It seems like things are going to accelerate really quickly in the next couple of weeks so I feel like, for myself, on a bright and cheery Saturday morning when I'm not busying myself at my desk and recovering from pounding 21km around Singapore last night, I should write down things that have been happening/are going to happen and things I have been thinking about
I keep turning many of these blog posts back into drafts because they feel too much of myself to put out there. Feels like I'm going to take a whole life time to understand myself. I think what I want to know is why the question on my mind is "why/what is the point of X". Why are we so consumed by the drive to deliver/achieve our supposed 'sole purpose in life', which is a separate issue worth mentioning of which I again, have no answers to. I thought for a while, would that mean that everything, tangible or intangible, has to mean something? Doesn't that make you feel dulled down by the emptiness of how that sounds?
There are so many moments I want to bottle but I feel so shallow-minded to form proper opinions of anything and that lack of coherency in my careless strings of words makes me feel like nothing is worth writing. I am so much of a hoarder for the tangible and quite the extreme for the intangible. To me it feels a lot better to having fleeting moments than to stay stationary, maybe because I haven't found anything that is worth cuddling up to/staying there.
Am I starting to sound like someone who has had too much time alone?
Just took a quick glance to my left: 10:56AM. I have found it alarmingly disturbing how I am always keeping track of time in a way I want to control entities that even I am cocksure I cannot. I have resigned to the notion of self-pity and that maybe now I am just wallowing myself in a deep thousand bazillion metre pool of self-pity. Is it not normal to struggle? Struggle is a another word for growth is it not? Yet I can't help myself from always feeling anxious about not being certain and secure. It eggs me to want to grasp onto any safety net of sorts, or maybe envelope and seal myself up tight from potential distress. I'm barely convinced about the likes of sureness and safeness.
Am always constantly mindful of people who beautifully lump words and almost effortlessly ensue a intricately written piece of work I want to be able to write like that and maybe that would serve as my outlet for all these frustrations. The kind of chaotic frustration that needs to be structured and allocated into strata and regulated well away from the arbitrary nature of it all. I think what I want to say is that everything that makes me want to leave roots me to this place. I wish I could divert my thoughts, find some peace and be more mindful but I'm struggling terribly to believe that there is more to life than disappointment. I'd rather not be alive and not experience happiness every again in order to avoid these horribly painful emotions that most of the time tear me apart. This is my moment of ignorance.
Gravitating down into reality: I wish I would never forget the beauty of what I study. It is beautiful, this delicate act of studying is something so immensely intricate that it is beautiful. The brain's metabolism is working much faster than I'd like it to. I forget things very much more than I retain them. Shouldn't my digestive system and brain system reverse roles? In my utopia that would be the best correspondence of productive use of body parts. I will never get hungry (though I'd stay fat and lumpy and let's pretend that will make me happy) and I will have this bank of knowledge in a 'wealth over the edge' kind of way.
That is all for now I think.
I just heard my name get called for some bok choy. Speaking of food, here are some gastronomic things that have been happening
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