I had a good brunch. I got home. I thought of the amount of work I needed to complete and freaked out inside. I took a quick shower and dinner. Lost my temper a little and got angry at myself for losing my temper. I went into my room with the intention of coming up with ideas for work. I felt quietly desperate. Desperate for what? I realised I was no longer just stressed out but upset with myself. For whatever reasons, none of which even makes logical sense.
And I’m lying here, feeling like I’m in a constant routine of winding and unwinding myself with a spool of twine and in a complete mess. Not because I made a HUGE mistake, but because humans are really adept at making things complicated for themselves, and they don’t really understand themselves very much at all. At least that’s how I feel right now.
Which is why I need to end my day now and just, talk to God in the dark, I guess.
Times like these I wonder why humans would have anything to be proud of.
There are very few things as disappointing as knowing the thing you have put so much heart and time into has wilted into the ground. Over and over again.
Some people have said failure just happens on the route to success. And quoting from Steve Jobs, you connect the dots moving forward.
I really feel like I have dots like stars scattered across a cloudy sky and that’s all I’ve got after so long.
Today is one of those days where I’ve got nothing planned and I ended up doing nothing productive.
There’s a strange sense of loneliness when I’m cooped inside my room, knowing I’ve just wasted yet another day. I would have felt better if I had read, or if I had worked out or do something I’ve been meaning to do for the past 52 weekends.
It’s also these times where my mind gets a chance to speak. And somehow, it’s almost never a good thing in such situations. It reminds me of all the void weekends I’ve had, the same aimlessness I’ve felt a month ago at work, gosh, even looking at photos of my friends remind me of the bleak certainty that we won’t be around forever.
What’s up, brain? Am I not feeding you enough with endorphin-producing stimuli? Or should I start building a better response system for “days I don’t feel like doing anything and end up feeling crap for not actually doing anything”?
I guess the main issue is, I know I’m made of more. But I just don’t know where to start. Plus I have a problem with my own laziness.
Uh, help? God?
My heart isn’t too big. But I feel a million combustions in me.
The first respite of the day came when I reached home and headed straight for bed.
It was an awkward position. My feet were on the ground; my back slightly twisted as I lay on my pillow.
My shoulders were still aching. My breathing, however, less deliberate and frequent.
The darkness and closed door, like many days before, brought me comfort.
My knuckles smelt of cookies.
The desire to scrunch up my hair in frustration and let out a scream no one will hear was gone.
I just wanted to be left alone. And to stay in silence for a long while. I wanted to be like the kid who disappears during a game of hide-and-seek, unresponsive to cries of “game’s over! You can come out now.”
When life throws you a punch, you can get right back up, or you can cower down from the situation. This is where one of the dozen self-help books you’ll read in your lifetime tell you the wise decision would be to stand up and fight on. It shows that you have a winning spirit. But I would cower down. I would refuse to get up till I’m ready, and I would lose. It doesn’t matter because I’ve lost many times. But somehow I’ll recover. And I’ll move on and keep walking. For I’ve always been an underdog, and it almost feels as though it’s my given right to pleasantly surprise people.
But for today, just leave me alone in the darkness.
Brain: have you moved on?
Heart: yes I have. No I haven’t.
Don’t know about you, but when I’m having a bad day, I tend to think about all the things that have made me unhappy and insecure. So, I do feel a little more lonely and a lot less talented than the day before.
Perspective is strange isn’t it?
Sir Nicholas Winton rescued 669 Jewish children and worked tirelessly to find them foster homes in Britain just so they could escape the World War. He didn’t tell anyone about it, until his wife found a detailed scrapbook with the names and addresses of all the children he rescued in 1988. It was then covered by the BBC.
What a hero. And what a heart he has.