You can never go wrong with Robert Frost.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 

I'm toast.

Recurrent corneal erosion is a disorder of the eyes characterized by the failure of the cornea's outermost layer of epithelial cells to attach to the underlying basement membrane (Bowman's layer). The condition is excruciatingly painful because the loss of these cells results in the exposure of sensitive corneal nerves. Mis-diagnosis of a scratched cornea is fairly common, especially in younger patients.

The cornea is the clear outermost layer of your eye. It protects your eyes against dirt and germs, and filters some ultraviolet light. RCE is caused when the corneal cells (the epithelium) of the eye are not firmly attached, which causes them to pull off easily, usually by the eyelid as it moves over the eye 

Symptoms of corneal abrasion include pain, photophobia, a foreign-body sensation, excessive squinting, and a reflex production of tears. Signs include epithelial defects and edema, and often conjunctival injection, swollen eyelids, large pupils and a mild anterior-chamber reaction. The vision may be blurred, both from any swelling of the cornea and the excess tears.

With the eye generally profusely watering, the type of tears being produced have little adhesive property. Water or saline eye drops tend therefore to be ineffective. Rather a 'better quality' of tear is required with higher 'wetting ability' (i.e. greater amount of glycoproteins) and so artificial tears (e.g. viscotears) are applied frequently.

Surgical Treatment

A punctal plug may be inserted into the tear duct by an optometrist or ophthalmologist, decreasing the removal of natural tears from the affected eye. 

The use of contact lenses may help prevent the abrasion during blinking lifting off the surface layer and uses thin lenses that are gas permeable to minimise reduced oxygenation. However they need to be used for between 8–26 weeks and such persistent use both incurs frequent follow-up visits and may increase the risk of infections.

Alternatively, under local anaesthetic, the corneal layer may be gently removed with a fine needle, cauterised (heat or laser) or 'spot welding' attempted (again with lasers). The procedures are not guaranteed to work, and in a minority may exacerbate the problem.

This disease is claimed to be one of the most underrated in the world. 

The only word I paid attention to is needle. Period. 

(Oh and on a much lighter note, happy New Year everyone!)

So this is how they define heaven.

I think I've found my sanctuary. Check this out.

2012 says to 2010,

"I've had my one day. Thank you." - Anon

"Thank you, #Melbourne."

It's the people. The genuine sincerity. The fact that you've been smiling since the minute you jump in the car at the airport down to the last ride back to catch your flight home. The inspiring hosts. The people and their dreams. The strangers you meet and laugh with in the train. The random friends who click right away. It's the four-seasons-in-a-day weather. It's the delicacies, the incomparable desserts and coffee. It's the Black Keys who was freaking amazing right up on the hill. It's the Spanish Doughnuts. It's the six-dollar lunch and dinner. It's the Korean restaurant tucked inside the alley that makes you lick your lips and your stomach grumble just thinking about their chicken steak and honeyed chicken.

It's the routine simplicity.  It's the easiness--the laid-back happiness. The feeling of not having any burden, the urge to throw your head back and laugh openly. It's the exploring, miles and miles of beautiful scenery, beautiful people, the feeling that you may just belong. That you may just found your key to simple happiness. It's the Paper Kites. The hushed silence during Bloom. It's the farmers' market, the endless rows of green goods and delicatessen to spoil your tastebuds. The endless opportunities for your alone time in the kitchen. It's the hospitality. The surprising friendliness. The Yarra River, where time seems to stop. It's the Boatbuilders Yard. The sunset and the countless adorable dogs passing by. It's the vintage bookstores. The all-under-five-dollars book sales. It's Lord of the Fries at midnight. The cookware shop that makes you resist letting out gasps as your eyes fall on all these equipment and ingredients you thought only existed in TVs, causing you to actually bit your lip and put your hands behind your back to resist buying all of them.

It's Sunshine Rd. Even the taxi drivers who ripped you off. It's Craigieburn and its inside jokes. It's Prahran Market and the rows of beautiful homemade bread. It's the gelato in Lygon Street, the way everyone dressed up for that particular day. It's the five-dollar pizza near Corner Hotel at 1 a.m. It's the underground lounge and its own randomness. It's the "Buavita". It's the  alleyways, promising an endless row of cafes, bookstores, shops, causing you to resist sitting down at one of the chairs and pull out your notebook. It's the vast, lush city parks and gardens that make you smile just imagining how deliriously happy they make people feel just by lazying around in it.

