my heart on the table.
written: 12:40 a.m. on Saturday, Apr. 23, 2005

NUS Law got back to me on Thursday. I was supposed to be at least slightly elated but I wasn't. I was relieved, but that was about it. I am currently dreading the interview because my first interview experience at NUS wasn't the most pleasant one in the world. In addition, I have nothing to wear and I will die before I do that white-blouse-black-skirt thing. It's insipid and mundane, but this does not mean that I'd be decked out in full-bodied pink again. That was not a very smart move, I think.

Still don't know what I want, still second-guessing myself, still wanting desperately to get into Law because that's probably the furthest my results can take me in Singapore. Still want to get the fuck out of here before it finally chokes me to death, but since I am still living my life, it doesn't matter what I want because it will not happen.

Cynicism as bitter as mine makes a person age terribly fast. The only positivity in all of this is that I don't think I was born with it; but on second thoughts, the fact that it was acquired steadily over the years does not augur very well for my future either. One beating is okay; twice is fine; three times and you pick yourself up; but there're only so many disappointments you can take in your lifetime before they consume you.

I could make a list of all the times that Disappointment slipped its clammy hand in mine and took me on a joyride. Maybe this is why I chose not to care when I sleepwalked through secondary school, for it is still true that one's real protection from hurt is when one chooses not to care. And it's so easy, you know, not caring. You put on a facade made of glass and pretend it's your heart, you adopt on a persona carved from ice and pretend it's your soul, but when the stage lights are switched off and you're standing all alone by yourself naked in the darkness you realise how wrong you've been.

But it doesn't take just that to make things right. You were wrong before, but then again, that wasn't necessarily so bad. When you didn't want things, it was okay when nothing happened; but now you saw that you were living a lie and thus you began to change and you started to want things, so badly that it hurts, but it all backfired on you because nothing happened still, nothing but your already-grave pessimism sinking deeper and deeper into the cavity that is supposed to be your heart. And why is a cavity present where your heart should be? Because you conned yourself into believing that you surgically removed it, but the truth is, really, that you're ignoring it because it pains you too much to see that there's really nothing in there; that the cavity is in your heart instead; and that this emptiness is probably going to follow you to your grave.

How do you deal with this then? You didn't want things and you were short-changing yourself; now you want things but you're not getting them. How do you deal with this then? I don't know, really; how do you deal with something like that? It's like asking how to deal with the end of the world, your last day on earth, the knowledge that you're going to die tomorrow and there's absolutely no antidote. Except, I'm not dying tomorrow and that is unfortunate. It's like the euthanasia debate: do we let a comatose patient un-live out the rest of his non-life or do we pull the plug and end his suffering?

I'd like the option of having my plug pulled on me. I don't know what hope means anymore, I don't know what optimism is about except that I agree with Oscar Wilde that it's built on sheer terror, and the things that I thought were true, that could be taken for granted as constants that will never change in my life, have turned out to be a huge unfunny joke after all.

The real world has never been more overrated. I think I want my cocoon back.

Epilogue:

He's always the one that leaves, the one that disappoints, the one that leaves a mess behind without cleaning it up. He owes me an apology and I'm angry because of his perpetual silence, obvious indication of how much he cares, the flippant manner with which he burst my bubble, his indifferent silence. What I'd give to take all my words back, un-say them, un-write them, because I'm not sure anymore if he's worth it. He used to be the most amazing man I've ever met, but I got a little bit closer and then he became human.

Disappointment. God, what a motif if it were to be personified. If it were to be personified, it would have a face exactly like his, and I would have forgotten and let it all go if he weren't the messenger whom I am tempted and itching to shoot.

But then, he won't feel the bullet anyway; he'd merely brush it off his jacket and toss it into the bin on his way out. That's how he's always been, hasn't it? And why do I still care? Why does it still matter? Too many days of feeling a certain way, three hundred and sixty-five days and then some, of playing the fool and now I'm paying the price. Revenge would be words that I write which he won't read, words that I send which he won't respond to, words that I say which he won't hear, these asinine feelings that I suppress which he won't bother with. It's same old, same old, and nothing has changed very much. I shouldn't have been surprised.

But as all things go where he's concerned, my mask slips a little and that's all it takes for the knife to hit its target. And this is despite seeing it a million times; telling myself to expect it; knowing the truth and thinking it's okay. I forget feelings and the words that were born out of those feelings and I shouldn't forget....but as all things go where he's concerned, a smile filtering through rain drops on a gloomy afternoon is all it takes to erase everything about him that I have learned.

He's always the one that leaves, the one that was never quite here, the one whom I wish I could truly believe is an insigificant worm. He's words to a Jay Chou love song that has no meaning, words you enjoy nevertheless because of the possibilities they insinuate which you happily drown in with a smile on your face; he's a possible happy ending that never ends, always a gamble, but when the song ends, he ends too.

He's always the one that leaves; disappointment personified.

Enough. I am tired.

before sunrise // before sunset

Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010