i should be asleep now because i just launched yet another campaign to save my flailing grades after feeling increasingly guilt-ridden as i read my entries from 2007. however, i am awake because my brain decides to go all contemplative on me at night.
i wish there was someone to blame for all this, an archetypal villain straight out of a tv drama whom we can easily discredit for all confusions to be resolved so trust love and the whole shebang will spring out of their shackles to restore life to its shiny, happy, and most importantly, straight forward self.
is this why people thrive on fiction? so that they may continue to believe that they can slay all demons if their heart is pure and their sword is mighty? that the lies the conniving bastard weaves will be conveniently exposed by an incriminating video tape? would i honestly be happier if there was someone to blame?
so many god damn questions. it feels like those open ended books where the answer you choose would change the ending of your story. i remember owning a goosebump book like that, i hated that book just like how i disliked most of the goosebump series simply because they left the endings hanging. a story should open with a good introduction, then lead to the body where there would be a complication which should be accompanied by the climax. finally, it should have a solid conclusion. that was what i was taught and that was what i did in proper step by step fashion. i laboured over the endings of the stories i wrote, there were happy endings that delivered its aesop-like advice initially. then happy became something to sneer at because happy endings were for disney cartoons, and everyone knew that dark endings were realistic or at least more befitting of one at that age.
there were no more endings of the fictional sort after those though, the endings are now worded with highly functional words to convey my stand on an opinion. a perfectly balanced conclusion to round off a schizophrenic essay, one that said everything your essay stood for yet nothing so your gp teacher can't nail your ass.
i would like my life to go back to the days where the narrative was the order of the day. i am probably more stable, self-assured and prepared now than i was before but i wish i could say this with pride and not with the tinge of sadness that slips in when progress has been made along with a sacrifice. what's more tragic in a person? a desperate longing for what has long faded away that overrides all imperative to live for the moment, or the solid knowledge that life goes on without your permission and it would be best to plod on for the moment, however long that moment may be.
the moment stretches from dawn to dusk as you fuss about the minutiae of life till the individual days no longer matter to you because they all feel the same. the people who are important enough to be ignored are ignored in the madness of the busyness and you fail to become important enough. the dreams that i once had the audacity to conjure up are terribly far from me now, i have moved so far from them in such a short time it frightens me. on the other hand, this problem has not moved much further. this yawning chasm will not be bridged soon because i can not, or is it more accurate to say will not, do so despite all the changes as this one bit of me remains unchanged.
congratulations to me, i am now an adult where nothing i need to know to get me through life is taught in school. all before my 21st birthday too.
our day will come.
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