It's the dinner in the park. It's the conversations as the cold started to sting your fingertips. The long walk just to eat ice cream on the bench. The strange sensation of opening up. It's the Burch & Purchese Sweet Studio. The freaking William Angliss Institute. It's dipping your feet into the green grass you've been dreaming for years; a step closer to your goal. The things you learn from your old and new friends. It's about learning about people who love what they're doing in life; who thank Melbourne for changing the way they live. The city who shapes them into a much better person, providing them with doors and doors of opportunities to achieve their goals. It's the laughter in people's eyes. It's the ultimate comfort, the warmth, the mystery, the unspoken affection all rolled into one.

It's the urge to step back and see things in a bigger view. It's the slap in the face to awaken you, make you realize what (and who) are important and what are not. It's the confirmation that everything is indeed possible if you stop sitting around and start to do something about it. The confirmation that you should indeed ignore the haters, the ones who think you'll never make it out there, and start following your conscience--a reminder that you do have one.

It's Flinders St. It's the vintage clothing store in the alley. The rooftop beer garden, the city lights . The feeling so calm you can hear your own heartbeat. It's the constant happiness in your chest for eight days in a row.

It was the best trip of my life.

***

A Girl You Should Date

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

– Rosemarie Urquico –

a day in the life.

He sits dangerously close to the edge, leering and peeking and wanting to know what's down there. He turns to his friend, sitting just a few meters away. "Should we do this?" He asks thoughtfully, kicking his feet back and forth.

The friend stares at him, unsure. "Are the guys ready?"

They both look back and see a line of other creatures, similar like them, all two dozens of them. Stretching, bunny hopping, buzzing with excitement, getting ready to make another free fall.

"We wait for the cue," the friend decides solemnly with a nod. He agrees silently and relaxes, slouching in his seat. As usual, he gets the regular feeling of guilt as he looks down again. But what could he do? It was his job; it has always been. I promise you'll feel much better when I'm done, he whispers. This may hurt, but you'll be relieved afterwards. He has long stopped finding out the cause; all he needs to do is make a thousand silent apologies each day.

Suddenly, a jerking movement lurches him forward and he grips the edges fearfully. His eyes widen and he looks at his friend, who grins back at him. "Ready?"

"Race you to the finish line," he says with a wicked smile. For a while his smile falters when he hears the familiar sound of something breaking in the distance- the infamous signal. He squeezes his eyes shut. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he keeps repeating. I know it hurts. But you'll be fine. I promise you. Everything will be alright. With the mantra echoing in his lips, he counts to three and let himself go.

Further, further down. Down the smooth surface. He feels the whoosh of air, the feeling of complete freedom, as he freefalls to the ground. He glances beside him and sees his partner racing and passing him by. Behind him he can hear his friends jumping down,shouting joyfully. What an ironic contrast to the heart-breaking sound of wailing somewhere out there far, far away. He doesn't need to look, but he knows that some of his friends had disappeared mid-air to a land of nothingness, vanishing into thin air with just a swipe of hand. That's normal- out of twenty four, usually only two or four of them survive.

He lands safely down and feels the familiar feeling of scattering away. He quickly reassembles himself and makes a brave decision to glance up. The sight always squeezes his heart.

I'm sorry, he wants to scream. I'm sorry you have to go through this but I need you to trust me. My friends and I are here to make you feel better which you will. I promise you, you will.

Sometimes he cannot stand his job. Sometimes he doesn't want to fall; but it's the default system installed in him that forces him to. Unable to look up anymore, he tears his eyes away.

Sometimes he wants to know her. He wants to let her know how angry he is at the person who forces him jump down. But most of all, more than anything else, he wishes that the next time he jumps, it will be for a completely different reason for her.

The thought calms him down. He stands up straight and walks back to the end of the line, queuing behind his friends to climb up again. In the queue, an officer is passing out the assignment paper. "OK, what's next for me?" He asks, desperately hoping to hear some good news.

"A farewell." The officer shrugs and moves down the line.

 The words are like gunshots to his ears as the worst eight-letter words he ever encounters sinks him into despair. He can take fights. People yelling in anger, hurling hurtful comments at each other. Words so full of venom he shivers when he hears it. He can even handle breakups.

But not a farewell.

Not that infamous bittersweet feeling that squeezes the air out of your lungs the minute the other person walks away, the minute you hold them and realize you won't even feel their comforting presence anymore the next day. Not that feeling when the memories and images flash like film rolls in your mind knowing that things will never be the same. Not  the contraction in the chest.  The feeling of losing something and having that thing taken away that leaves you gasping for air frantically, because you just realize the thing that usually calms you down is the one whose engine just roared off your driveway. For good. 

Gloomily he clutches his assignment in hand and moves an inch forward in the queue. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach that he would require a hell more than just two dozens friends for this.

*** End ***