____T.H.E. .P.A.S.S.

____I may be wrong again but I never could be so wrong

I had a bad dream last night. I dreamt I really failed MP2008. Bloody hell. Yet I woke up without feeling a tinge of cold sweat. Something must be wrong.

I keep having flashbacks of images of night cycling 2006. I don't know why. The memories kept replaying in mind the whole day today. I think I have a reason to that but then again, something might be wrong.

I take a walk back to March/April 2003 - slightly more than 1 year serving the SAF. After about 4 - 5 yrs of wasted emotion, it was time I faced the hard reality. In fact, in December the previous year, there were already signs of what was to happen. It happened. There was nothing I could do. Nothing to turn to. Nothing except football.

I thought that was a pretty bad period in my life. Friends who knew about things to come kept the truth from me, just because they didn't want me to feel crap and stuff. But it felt bad all the same. Being the last to know everything. Feels like shit. Feels like I'm being joked around. Feels like being the freaking football that is kicked about and punished for no particular reason.

So I played football. I played hard. I took it out all on the ball. I remember the time when the Khatib Camp ball was so deflated, it looked pathetic. I played everyday. I wouldn't say I'm good but I was better than my campmates then (save Ronald Chai). I boasted when I won. I sulked when I lost. And even when I lost, I won because I kicked the bruises out of my campmates. I thought if anything, football is the source for happiness. I thought I'd never stop enjoying football. When the ball was at my feet, I was divinity in motion. I played with that annoying air of arrogance. I was a bastard.

Now, three years on. After realising the "Catalans", discovering the fun of Parry, 2 Interhall disappointments, 2 Interblock disappointments, 1 right knee tendonitis, a back injury, 2 major ankle sprains, getting myself kicked all over, returning the kicks to the others, taking the mickey out of defenses (as Wilson puts it), getting myself owned on the field, I'm finally tired. Exhausted. To hell with Joga Bonito. These days, I never fail to get angry when my team isn't playing well. Never.

I never realised I could be so wrong. Then, I kept insisting that football is happiness. Fact is, I don't feel joy of playing football anymore. Divinity in motion my foot. It's more like escapism of highest order. I realised I just want to win. I'm addicted to winning. And if I don't, I get angry. Frustrated. Sore loser. Bloody bastard.

Maybe that's the reason for the recurring images of nightcycling 2006 - it was dreamy-like happiness whilst seemingly going nowhere.

Now, I've come a full circle. I'm zombie-like. I'm enigamatic. I'm mysterious even to myself. I don't know what to do with a football at my feet anymore. Just like how I don't know what to do with people. Just like how I don't know what to do with my life.
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Oh, my Dahlia, I'm in the Rose Of Pain.

Please save me from this Rusty Nail that has Stabbed Me In The Back.

Blue Blood is dripping like Endless Rain.

Without You, I can't dry my Tears.

Free me from this Sadistic Desire.

Take the Phantom Of Guilt away.

Drain my Silent Jealousy.

Xcuse my Voiceless Screaming.

Sing me The Last Song.

Complete the Unfinished me.

Make me Alive again.

Tell me the Art Of Life...

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