Prelude.

Believe in yourself for this while, for total skeptism gets you nowhere, except to turn your own mind upon yourself. Much thoughts that have been ceaseless, now subside. But the intensity remains i guess, why i really don't now. Is it really to reach out somehow to the world? I have no answers except to say that the world incredibly shrinks to something at times, and it isn't exams. Sadly? Escapism huh.

Guess I am not the only one looking back at three years of university life in retrospect. Many people are doing so. But sometimes, I am thinking and thinking, if studying is all about meeting one exams after another, what really is the point sometimes? There are people who say that the learning process is more important, but ultimately, where does learning lead you? Learning is only part of the answer. To say that you have learnt a lot, but to have nothing to prove that is at most a display of a futile pursuit. Hardly convincing.

Learning is not just acquiring knowledge(TRUE or technical). I think it goes deeper than that. Knowledge is only the initial step, you have to use this knowledge, to make it worthwhile. It is how you improve with this knowledge that matters. It is how you better yourself each time with the learning process. To look at things from a better persepctive, to deepen your understanding, to feel more intensely for things around you. That's where the "learning" takes you.

Then again i might be wrong isn't it. One that takes so long to recover his half zeal and most intrinsic interest for knowledge. Bloody ironic

Reprieve, melancholic

Thoughts that will not die. Often returned, to the yester years. Bleeds the colour of things, that was and never shall be.


Emily Bronte

Often rebuked, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot be:

To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;
And visions rising, legion after legion,
Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.

I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:
It vexes me to choose another guide:
Where the gray flocks in ferny glens are feeding;
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side

What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief than I can tell:
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell

Thoughts, ceaseless

Somehow, over and over again these thoughts come to your mind. Nothing seems to offer much peace to them either. Ok, call this catharsis.

When you say you love something, do you love the idea of loving that something, or does it go deeper than that? If you say there is this affinity for something, is it just for the sake of devoting your energy and heart to something? Is it the only legitimate way of existing in this world, when one finds that he or she may be alone, alone in her own thoughts and world. Is that why we reach out to find something or someone we can devote life too? Life, which we value so much, but could just seep away, as the tips of your fingers imprint words on this virtual screen

I don't know. There are times when you talk to people, and they really surprise you. Its like, when you have given up hope on ever talking to anyone about these things, and fate throws you with circumstances you never once anticipate. How do you respond? You would think that its your mind that is fitting things into a structure for you, but then again, what if its not?

Emily Dickinson

I HAVE no life but this,
To lead it here;
Nor any death, but lest
Dispelled from there;

Nor tie to earths to come,
Nor action new,
Except through this extent,
The realm of you.

Solace, night

There are just too many thoughts rushing through this mind, that there is this urge to write things down. Maybe writing is a form of exchange after all. Between your mind and a presupposed someone, somewhere that spring to when your fingers hit the keyboard. Why would I hesitate to call this catharsis? Because I really don't know whether how much of it is suppressed and how much of that is just reflexsive thoughts. There is this inclination to start writing again i would say.

Nostalgia is some pathology that afflicts me most of the time, even though I am intensely aware of that. The apparitions of memories are just like this inward blink in your mind. I think sometimes in your life, there is this moment when you suddenly look back, only to recall and recollect the very auditory piece of this time in the past. Something just swells up in you, and sometimes it makes you feel warm, sometimes it just appalls you and sometimes, you just feel that memory is this curse of a gift.

"You have to learn to focus"
"You have to know what gives value to your life. What makes this life worthwhile. What gives it meaning"

Even more so when they come in writings from people whom you respect.

"You are a bright student, I really enjoyed your discussions but you have to work on your expression"
"You are a good student, but this exercise has shown your weakness"
"Complex ideas are best expressed in clear and lucid prose"
"You are intelligent, don't let it go to waste"

There is absolutely no purpose in looking back now and thinking what you should have done back then. It is what you do now that matters. No retrospective can diminish the irrecoverable of the past. To accept that life was once of so full of anything and everything else, that you just refuse to accept any advice.

You can realize your mistakes, but it takes courage to dismantle that false complacency, and approach life or learning with that sincerity which once took you that far. Maybe for once to see this long road ahead of you, and so much for you to improve on, is a bliss.

To keep writing.

Emily Dickinson

The little sentences I began
and never finished-
the little wells I dug
and never filled-