I'm pretty sure that I wanted to go on exchange at some point in my life. I'm absolutely sure that I don't care anymore one way or the other.
Funny the way our short-term goals and ambitions can be as fluid as water, so easily malleable to the point of being completely meaningless. But I guess that's what happens when you suddenly conned yourself into thinking you could actually do something you'd never, ever wanted to do in your entire life.
Bleah. I'm tired of being tired of law, and the way I can still pinpoint the exact moment in which I screwed up everything I've always wanted for myself.
Yeah okay. Whatever.
My days are spent staying up all night trying to remember everything while my other commitments fade into the background and relegate themselves to second string. There is a word processor and there is some stab of urgency to put my hands on my keypad and type furiously away at it. Every single detail of the past - my past. Everything that makes up who I am, all the steps I've taken that have come to define me, shape me. I need to know where I came from before I figure out where I'm going next.
The future is hazy, nebulous, ill-defined. I told Mel once that I felt like going to a Chinese fortune-teller real bad so that I could have some desperate sort of a clear idea of what's to come. And I think this urgent need to have real, definite answers would induce me to believe the "fortune" told to me, apparently mine, when ordinarily, I would take everything with a pinch of salt and promptly forget it a couple of days later. I never liked thinking about the future, I've always been into living in the present, living up the moment. But I've come to realise now that the choices we make in the present will inexorably influence and impact the future, and the difficulty of this realisation lies in trying to figure out what to do now so that the future wouldn't completely go to shit. I'm working backwards, then; seeing a distant objective, a vague outline of the future, and living my life now according to it, choosing according to it.
Normal people would call that a 'goal'. Me? I don't have a goal, not anymore. I want a fortune, a prediction, even if it's one inspired by superstition.
There are certain things I should probably walk away from. For my own good, I suppose. Forget things that don't have the slightest chance in hell of crystallising, give up on your childish ambitions, be realistic. Be Practical. Subscribe to Pragmatism. Do what you got to do.
Well, I've never been a sensible person, have I? Neither have I been one who falls all over herself to uphold the concept of Pragmatism. I'm not practical, I've never done what I ought to do, only what I want to. Be realistic? How laughable. My overbearing tendencies to whine ad nauseum about how much I hate law school should be evidence enough of what an impossibility that idea is.
When I love something, I love it whole-heartedly, without reservation, without comment.
Here's a general invitation to the world at large: If you ever feel the need to confide your deepest, darkest secret in someone, confide in me. I will take your secret to my grave. That's what I do best.