failed to stop thinking yet again, just like all the days in the past months. But I’ll give it a rest for now. All that is certain is that these memories will always come back, time and again.

What once was, I wish I still had. The one person I wish I had the guts to talk to — slowly slipping away.

What went wrong? I wish I knew.

My façade is my protection and the only shield against hurting. But it isn’t enough.


I escaped today, only to be captured and shackled by my thoughts again.

I still admire him for everything he is. I still wish for the best for him. I still care about him. But only at a distance now.

I really did fall for him. Hard. And he probably never knew.

I’ve made all the moves I could, but my turn is up. I surrender and relinquish all control over this to him. Whatever he wishes, I will oblige. I don’t know what else to do anymore.


Macau’s bright silhouette is as it always is at this hour. The Tower yonder still overlooks the whole of Macau, but newer casinos, hotels, and residential buildings are soaring higher than it ever has, as time moves forward.

Some things remain constant, but change, as always, is inevitable, in some way or another.