Absolutely love this, it’s like holding a piece of history in your hands. Inside cover of Vile Bodies by Evelyn Waugh.
Do not choose to wallow in self-pity and doubt… after all, man is what he wills himself to be.
To succumb to this structure and live my own envisioned life in the sidelines - perhaps this is what I have consigned my life to when I chose this discipline. As each year passed I only realized more incongruities between the system and my calling… The way out, of course, is to adapt myself to the terrain, but that’s not the direction I’m projecting myself to be in.
This Mr. Brown blue mountain blend coffee tastes almost as innocuous as chocolate now. It has none of the richness or strength which I once used to savour with every sip. After 3 years of taking it as a daily morning supplement (save for holidays) I should not be surprised… nonetheless I am a little unprepared to switch to black coffee at the moment.
It’s like losing a faithful friend…
Scrolling through Instagram feed during breaks from exam-cramming (i.e. Fuck I Never Actually Learned Shit) - all I want to say is: hedonism, WAIT FOR ME.
This sloping part of the woods by the river once held a skeleton in my closet, which I tried to hide from my classmates about a year or two ago. It was a desperate, late afternoon, the sun fiercely prowling through the trees and bushes with its sharp rays, yet at the same time throwing out distinct shadows in which I could hide. I clutched it in my hands, not daring to think what I had done, not daring to imagine what would happen when people found out, the look of horror on their faces, judgement slowly dawning in their eyes. The river kept dancing by, indifferent to my quiet, trembling terror. I did not have much time, people were calling out. I chose a spot at random, settled down and feverishly dug a hole. Covered it, made it look like a part of the living woods. It wasn’t far from campus, but people rarely came here anyway. It would be safe here. I would be safe back there.
How I wished for a tree to grow in this spot, embrace it with life, to engulf it and spare me of the burden of this secret. I buried it in the dark, where I hoped it would never be discovered, but I did not want it to die in that suffocating blackness. It was still a part of me, nonetheless. It was a painful departure, but it had to be done. I thought that would be the end of it… but it called back to me.
Yesterday, I found myself in the woods again, after an absence of years. The ground was overgrown with bushes and shrubs, they were golden brown and swaying in the wind. My entry was more than dramatic. I swung along a thin, pliable branch and sailed over and through the bushes, which had grown as tall as I am, until I came to a stop and stayed there as they pricked me. My memory faltered in the chaos that had overtaken this place. No way I could find that spot now, everything looked different. The cacophony of cicadas and birds was somehow serene. Yet there was something else. People were crashing around, heading towards the river. I heard the voices of my classmates. My friends. They dove headlong into the river, which was sparkling in the sun. I tried to vanish, drowning in their laughter, please just stay there in the river, please.
Then the bushes in front of me parted and I came face to face with her. A shout of surprise. Heads turned. Questions. Curious, but friendly looks. This was how they found me in my solitude, that day in the woods. Perhaps we could co-exist; me with my skeleton, still unbeknownst to them.
These were two separate dreams I had, the first one about 1.5-2 years ago and the second one yesterday. Same place, an imaginary woods next to campus, almost the same people, my classmates. Same context.
The moon is a fiery orange tonight, a slim crescent in the cloudy night sky. Its features are thrown into sharper relief than usual, its surface eccentricities accentuated into swirls of dusty grey over burnt orange. It feels foreign, almost hostile, and makes me ill at ease. I am used to the moon being a placid white instead of this intense hue. But you say it is pretty, and it captivates me as much as it scares me. I try to look at it through your eyes, eyes that see the moon differently from all of us; try to feel like you would, the way you did in the past few years. How much of you are still foreign to me? We remain strangers to each other’s darkness, much as I am already lost in your light.
May 13, 2011
Bitter or sweet, in this foreign place
Both are foreign tastes, your foreign face
Your eyes, your smile speak of foreign names
Dare I venture, dare I risk
Jar of candy, made of glass
Foreign letters, same old words
It’s a different day, you play a different game
Bitter or sweet, it’s bittersweet