stayed in the office till almost nine, finishing up some work (i wanna do a good job, ok, but anyway it's still not finished, sigh), but was constantly annoyed by how Microsoft powerpoint kept crashing on me and losing my charts ('unable to read data/diagrams')

J replied my sms from 1 week ago? asking if and when he wants/wanted to collect his specifically requested cheese. No qualms on my side- replying an sms 1 week after i received it is totally something i would typically do-

or just not reply it/ignore it, basically (not out of sheer meanness but rather it being just that i don't know what to reply or how i should react, or simply forgetfulness)

Funny that we both should be working late today but it's a nice feeling to know someone's stuck as deep in the mud (though a different pit, one ten times dirtier and further in a place we call tuas, but with a fatter pay check and bonus) as you are. downward comparison, yes.

it's funny, because i had always thought i would be the kind of person who would be bummed to have to work late, and would be grumpy and frumpy and complain and swear about it, but honestly (and rather surprisingly) i am not. I'm not averse to it at all.

i guess it's simply liking the feeling of working late in the quiet office, when there's nothing/no one else except your sense, no sense of a nagging deadline (not till the next day, and you have

the whole night ahead to finish it), no distracting lunch hour; just you and the trusty company computer, though it irks you to no end how it fails you sometimes.

am i becoming one of those workaholic drones that inhabit the public transport in the early hours of the morning, and am physically present but am incapable of anything aside from mentally drifting off to think about work email during social gatherings/meetings?

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Reading has provoked a long train of thought in me that has meandered and winded and though narrow, is persistent and fervent. It's as if i feel this invisible fire, burning inside, once i have the time, i whip the book out and my eyes immediately fall on the pages and start looking their worth. And this book- at times i wince, i frown, i recoil in a mix of disgust, disbelief, fear, pity, but i smile, i laugh, i raise my eyebrows in surprise, in delight, in wonder.

there is no facade; i put up no front-

in front of the pages i am an eager child, a waiting mother;

i remember when i was young(er),

my father used to (sometimes) read to us, or make us read to him, actually, but i never quite caught on it like my sister did; i always fancied more those colourful picture books, or black and white comic strips; was always more intrigued by the box of colour pencils, or the bundle of crayons left lying on the corner; had always a pen, a pencil, a crayon, a marker in my small hand- and a piece of paper, a scrapbook, some cloth, or the wall, on the other. Ever since i could remember.

It's funny how i should pick up reading again- now, so late (well some may argue it's never too late for anything but i beg to differ, in many instances timing is what makes things crucial)

but thanks to london,

thanks to 2 quid books,

thanks to reading on the tube,

thanks to all these things,

i say late is better than never.

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You know those instances, when you do something not in the right sense or for the right kind of purpose, but in the process of doing it you actually change and/or actually find yourself relating with/to that right sense/purpose?

like say if you were together with someone not because you genuinely liked the person, but rather for material reasons, but in the process of spending time with her, you find that you actually do genuinely have feelings of like for her-

okay maybe that's an example that's too clichéd or corny-

try another

say myself, for example-

to be honest i became vegetarian (lacto ovo, nothing to boast about, i love eggs and milk just too much) for reasons other than fervently loving all animals and wanting to reduce their merciless killing (reasons i shall not dwell on), but through the process of becoming one, i actually find myself caring for them more-

and i find that being vegetarian is meaningful in ways that i had never imagined.

(though i can't say for sure how long i would remain this way)

you get what i mean?

Is the original intent more important, or what you came through with in the process/at the end, that bears more significance?