I have been going out for walks every day, and still I enjoy them. Perhaps some part of me starts the walk only out of some nagging sense of obligation to myself, but I come out of it genuinely enjoying what I've done, and feeling moderately proud of it. The wind is blustery, trying to force me back indoors, but I sink my hands deeper into my pockets and trudge onward to the Cathedral, where I can walk around in the warmth and serenity and enjoy the feeling of having made the conscious effort. It is nothing to anybody but myself, but then I am the one audience I am, realistically, trying to please.

I have met so many people from different walks of life, and am glad for it. There are people like me, and more often than not, people entirely unlike me. I have empathized with the first and sympathized with the latter, and while there are many people still with whom I have not offered the first word, I am, this time, immodestly proud of those which I have. Just the other day I met with a man who had undergone training in Tibetan Buddhism in Nepal. I had been admiring his attire and bearing for days, never daring to approach, but always wondering. Part of me is still amazed at how I walked up to him and introduced myself, but I'm beginning to understand that people from different walks of life are yet more similar than they let on.

No man is an island; everyone craves socialization in one way or another. The idea of approachability has taken on a life of its own, with people internalizing sudden introductions as a social faux pas. People are embarrassed to be interested in others: it might stem from a fear of rejection, but more so possibly because we are a society that fears intimacy. It is not the fear of getting rejected, but the introspection that follows any such exercise. We think there is something wrong with us, and that perhaps we have exposed a weakness or a fallibility that everyone else - those stoic paragons of self-restraint - does not share. Indeed, when I get snubbed I do feel down for a bit, but when I succeed in getting through to the other person, and talk at length with them, the sense of satisfaction and accomplishment are hard to beat.

I walked down to Wharton Park today to take part in the widegames for the Assassins' Society. It was a relatively lonely walk as I hadn't the heart to ask anyone else if they were going. Indeed, I'm not entirely sure I wasn't the only Hild Bede student there. There are things I can't do yet - be completely honest about myself with people - but I'm trying.

I love doing awesome things like roleplaying, assassin games and manga; I love writing fantasy and sci fi, and part of me really wants to cosplay even though most of me is vehemently against it; I fear I'm not actually considerate, just worried about what people will think of me otherwise; sometimes I worry I'm the most selfish person, and I just donate money or do charity work to feel better about myself.

But  when I look at all the things that worry me, and all the things that I'm embarrassed about, I just think that I'm sure everyone else has their own guilty pleasures; the kind of faux pas that poseurs get excited about - what are we as a race if not diverse? There's no shame in showing enthusiasm for anything at all; after all, it's a lot more genuine. And I'm sure everyone suffers from the same worries themselves, that they aren't the wonderful people they imagine themselves to be. And just because that's probably true doesn't mean we have any reason to try for anything less.

But just because that's probably true doesn't make it any harder to be less self-conscious. I don't know if I want to change that. Is that who I am? Do I actually like being the way I am now? I feel like if I become an extrovert, or become intensely passionate about the things I do, I'll have tamed the blustery wind, and made the morning walk that much easier. But I quite like the little struggles and the small respite; the warmth I feel at the end of the day is that much sweeter for it.

There exists a place in space but not time where dreams can exist, free and independent of the people who selfishly cling to them. In this place lie words like naivety and hope; sometimes they string themselves up into half-formed wishes: the kind that represent the best intentions, before hubris and other motivations get in the way. The wonder of a child with his first toy; the moment when a bride and groom's eyes meet. Fleeting instants, flashes so quick that they might have never been there at all, but people cling to them - the ideals - human minds rationalizing their existence with human consciences.

The futile rationalization turns to desperation: like tendrils, snaking their way up, quavering as though struggling as they rise. They intertwine, strangling each other as they claw onwards, the twisted tentacles finding the dreams and grasping greedily at them. The veneer of goodwill crumples first, leaving holes in which they latch on, hungrily, looking for a way to rise above the rest. The more devious ones twist the ideas, changing them to suit their own purposes; those which fail fall far, and there is no sound as they hit the ground, nor pity. They were but the means to an end that is still nowhere in sight.

Dusting off an old blog is a pretty painful thing to do. Fortunately, this one was relatively scar-less, although the pretentiousness of my younger self is painfully obvious in these pages. Nonetheless, this is as good a platform of any for me to let the mass of thoughts in my head coalesce into written form so that nobody has to suffer through my incoherent babbling in person.

