I just turned 33 last weekend. Like most of my previous birthdays, I skip big celebrations and blowout to friends and colleagues at work.

I’d rather spend my time quietly, without the noise of partying, singing and merry-making. Without funfare and heavy drinking where you don’t know what happen when you wake up the following morning. Not to mention nursing a hangover, in most cases.

But those are when you’re in your twenties. Birthday celebration in your thirties is more simple–because you know better, wiser.

When you disentangle your self from material possessions as definition of happiness, then life becomes enjoyable. That is what I am embracing. In fact, I did not think of anything to gift my self with prior to my birthday. I was just happy and contented with my life.

There’s just so many things to be thankful about, and I have come to that point where I could not ask for more because I’ve been blessed enough.

Thank you for another year of wonderful things. Here’s to more years of expressing happiness.



Now what?

The Oscars is done. It is time to go back to reading fiction, and continue with the unfinished business of books scattered in my bedside. I haven’t open a single book since December, and it was akin to committing a serious crime. That’s how it feels for someone who reads a lot of fiction. I miss the smell of paper, and the sound of pages as you turn a page.

I am currently reading 3 books at the same time, 2 fiction and 1 semi-autobiography. Oh well, its my comeuppance for being inactive for a long time. But I am not complaining.

For a bookworm, that’s a joy.