I’ve learnt that this is quite a bittersweet form of flattery, even though the ways it is expressed can neither or either be good or bad. It’s often, I guess, a mellow sunshine indecisive. I’ve also just realised what I’m most afraid of in life are absolutes, the rigid fixation of one dichotomy, unmoving and staunch. I am afraid of being afraid, hapless, helpless. But at the same time I am afraid of being brave, dauntless, irrational.
I think one of the closest times I’ve came to feel bliss (as far as I can remember, anyway) was definitely me sitting on the track breathing the last cadences of the sun, with a book in my hands, watching out of the corner of my eye as the fiercely bright stadium lights came on. It’s strange, but it brought a vague feeling of comfort and familiarity.
And here I realise there’s a part of me that wishes to step forth callously into the unknown — or pursue something I know that would inevitably be ruined. Because at least, things like that provide good things to write about, pain translated into poetry.
I don’t know the limitations of human strength, but I wish I did.
I want to do these things: be stubborn in the things that matter, realise that social media is rather piss and conforming to so-called Instagram rules (e.g posting a picture more than twice a day is a no-no, for example; and it doesn’t mean your friendship means less to me if I don’t post a picture of us because our friendship isn’t always for show), travel through South Asia with a bike and a backpack, find the thin line between accepting things as they are and knowing what you can change as a mere person, curious, read books that interest me and not because they are critically acclaimed, go into the green, dive into the blue, create something I will be proud of.
I guess I have to start by changing my eating habits.