One of the things you realised when you visit a youngster's blog is the photographs, the camwhoring* - no, not like the NUS student's incident at all - tons and tons of them, much more than words, occasionally just with captions. And again, I felt old. This blogging business, the blogsphere, more than once, it has felt "too young" for me - now, I am grumbling like an uncle again. As much as I enjoy writing into the dead of the night, less so am I able to do so now, out of sheer exhaustion after a day at the office. Such is life, and life is such.
Poems, in their very nature, are like tiny capsules of those precious little life's moments, allowing me to condense more in less of time.
Question: How do I perceive someone as a youngster? Er, someone in his or her 20s?
*To take pictures of either yourself and/or with your friends excessively
Pure torture it was to see Liverpool huffed and puffed a win over Everton last night.
Question: Why am I still fidgeting over Liverpools' fate when I have absolutely no expectation of them? Er, out of old habit?
Or perhaps, there is just something rejuvenating, something invigorating in loathing about your team's incompetence, or about life in general.
Though, no doubt, viewing eye-candies on blogs is rejuvenating. But that is not the point of this post, really.