Crystals

 
Memories.

People and places, faces and feelings —things of any and every sort spin through my head like the eternal spin of time’s preverbal wheel.

Back and forth, back and forth, again and again. Clockwork perfection. White, black, past, present… so many things are made so clear where I stand.


Epiphanies. More than anything else, this eight-month period is one that has never ceased in it’s indiscriminate and relentless pursuit in shedding light on as many avenues as there are minutes in a day.

Those who have always been there for me, in times of joy, in times of darkness. Those who were never there, but always were in times of dire need. Those who cared, those who went all out, those who were never calculative. Those who never flinched, those who’s only sole and overwhelming reason was that of love and friendship.

Then those who were the empty shells, the masks behind faces, the hollow vessels. Those who never once lifted a finger, those who never gave a passing thought, a second glance, nor a second chance. Those who couldn’t have cared less, the icy depths of their indifference… not unlike a cold, harsh death by drowning.


Uncertainty is all around me, yet strange as it is that so much can be this clear.

A string of words for this entangled state of flux reads: people, relationships, disappointment, frustration, hurt, appreciation, content, self-greed, choices, consequences, uncertainty, worry, despair, optimism, hope, hatred, anger, defeat, calm, denial, disconnect.


Take no relationship for granted, especially ones most important, most cherished, and most prized. But make no mistake and hesitate not at getting rid of the people who have been nothing more than their eloquent smiles.


A restructuring is called for, and by the time it is finished, a handful of relationships will have come to an end.

Thinking of the simpler times, the innocence, the careless freedom —all if only in song.

Warmth

 
The arrival of winter brings along with it the gloomy, cloudy, grey over-cast skies, the plummeting temperatures, and an unending barrage of drizzle and rain.

It is little wonder that coffee sells so well, and has seeped so deeply in —and has become such an integral part of— the colder worlds' culture[s].

It is close to impossible to get out of bed in the frigid cold mornings.

It is close to impossible to sleep comfortably in the night.



Can’t help but keep thinking about this particular place back home; can’t help but feel distinctly warm and fuzzy picturing this place in my mind; can’t stop thinking, missing and craving the hot and the humid afternoons, with my car’s air-conditioner supplying a perfect stream of breezy cool of air.



 

Eating the Cake

 
Sometimes, I stop and I look, and I then think to myself just how much better your lives have now become, and I smile --I am happy for all of you.

Your lives are now rid of such monstrous academic torment, free of all the unduly pressure and ridiculous stress, emptied of all the painful, obscure, mind-boggling theory, calculation and hundreds of years of humanity’s accumulated knowledge.

I see it in your eyes. I see it in your faces. I hear it in the ways you talk. All of you look so much better, so much more at ease, so much more relieved, so much more cheerful, and so filled with life.


All you who have jumped out of this wretched hell-bound train live better lives now. But on this flaming carriage, there is little life.

In fact, beyond that of academia, there is no life at all.

Many times, I do wonder if I too, should jump. Sometimes, I wished that I too, had called it quits.

But I have already threaded so far down this path —one that so many have said that I neither should or could all those years back. But then again, I am neither closer to the end nor farther from the beginning.

Guess this must be how it feels like to be stuck between a rock and a hard place!

 

 

Cycles

 
Last night was the second I spent drenched in a blaze of alcohol, a state initiated by conscious choice of course.

Sometimes, doing what feels right needs no explanation. And for the past two nights, swirling in pool of quarter-consciousness under the sheets of a 16°C night was something that felt good, and justly right. 

Sometimes, one must accept that there are just too many things in life that one can never control, and can never foresee. We are forced to do things we never wanted to do. We are forced down paths we never chose to take.

We are just little pawns in a continuum of chaotic variables.


I have lost sense of everything.

For once in my life, I know not what it is that I actually want.

For the second time in my life, I am consuming my self like a cannibal.


What if being, studying, and failing in (and perhaps one day graduating from) this tough, glitzy and expensive place isn’t what I want?

What if taking the easy way out, what if a simpler, easier, less pressured and less grand or impressive piece of paper at the end of a three year programme, all the while being closer to home, to the people I loved, and to all joys of a more sane and more ordinary life is what I wanted instead?