As it is, I have now just been in Durham for just over a week, and thus am possibly in a position to engage in introspection. I tend to overly abuse the generous allotment of introspection afforded to the sane portion of the human race, so it's nice that in this day and age, outlets like this exist where one can bloviate without having to be self-conscious about it.

Durham University is as beautiful as it looks in the pictures, as long as those pictures aren't taken by yours truly. Coming from Singapore, the weather is quite a bit colder, but there is a lovely bracing feeling that comes with it as well. Every bitter wind which batters my cold, weary body reminds me not only that I am actually in this lovely country, but also that I should probably have put on my coat. I once made a post about London - that was a different blog, a long time ago - and to say that Durham is an entirely different kettle of fish altogether will not be stretching it; in fact, one of the wonderful things about Durham is I'm not entirely sure that the kettle of fish is purely metaphorical.

The locals are amazingly genuine. I have mentioned on several occasions to the people around me that the Geordie accent just makes me feel all warm inside. On one occasion it may have been indigestion, but for the most part it just feels a lot more sincere and unabashed to me. Hearing the night man - Martin I think his name was - speak made me smile in part because it sounded so local, although to be fair another part of it was just because I couldn't understand what he was saying and was just trying to be polite.

One thing that I get asked about a lot by my family is whether or not the food's good. To that, I state that I trust anything the kitchen staff make that isn't South-East or East Asian in origin. The fact is that I just don't know enough about foreign cuisine to know what is or isn't good. I am, however, in a position to judge at least some of the other foods, and of course the question is why come all the way over here and eat something you have fonder memories of at home? Admittedly, there is a certain pleasure that comes from criticizing the food here and reminiscing about how much better it is in your home country, but I think I'll reserve that pleasure for when I'm 80 and reminisce about how it was 60 years ago instead.

I have met many amazing people here, undergraduate and postgraduate alike. Everyone is incredibly friendly (as long as you can summon the nerve to make the first move), and most of them have at least a passing interest in what I have to say about Singapore, so conversations usually last at least two minutes. I find it slightly easier to make friends with international students, not least because they too come from completely different cultures and so we can hold a conversation for approximately four minutes instead. I exaggerate, of course, but I must admit to finding it just a little difficult to make friends with some of the UK students from time to time, although in all fairness this is partly because most of them already have friends of their own whom they talk to, and who can fault that? So I make my 50-second pitch about how Singapore's a lovely place and they really should visit it one day (who says I don't do my part for my country?) and then move on. What I really enjoy, though, is chatting up people from China and put my oft-lamented Chinese skills to terrible use. I mean, I can understand how it must feel being apart from your home country and being surrounded by a bewildering number of people speaking extremely rapidly in a tongue you only just have the basics of: after all, I did have a transfer flight in Germany. In all seriousness, I think making someone's day just by giving them an outlet to talk comfortably is the best feeling ever bar chocolate, which I can't have too much of.

Oh, that's right, I've lost my voice. The weather here is dry, and the humidifier really isn't working as amazingly as I hoped it would. The habit I have of singing to myself when I'm alone has done wonders for my throat. A lot of the food is fried, because it cooks more easily that way, and I've been suckered into every hash brown and battered fish they've served to date. It's a pity, because I'd originally planned on maybe trying out for the choir here, but I think it's probably best I try something else anyway. It's not just about how dry the air is, but also the fact that I actually do plan on taking part in as many volunteer/pro bono activities as I can reasonably cope with.

Speaking of the food again, I'm reminded of how stupid I feel now not bringing anything to cook. They have kitchens... after a fashion. In the Hild Gym Block where I stay, we have a passable common room, but I've been to the Hild building and they have everything you need to cook whatever you want as long as you have the utensils (or appliances) for it. Obviously, there isn't a wood oven, but then I don't actually know of any use I'd ever have for one anyway. That's one of the main reasons I want to stay in a house with people next year, really: it's great fun cooking for them, and there's the added advantage of possibly giving them dysentery the next day if you can't actually cook. Of course, that might be a little short-sighted seeing as how everyone probably shares the same bathrooms. Except you, of course, because after that little fiasco you've probably already been evicted.

I have been going on walks around town in the morning: something I have never actually done while in Singapore. Sometimes I feel like a tourist, and then I feel a little embarrassed, but also strangely proud. Coming to this University has been a blast so far, and I've made plenty of friends (I hope?). I think the wonder hasn't worn off for me yet, and I hope it never will.

