Sunday, 29 December 2019

The walk home

Twelve minutes.
Just give me twelve minutes a day
from the train station back home to

not be okay.
tear up when nobody's watching.
ruminate about the mistakes I've made.
be in touch with my soul,
my sad little soul

so that I may

brave the rest of the one thousand, four hundred and twenty eight minutes.
be the responsible human being I ought to be.
chase my dreams.
eat, drink and be merry.
realise that I'm actually
okay. Okay?

Thursday, 19 December 2019

Maturity or bleakness?

My little sister collected her examination results today and didn't do as well as she had expected. I brought her out for dinner and for the entire evening, she couldn't stop talking about how disappointed she felt. She shared about how she brawled her eyes out the moment she saw her grades (although we are all very proud of her nonetheless).

The very first thought that came to mind was that this girl sure hasn't experienced what true disappointment really is. And then, I remembered that she was only sixteen. And I remembered that I, even when I was eighteen receiving my A Level results, couldn't stop crying for two days straight.

I remembered aiming for straight As.
I remembered holding on to the hope that I would meet the academic conditions of my scholarship, in spite of knowing that I messed up my History and Economics papers.
I remembered feeling like the world had collapsed on me, that God that given up on me, when I saw what was written on the results slip.

Those feelings feel so foreign to the 25-year-old me today. The 25-year-old me wouldn't let myself dream of achieving something that seems so improbable. The 25-year-old me isn't too sure if "waiting upon the Lord" to "soar on wings like eagles" is the right thing to do. The 25-year-old me knows what disappointment feels like, but chooses to approach it with an "oh, again?" attitude rather than an it's-the-end-of-the-world attitude. The 25-year-old me is too tired to cry my heart out (perhaps except when I've had a bit too much to drink). The 25-year-old me wouldn't - no, couldn't - hopelessly fall in love with someone. The 25-year-old me is too lethargic to invest in friendships that I foresee cannot go very far. The 25-year-old me lives life day by day. The 25-year-old me just hopes to make the best out of my current situation. The 25-year-old me understands that a penny saved is a penny earned, and that good things don't come by to those who sit around and wait hope.

The question then is, have I become more mature? Or have I just become bleaker in my outlook of life?

Or maybe, the slow death of that (irrational) positivity that we all had as kids is just a part of growing up. Or perhaps, adulting involves some form of cowardice.
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