V e r i t a s . S o p h i a . I u s t i t i a

Let this be the end. Let this be the beginning.

The period of sixteen books is over and tonight I start at one again; it is both one and seventeen, a break away and an adhesion that is all part of one and the same finite circumference. No, it will not be drawn again, this path, but history repeats itself, over and over, even in, especially in a single lifetime.

So there is both a casting off of a splintered shell, snapped off in bits at first, then the motion accelerating at a breakneck speed, teeth grinding before, cautiously, finally, once the raw flesh beneath is truly exposed and ascertained alive, human and in utter agony, the shell is allowed three months for its regeneration.

At both one and seventeen, there is no full rehabilitation, only a thin membrane is formed, alongside the realization of a naked truth, and its grudging acceptance. At seventeen, the realization that there will be no new beginnings, nothing to replace the diseased limp amputated, the first of three months, a period of wishful thinking. At the end, a beginning- resigned if not reconciled to an endless uncoiling of a life whose future will be plagued by the arthritic throbbing of the past.

The end of the first week of the Beijing Olympics is just about over as I write this, though not quite. This evening, we’ll find out just who the fastest man on the planet is (from the heats and semis, I’m putting my money on Jamaican Usain Bolt), and I’m pretty sure all of Singapore will be glued to their television screens to witness Feng Tianwei and Li Jiawei win our country’s first Olympic medal since 1960. Tonight’s women’s team table tennis final has been a long 48 long years in the making for us Singaporeans and with some luck, okay, a LOT of luck, we may even upset the mighty Chinese and win our first ever Olympic gold. Who knows? Fingers crossed.

As expected, Michael Phelps’ quest for eight Olympic gold medals in a single meet has dominated the headlines, and barring some bizarre twist of fate, an eighth victory at the Water Cube tomorrow (in the 4x100m medley relay) seems inevitable. But for two amazing races, the Greatest Olympian of All Time (yes, it’s official now) never looked even slightly nonplussed, but of course it’s those two races that have been the most memorable and will be replayed for many a time to come. How the veteran Jason Lezak kept alive Phelps’ bid for eight in the final leg of the 4x100m freestyle when the race looked all but lost to the French, with world 100m freestyle record holder Alain Bernard anchoring the French to an almost certain gold is still a question that has everyone who watched that race stunned, and what about the even more dramatic final of the 100m butterfly, in which Phelps was trailing Milorad Cavic of Slovakia for 99.9m before winning by 1/100th of a second. Now that was a race no one with cardiac problems should watch.

Still, while Phelps has been the star of the Games so far and the Beijing Olympics will certainly be remembered for a long time to come for his historic exploits, my personal Kodak moments of week one have come courtesy of less heralded athletes- the perennial underdogs who finally have their day in the sun, the “chokers” who at long last conquer their nerves, the unknowns who come out of the woodwork to stun the favorites. The likeably laidback Ryan Lochte, nicknamed “Mr. Runner-up for being a perennial bridesmaid to Phelps and Aaron Piersol, told reporters afterwards that his first thought was “finally” when he beat Piersol to finally win his first ever individual gold medal in the 200m backstroke, in world record time. In the 50m freestyle, the relatively unknown Brazilian Cesar Cielo Filho turned the pool into a punching bag when he realized he’d set a new Olympic record against a field of such heavy-weights as 100m gold medalist Bernard, world champion Ben Wildman-Tobriner of the United States and world record holder Eamon Sullivan of Australian. Filho turned into mush when the Brazilian national anthem was played during the victory ceremony and after a week of “I knew I’d win it” smiles, it was nice to see someone for whom an Olympic gold truly meant the world.

Finally, in gymnastics, it was great to see China’s Yang Wei finally crowned the men’s All-Around champion after coming up second best to the legendary Alexei Nemov at Sydney in 2000 and then, as the overwhelming favorite, literally coming apart in Athens in 2004, falling from the high bar with gold almost certain. This time, fittingly, his last routine was the high bar, and though there were some nervous moments, you knew Yang Wei would hang on to that bar even if he had to bite it with his teeth and hang on he did so that even though the bar produced for him his lowest score of the six routines, when he dismounted with a somersault and the tiniest of hops, he and the entire stadium knew he had won the gold even before the judges flashed his score.

Screw it. There's just no way I can write objectively about the Olympic Games. The hand-wringing anticipation begins a good year, a year and a half, in advance. I'm reading the sports pages everyday like a gambling man hedging his bets on horses he's never seen up close before but knows everything about their form that there is to know about. Who's hitting top form? Is she peaking too early? Who's in a slump? Can he find where he left his mojo in time? Who's injured? How long will he be out for? Which young upstart is stamping all over established names?

It's finally here. Well, almost. Two days to go. Thankfully Singapore and Beijing are in the same time zone. Means I won't have to turn nocturnal for three weeks like four years ago when the Games were held in Athens, or eight years ago, when they were in Sydney and I was in London. Still, it has to be said, there was a certain cinematic thrill to watching sporting history unfold in the dark of my living room at four in the morning, and it was certainly easier to hide those goose-bumps that inevitably followed the sight of Cathy Freeman, face worn with relief at the weight of a nation lifted off her slender shoulders.

That the Games will be held in Beijing only makes them all the more feverishly exciting for me; to be honest, it is only with the Beijing Games that I have come to realize that despite being two generations removed, I still possess an intrinsic bond with the country of my ancestors. Nowhere is this more evident than how defensive I have become lately with all the bad press that China's been receiving recently.

CNN reported a couple of days ago that George W. Bush gave China a 'mixed report card' in its run-up to the Olympics. At the risk of sounding like an apologist for the Chinese government, I beg the question, who exactly appointed Mr. Bush to be the world's moral compass? Of course there is much to deplore about China's positions over Tibet and the Sudan, but lest we forget, the United States is itself more than capable of shutting an eye to crimes against humanity, as witnessed in Rwanda and sure didn't shy away from oppressing the sovereignty of another state when it waged its illegal war on Iraq, so forgive me if I'm a little miffed, but surely a lesson in ethics from a man who should be sharing a cell with Karadzic at the Hague right now is more than a little rich?

I feel so devoid of inspiration these days. Insufferable boredom plagues my every waking moment and I know that to be the chief source of this aridity of the imagination. I am beginning to have a painful epiphany: that all of my art is, to put it vulgarly, bitching about life. You would think this would be the perfect time for me to spiritedly pursue all the artistic endeavors I have been complaining work has forced me to sacrifice, yet the opposite is true: without the daily repetitive grind of work, I am suddenly devoid of the impetus to write or paint. Work, for all its unpleasantness, was never at fault in the first place for this draught. It has simply been a case of pure sloth, flawless, unpolluted laziness at its crystal fineness. I may hate the mindless administrative duties and despise the harebrained bureaucracies at work, but I have only myself to blame for allowing my life to become a pool of stagnant water. One entire month away from work and what do I have to show for it? A primed canvas with a few "expressionistic" brushstrokes and ten books read and not a paragraph of the promised debut novel delivered. Oh isn't it wonderful how my work blossoms by itself while I sleep my afternoons away and grow fat on diet coke and Mars bars... For Christ's hallowed and sanctified sake, get off your fat ass and DO SOMETHING. PLEASE!