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-