I am such a visual person. If there were two versions of a story, one told in a book, the other as a screening of a movie, I always would have chosen the latter. Simply because I always have been a person which prefers sight to sound, pictures to words. A picture paints a thousnd words. Yet I'm starting to realise that after all this time, I might have been wrong. Like a person who only had only listened to music for a catchy tune has finally realised the beauty in song lyrics, I have come to realise that words can be more beautiful than anything else. What an epiphany!

I've been reading a lot lately. Be it my textbooks, Sputnik, other people's blogs or just day to day headlines which I briefly read through on the Yahoo! sidebar before proceeding to check my mail. I've come to an equivocal realisation of one thing. How wonderful it would be if I could write as well, or even half as well, as they could? How is it that they are able to conjure such wonderful metaphorical descriptions, mantain captivating fluidity and still possess so much precision in their, what seems to be, endless vault of vocabulary.

I've decided to adopt a new style of writing, bring more flare and thought provoking ideas. Possibly re-discovering a side of me I have long forgotten. I used to have such keen interest in music and literature. I still remember Mrs Moody, a teacher in an American private school I used to attend while our family resided there, telling me how she adored reading my poems. I remember the time while in JC when my GP (English) teacher would photostat an essay I wrote and circulate in the classes she taught. Yet somehow along the way, I've lost my ability to write. Like a meaningful gift from a loved one, it had been placed on a shelf. So near, yet so far - I pass by it daily but never stop to give it a second glance or remember what it meant, as it sits there far and forgotten, collecting dust.

Blame it on sports and games the burning passion of what all young boys (which most girls could never understand). Blame it on national service, which takes you to a whole new world of regimentation which makes weekends so valuable that you would rather be meeting up with people for fun than spending writing a journal to recollect the terribly dull, tedious and horrid week. Heck, I'd blame it on everything else other than myself. This has become such a strong self-defence mechanism possesed by me. However, deep inside, I know these are merely excuses and really, I am to blame.

I've learnt that we cannot always live life on the fast lane. Always wanting to do one thing after the next, achieving a goal after another, allowing a two hour movie to a story which could easily taken up an entire day had we read a book. I want to be still, stop and see fantastic sights which I always miss because I had filtered them out in my hurried, ignorant state. Maybe then, I'd have more to think and write and finally rekindle this dying part of me.