'I'm a tool, and neither of them dares let a tool stand idle, even when it might break.'

---Magic's Promise.

Tonight I'll sing my songs agaiin,

I'll play the game,

and pretend.

But all my words come back to me,

in shades of mediocrity,

like emptiness in harmony,

I need someone to comfort me...

--Homeward Bound, Simon and Garfunkel.

National Day tomorrow. The day we all feel proud to be Singaporean, the day we cheer and scream with amazement as commandos scale towers and planes fly overhead. For some reason, it's lost on me. I have not even heard this year's National Day songs yet, but then again, they don't matter much.

Nowadays, it's not really how tired I'm feeling that gets me thinking; that can be remedied. It's only a matter of how much more or less sleep I get, really. What I truly wonder about is this empty hollow inside me, it's a very odd feeling.

Kind of like when you burn your hand; your automatic response would be to let out a yell and run it under cold water, wouldn't it? Well, life now is sort of more or less the same thing, the same concept for me. When someone says something, my brain registers it, and finds a suitable response for whatever was said earlier.

Almost as if I weren't really comprehending what was being said anymore, and just replying, going through the motions of replying, but not really hearing them, not really there.

Half the time I go through the day with a queer sort of tension in my mind, as though afraid that if I were to stop walking or something, everything would fall to pieces and disintegrate. Quite an odd feeling. Sometimes, I feel strangely disconnected from the world, watching everything through a window, a cup of coffee beside me.

The best phrase I can think of to describe this is 'eyes wide shut'. That's what I am right now. Everyone thinks I'm present, thinks I'm participating, but really, I'm not. I'm only partially there, the rest of me has been whisked to an undisclosed location, undisclosed even to me.

My standard response to any question now is 'work'.

What will you be doing at recess? Work.

Come on, let's go out for lunch! Can't. Have to do work.

Go on, help me water the plants. Sorry, I have work to do.

Can I call you later? I'll be doing work, but, yeah, go ahead.

It's my standard, one answer to every question. Work in the morning, work in the night, plans to make in the afternoon, essays to write at the crack of dawn.

I suppose it's contributing to my current lack of compasion and interest. I mean, with a four-letter word accompanying almost every thought going through one's mind, there isn't very much else to think of!

I must admit, it's getting on my nerves though; but, on the other hand, I can't just hit the breaks, jump out, and look for another buggy that's trundling along at a more leisurely pace.

Talk about looking at the scenery; at the rate I'm going, I can't even see any scenery, let alone stop to pick the flowers...

No matter, I'll just keep balancing on this beam and plod along, hopefully, I won't wobble and fall off any time soon, eh?

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