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Watching the ducks, white and black swans darting here and there whenever bread was thrown at them left the little one in squeals and stitches. She never fails to bring smiles to our face and joy in our heart. We are constantly amazed at her ability to derive joy and pleasure from the simplest thing. We grown-ups indeed have much to learn from these innocent kids.

It was a lazy Sunday with a weak autumn sun and chilly breeze. Our slow walk in the refreshing cold air left me longing for the flavourful and richness of leftover goose from last night's dinner. Funny it was only last night I swore to myself and everyone at the table that I wasn't going to eat another duck/goose until Christmas Day. Today is evidently a case of body over mind. How does one resist tasty hearty food that makes us feel all warm and cozy against the frosty temperature outside? I dread the short days and long nights and I long for rich hearty meals. I suspect a big part of me won't find comfort and warmth in carrot sticks, smoothies and green juices for quite a while.

My mind however begs for a different type of food. Other than trying my hands at poetry, with not much luck, just yet, I haven't been doing much serious writing. Instead I occupy myself with books which are a departure from my usual novels and books. And I am loving the books by Singaporean authors. These people are truly an inspiration. If I can't be like any one of them, I am equally happy to be able to catch a glimpse of their wisdom and creativeness.

My complacency got to me but guilt insists on walking alongside me. No sign of it letting up when I tried to outrun it. While mine is positively not a tortured or conflicted soul and to say that I write in order to save my soul sounds a little cliche and an overstatement, I certainly do feel better after writing. Whether there's truth in the stereotype of 'tortured soul/writer' or 'starving artist', I am not so sure. Because into each life some rain must fall so all human beings suffer and suffering is not only exclusive to the creatives. Charles Bukowski couldn't have said it better about the starving artist:

"I remembered my New Orleans days, living on two five-cent candy bars a day for weeks at a time in order to have leisure to write. But starvation, unfortunately, didn't improve art. It only hindered it. A man's soul was rooted in his stomach. A man could write much better after eating a porterhouse steak and drinking a pint of whiskey than he could ever write after eating a nickel candy bar. The myth of the starving artist was a hoax."