They stood in a neat semicircle in a clearing in the wood, itself extraordinary in that there had not been a clearing before, their unnatural patterns a miasma of colours which swirled and beckoned enigmatically. The aura they emanated was one which the boy found entirely foreign - alien enough, indeed, to have turned away all other life for miles.

But not him.

He approached the strange boxes, each of them as tall as his waist and just as wide: giant cubes which hummed as he approached, as though acknowledging his presence. The blue bird shivered in apprehension.

"These... do not belong in this forest, do they?"

The implication was obvious. The boy had known, and the animals had known, and the blue bird had known, but they had not comprehended before; passed it off as a passing suspicion; of lurking dreams half-fulfilled in the nighttime day that was the twilight of their memories.

"You brought them here," the voices seemed to say; to - falsely... or correctly? - accuse, "and only you can rid us of them."

The trees swayed, flurried a little now by a wind that did not exist; by the crowds who pressed in and shoved and rushed around in the fragility of their lives in another world.

"I... need time."

But his voice was weak in the pressing in of emotions and suspicions and understandings and the asphyxiating grip of life: a reality which he had always eluded, and which he knew now had caught up with him.

"Time was all you had."

Everyone agreed that Ephedrilestemus Vangardrilorian was a long, unwieldy and unsuitably imposing name for the infant, aged but the two or three hours the Elrundar Council had taken to convene following his birth: thus it was that in the fifth year of the Sundering War, in the small village of Maruf, under the Star of Tides, he was christened as such and borne into a world that he would forever change - for better or for worse.

He had seldom found as much of the comrade-in-arms in the next man from him than when he found himself standing against the wall, shoulders almost brushing the two males abreast of him, as the soft tinkling of water, audible almost as to make him self-conscious, indeed, in the public urinal.

Sometimes a compulsion takes you in a thought; other times you have scarce the time to think before you find yourself plunging headlong into... what? It is a wild thrill and yet feral, perhaps dangerous.

But others would not see it so.

There are words on the pages, and they are an invitation: a gathering in the forest, they see now, for friends they have not met and have met, a long time ago. The signature is an unfamiliar one, but it is definitely a signature; a scribbled word with greater significance for its attribution to a mind and a being.

"One of us?" the bluebird questions the boy, but in the lonely silence it sounds more like a statement.

So they went: backwards and through - through the rain in the forest, typical and yet atypical in its persistence through the canopy, bringing both fresh respite and bitter wet. The other animals along the way helped show them a path the scribbling in the book could not: a pastiche of past experiences that brought both reminiscence and understanding.

There is no fanfare, no amazing welcome, but an immediate induction which assimilates them beautifully into the crowd. It is a particular disinterest that just borders on being unfriendly or overbearing, but avoids being either at the same time. There is food and games and just the insouciant chitchat and warm chitterchatter of acquaintances and soon-to-be-friends. There is, however, no direction but the time of the day, and the wetness of the brewing storm which finally breaks the party.

"For whom was the gathering held?" the boy inquired to the multitudes of creatures from all walks of life, all strangely beautiful in the light of night.

"For you, and ourselves, and for everyone who was," was the reply from one and many, or perhaps none, which was no simpler than the question, yet satiating in a self-fulfilling way. There was to be nothing else to be said: a finality which emphasized its emphasis.

A flash of light, sudden, and then nothing. Lightning came, and tore the land in two divides; even those who could fly could go no further across the gulf of darkness that was night and what it stood for: lethargy, solitude and the unfamiliar. As the calls sounded, those few retreated to the sanctity of their homes: those left, unable to find a compromise between the divides, went on their separate ways: the ones who had moved on thus finding themselves at rather a loss at what to do.

"Whom is this gathering now for?" the blue bird asked the boy, for no one else would respond.

But he who had no reply could find no other recourse against such a doubt, either. He saw it in the moods of those around them as they progressed through the desolate wetness for want of something to take shelter under until the light came: when they felt themselves fulfilled enough to return.

But what they did they did together, even then; uncertainties and misgivings plagued their route, through which sinuous bends through moonlit paths and across undefined shapes which lay underfoot, and yet there was humour, and some strange understanding which came to grow between them so that when they finally found themselves afterwards, it was to realize that they were already fulfilling what each of them had come out to find.

"I know," he breathed.

And for all the vastness and darkness and dampness and loneliness of the forest, it seemed for a time that it was not so empty after all.