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instagram.com/paulsyng

Hello and welcome! Everyone is trying to cope with the current strange situation in their own way. I’m making a series of short films. Why am I making films? Have I made some already? Where am I posting them? Who watches them? Should you be watching them? Feeling anxious and excited? Don’t sweat or panic; I’ll explain everything.

The short version. Start watching.

The long version. You and I are going to be looking back at this blip and have worthy historical stories (hopefully nothing traumatic). …


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I was born on tropical land, inherited Aryan genetics, consumed lassi and butter chicken for breakfast (go figure), bathed with a bucket of cold “tanki” water, spoke a smoothie of Hindi, Punjabi and English, slept by the water-cooler and drove an LML Vespa.

Yep, childhood was great! “Ballin,” is how any person in my immediate surrounding would describe the predicament. I live in Canada now, eh.

There was only one snafu. My armpits reeked of goat breath all through childhood. Don’t ask me what happened when I was left alone by a cage full of pretentious goats. …


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Working from a café, on your laptop, is a trifle at best and a trek if you’re carrying a laptop bag. A coffee shop, in my mind, is suitable for meetings, quick last-minute edits, chatting and “coffee” but the absolute worst for doing focused work.

“Oh, look! There’s Paul at the coffee shop working on his laptop. Boy does he look engrossed. He must be very productive getting all his shit done,” said no person, ever.

This segues into why one should fashion their own Batcave. Or the close cousin, a desk in mom’s basement. A creative space (doesn’t mean…


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It’s been half a decade. And I can’t seem to stop. I’m finally coming out and saying it. Ready? Naked ankles are my weakness. Folding my pant cuffs, revealing the hairy flesh underneath, is a habit I picked up from GQ. Shameless plug alert. I wrote for GQ. So when I say GQ was my bible you know, I have a biased opinion.

On any typical evening, I’d lay back in my brown bean bag, beer in hand, with an issue of GQ — scrutinising the flood of ads, semi-nude photography, drool over things I couldn’t afford and study the…


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Perched on my living room couch, a tub of vanilla bean yoghurt in hand, I realised how much my mid-day snacking habits have changed. I’m turning thirty-something this year. Geez! Has it been that long?

There was a time, and I kid you not, when slices of bread, pan-fried in butter, and a cup of hot milk was my go-to evening snack. Just good old white bread.

None of the bloated “millennial loaf” bullshit — no traces of gluten-free, non-GMO or hints of digestive seeds, which make one shit as if they were an ice-cream dispenser, were found.

Devoid of…


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Tell me you haven’t looked someone in the eye, noticed a single strand of hair poking out of their nose, and been a) sick to your stomach or b) made attempts to stare without getting caught or c) imagined not one but a hair flower. Nose hair extensions, anyone?

I don’t like to stick my nose in other people’s business but to let one’s hair down shouldn’t be taken literally. Sure, one could argue the merits of nose hair — they’re the first line of defense against bacteria and smelly farts.

By that token, the renegade strand dangling dangerously out…


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In the nooks and crannies of a corporate workplace lurks awkward silence, small-talk (also the bane of my existence) and the half-ass smirk/smile one is subjected to while crossing paths in (carefully designed — very — narrow) corridors.

If you already haven’t pieced it together, the writer of this nugget works a corporate job. Nothing fancy about that, one would conclude. The struggle and temptation to make conversation ensue moments into your ride up the elevator.

Oh, look! There’s Timothy from accounting! You lock eyes, and just before you launch into a smile, he looks away. Sheesh, buddy! I thought…


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When you’re a morning person like myself, you commence your evening descent by 9 pm. Here’s how I mastered the art of landing into bed, turbulence free.

Taking off, early, is all about planning your night before. Daily rituals, people. I’d be a terrible Batman if you know what I mean.

As one nears towards the end of the night, take your foot off the gas and let your engines cool. I begin by eating the last meal by 7 pm, leaving room for a cup of tea. Coffee helps me wake up while tea relaxes my nerves.

I flood…


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I stepped up to the sink and there he was. The guy in the mirror. My doppelgänger. One wouldn’t describe their reflection as another being. Heck, I just did. Some might call this behaviour narcissistic. Let them.

And just like that I was able to write words and put a sentence together. Call this heroic or just an attempt to pat me on the back for starting to write for the millionth time.

Where were we? Right.

There I was, in the bathroom, holding my toothbrush in one hand and the faucet handle in the other. …


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fyi:- This is an excerpt from my weekly newsletter which you can join.

Premjit Sodhi, President Media Planning, Lowe started his workshop with a lesson he learned during his days in business school. He recalled his professor putting the class to task with the story of a farmer. It went something like this (this was while ago but I’ve got a handle on it).

There’s a poor farmer living in the middle of the Rajasthani desert. He can barely make ends meet, his house is falling apart, the nearest hospital is hours away and there’s no water supply… and so…

Paul Syng

Art, Design & Film

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