I have to stop writing and start studying but I can't study if I don't answer the urge to write and so I'm writing this entry instead.
I woke up at 1.30 this afternoon, slept at 5.30 a.m., didn't study at all. The original plan was to go shopping with my mom in the morning before I go stir-crazy from being cooped up at home for the past few days, but it was 10 a.m. and I'd fallen asleep only five hours earlier and so the plan was botched. I need to get out of the house before I drive myself insane with doing nothing on the pretext of studying.
What the fuck. My incompetence at this thing I'm supposed to do truly astounds me. You'd think 12 years of doing it would have made me a master at it but evidently not. And the worst part? I don't even seem to care all that much right now.
Lying on the bed with the phone against my ear, in the darkness a while later when I turned off the light just in case my dad woke up and found me talking on the phone at 5 in the morning. I doodle a lot when I'm on the phone with a friend. It's about the only time I draw anything, and it's mostly childish imprints of stars in various shapes, sizes and permutations. I shade their centres in varying degrees of black - some dark, some light, some in between. I've never been good at drawing.
I have a huge ego. Whoever wants to come near me will have to make room for my huge ego. Because of this huge ego, I am rather susceptible to letting a dormant inferiority complex that rears its head whenever I'm around really clever people overwhelm me. I may not show it, but I have my fair share of insecurities. On second thought, I don't quite feel like talking about this.
This is really disturbing: I have weird light brown spots on my body. In fact, a couple of days ago I was drying myself after showering and I discovered some red spots on my boobs. I apologise if this is too much info but heck, I don't really care, because last night there was this very red rash on the outer side of my right boob and I have no freaking idea why. And now my back kinda hurts. Maybe I'm dying.
Okay, this is kinda wrong but I found that rather funny. Ah, me and my morbid sense of humour. I still find Lawrence's hypothesis that people with perfect GPA's are necrophiliacs really, really damn hilarious.
I think I'm finally on the brink of being someone else, or the person I've always wanted to try to be. I just needed someone to show me the way. If only I'd known how easy it is to relent and give in, to let go of things that take on the appearance of values and beliefs but don't really mean anything to you once you start thinking hard about it, because it was so easy and it's so easy to do it again, and again, and again. The only qualms I had about it was that it wasn't me; but how much of ourselves is really us? I am a product of the mainstream, the values it stands for that I rebelled against. Does any of it really matter at the end of the day? I don't know. People change, things change, nothing ever remains stagnant. You get this strange burst of inspiration and you wonder why and you find your answer when you're walking along a strange road at night, laughing a little too loudly. There's no such thing as a be all end all, I'm tired of restricting myself, I'm tired of perpetually breathing underwater. You have to give in order to receive, you have to fight for the things you want, and these things don't fall into your lap just because you will them to. I know what I want: the catalyst that produces brilliant writing. Experiences, vices, worldliness, sex drugs and alcohol. I suddenly see everything so clearly, everything I did wrong, the reason for my perpetual inability to write something that I can be proud of. You stay in one place for too long and you'd lose everything.
Realisations like this come crashing towards you out of nowhere. It's an addiction like cigarettes, and you just want to keep going back.
The first place I'm gonna hit after the exams is Chinatown.