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ABOUT ME
Name: Jiang Lingzhang
Age: 18
School: Raffles Junior College
Likes: DotA, Anime, Bball, Piano
Dislikes: Celery, Cabbage, Milk, forum trolls, DotA leavers
Favourite Singer: BoA
Favourite Food: Meat
Favourite DotA Hero: Templar Assassin
Favourite Maple character: Bowman
Favourite Anime character: Saber!!
Favourite animal: Hamster!!! :P

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Misa only wanna ORD :(:(

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xxxkaboomzl got their Neopet at http://www.neopets.com


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Credits: HaeMin - Love

Thursday, March 22, 2007
@ 9:09 PM
I ask myself, what is the purpose of a blog?
why keep a blog over a diary?
why am i typing these very words with an uncanny precision and dexterity which were infused into my fingers with years upon years of losing myself in the depths of cyberspace, over the satisfaction that I get from the familiar feeling of pouring my heart and soul out onto white pages with a pen?

Am I fascinated with the way these rather meaningless words would appear on my very own portion of cyberspace that was taken and crafted to my liking, how they would jump out at me from the computer screen that has been my companion when I am by myself on lonely nights, when my parents have gone to play cards with their friends, when my friends are busy tending to various matters, and when my homework sits stubbornly in my file giving me a "screw off, i wanna rot by myself" look whenever I summon the courage to look at it?

Am I in fact an attention-grabbing fellow who wants people to look at my life through a kaleidoscope of colourful words that appear so wonderfully on this very webpage? Many things I do not know about myself, starting from the most basic question of "Why?", to the feelings of uncertainty and self-doubt I get when I am assailed with surges of unfamiliar emotion that runs through my system like liquid fire, or liquid ice, ice and fire, ice and fire...

Whatever it is, I do not really know. Does time fly like an arrow? I think no, it is us who fly like arrows, through the winds of time. Some arrows misfire, into terrible tempests and horrible hurricanes, while others fly true, into the soothing kaze which comes from the heavens itself. Our memories are like shelves upon shelves of the books of our experience, but these shelves, they are cursed. At any point of time in our flight through time, we might look for one of these books, and find that it has been ripped from our grasping hands, leaving an empty void that can never be replaced. Are words on this piece of cyberspace, strutting their every contour with unchecked shamelessness to anyone who casts a curious glance their way, sufficient to capture the fiery flames of my feelings which I experienced but briefly with every event that I attend?