Perhaps acknowledging that mystery is an unavoidable part of life is the most sensible thing to do right now. It is, perhaps, the only thing that can be done. Which essentially means doing nothing but to sit here and wait for the hands of time to do their thing.

And hope. Hope that perhaps in time, things will solve themselves out (or not).


And no, I am not as "emo" as I sound =) 
 

Honesty

 

Another bottle of beer by the yellow lamp.

Another passing day.


Alcohol solves nothing they say, but fuck them: it sure as hell makes a difference. I know not the reason why I have managed to --over the past few days-- find so much peace, and so much serenity amidst so much uncertainty, the burgeoning amount of academic work notwithstanding.


I have also realised that so much of these “issues” have been my own doing: had it not been for my selfishness, my wanting the cake and eating it, all this would not be so.

Beneath this shell that perhaps pursues objectivity and rationale at a (somewhat) obsessive level lies an emotional core that isn’t always altruistic, nor cares or loves that much.

I guess inside, I’m just a menacing little kid after all.

But I’ll give you this: I’ve got the guts to admit it.

 

Unbottling

By now I'm sure all of you have seen the next generation iPhone.

I know almost everyone dislikes it, just as I did the first time I laid eyes on it. 

But now, I absolutely love it.

It is a sheer testament to minimalism, and coherence of industrial design across the entire Apple product lineup. I've always hated the 1st, the 2nd, and the 3rd iPhones. I've always hated the potatoes. I've always hated the "classy" silver/chrome livery. 

I recall a documentary that featured Mr Ive talking about design. I remember him stressing how the things that are not needed, are just simply not there. You see the design philosophy in every inch of a Macbook, every Mac Pro, and every iMac that ships: they're simply devoid of the millions of pulsating LEDs and protruding buttons that adorn the body of every other product on the market you see today. 

I simply love the design of the new iPhone. Those of you who don't? Well, it simply boils down to this: sour grapes (yes all you last-gen users, your potato is now obsolete, hail the new brick).

Lines

 
With the renewed sense of urgency, and the crystal clear consequences of me not passing being so real, I put all cerebral engines on full, and pushed on without a care in the world.

But sheer-headed optimism means only so much against the harsh reality that we live in.

Sometimes it gets so surreal: a little unforeseen question that you cannot twist your head to solve, or worse still a little error in mis-substitution, the difference of a single minute negative sign in the equation, that collectively, could mean the end of your hopes, dreams and plans of graduating at what particular time-frame, and consequently, from which particular institution.

Having always stood by the sworn principle of being open to second chances, I find it particularly ironic that it is me who will --with almost all certainty-- not be given such an opportunity myself.

I have worried. I have despaired. I have been distressed. I have tried. I have done much, much more than I will or shall reveal on this open site.

I have not faltered even as I stand against all odds.

But I know: the war has already been lost.

The consequences trouble me to the extent that I no longer want to even think about them. What will be, will be I tell myself. But we all know that that is utter crap, because I will not stand for taking a defeatist attitude when the official white flag has still yet to be raised.

But tonight though, the surrealism took on a whole new depth as I cycled home thinking that in two months time, everything that I now see, touch, smell and feel might very well all be over and done with by then. 

You then realise a whole new layer of detail, like the dry, chilly crispness of the air, the absolute clearness of the night sky, the seemingly larger-than-normal moon, the odd sounds of the passing diesel-powered 5 Series, A4s, Tiguans and Golfs...

But perhaps weirdest of all is the soothing calm that takes you over.

Energized

 
With eyes glued to this LCD and fingers epoxied to this keyboard, I watched as the hours flew by last night.

It was round about midnight when I ended the hour-long call back home.

Then it was one in the morning.

Then two.

Then three.

Then four.

Then, with extreme reluctance, I forced myself to shut the unibody's aluminum lid.

So there I then laid: beneath the moderately thick sheets, in the blanket of silence that was my room, my eyes opened as wide as they could possibly be opened.

I heard my digital watch blurt out one more hourly beep and recoiled in horror when I thought of what time it probably was. 

It was as if only a mere few seconds later that I heard my phone's alarm, and the sun had risen from the night sky, and it was time for class.

A gruesome six hours of Monday classes, with four still to come, but there is neither time to spare -nor time to waste.

Balancing shaft imbalances in the library, with the phrase "I won't go down without a fight" ringing as loudly as it possibly could.