does anybody know the way to atlantis?
written: 6:09 p.m. on Monday, Sept. 12, 2005

"Are you okay?" "Are you all right?" "Why do you look so tired?"

Are you okay, are you all right? Is everything fine? Is it school? Is it something else? What is that something else?

Are you okay?

Yes, I am.

No, I lied. I'm not okay. If 'okay' were to be defined as that superficial state of self-imposed happiness where you force yourself to block out everything else and simply focus on trying to be happy, no matter how false it feels, then yes, I'm okay.

But I'm really not. A final realisation early this morning, an amalgamation of all the things I've thought about and felt over the past couple of weeks, the final nail in the coffin (if we want to be morbid and because I am me, I want to be morbid).

"You know what's sad? How mutually exclusive our lives are. Sigh. I think we need to talk."

**

When someone says "we need to talk" that person is dropping a huge fucking bomb on you. When someone tells you via SMS that "we need to talk" despite that person's vehement dislike for the pseudo-communication which text messages embody, that person is either too indifferent to tell you nicely, or that person is too tired, worn out and defeated to stick to his/her principles.

But the bomb isn't really a bomb unless you really care about what that person has to say; unless that person means something to you; unless that person means more to you than in an abstract, vague and hazy kind of way; and unless you haven't already seen it coming, that you never anticipated it, that you didn't think that "we need to talk" would be something that you may say a couple of weeks more down the road.

So is it/would it be a bomb to you?

The problem is staring at me right in the face. The problem is plunging multiple knives into my heart. There is a hole in our boat and it needs mending; that, or we should really just jump into the sea and individually swim to safety, because the hole looks like it's completely irreparable.

Is it completely irreparable?

The only way I know is a way out. You know what you don't want (A) and I know what I want (B), two things that form a complete set, i.e. A = B. I would invoke set language and notation even further, except that I have forgotten 99.99% of what was supposedly taught to me in secondary school and JC math classes.

If the sadness outweighs the happiness and the probability of the happiness outweighing the sadness is close to zero and the instances in which the happiness looks like it may just outweigh the sadness quickly reveal themselves to be nothing more than mere hallucinations occur more frequently than the instances in which the happiness really outweighs the sadness then why do I keep finding excuses to cling on to something that never truly existed as anything more than the imagined manifestation of a thin thread of silk? Because I am running out of excuses and I am tired of clinging on in futility.

What really kills me is that I really don't fucking want to do this, that I really wish I could go on like old times, that I really wish I could erase all hopes on my part and adjust my expectations, because just thinking about this is wholly capable of making me cry. A catch in the throat, an ache in a throat, an ache in this curious organ that is enclosed within one's ribcage (supposedly protective but I think that's largely a lie purported by Science), this ache will stay with me for a while.

Now, wonder something with me: Why the fuck, truly why the fuck, do I keep harping on and on and on in such a sentimental and angsty manner about something that never really was, if I so aspire to be heartless and cold? Shouldn't I just say, "Fuck it all to hell, fuck you to hell, I'm getting my old self back" and leave it at that? Why do my actions contradict my words?

Why do our actions contradict our words?

I want to stop thinking about this.

**

I am re-reading Julian Barnes's "England, England", and the first part of the book is testimony to his genius and his beautiful handling of the English language. It is poetry amidst prose, awesome truths about life amidst a fabricated setting (fabricated because it is fiction), in his own words, "...the novel tells the beautiful, shapely lies which enclose hard, exact truth."

It is this central paradox of fiction and literature that entices me because the truth is only reliable and real when it is revealed to you by lies.

I know I've been harping on and on about Julian Barnes for the past few days, but I can't help it because I find such beautiful solace in his writings. And I need it especially now, when things are spiralling so out of control, and it's difficult to deal because they are all happening below the surface, in such cruel vagueness, emotionally-draining abstraction.

I finished reading "The Lemon Table" and it is brilliant, wonderful, heart-felt and scary. I love his style in "The Silence", written in staccato-ed fragments, complete one-liners that encapsulate more meaning than one whole paragraph devoted to expounding upon the same idea. It is poetic and beautiful. And now I'm driving myself crazy trying to find out/figure out which famous composer the narrator is.

He is so brilliant and genius and talented and profound and perceptive and illuminating and real and true and truthful that I just want to devour every. single. thing he's ever written.

**

School today was good, for the most part. Having Ruishan around is awesome. More emoticons were exchanged via MSN and she MSN-ed me this week's lecture powerpoint slides, which saved me the trouble of typing down things from the screen and just copying and pasting. Thanks dear; you rock.

Lunch with Mel and Khai and I love Mel and Khai. If I don't see them on Mondays I think I will just die, let law school cruelly devour me and swallow me whole, spit out my bones when it's done chewing off and digesting my flesh. I need people who understand; they understand.

Was supposed to have the closed memo personal conference at 5.20 today but apparently there were a lot of people who didn't know their schedule and so mine's postponed to Wednesday 10.30 a.m. The re-write is due on the 19th. Which is next Monday. I'm not even griping about the fact that it's a holiday, because the problem is that I haven't done anything to gear towards re-writing it, which means that I will be screwed for a second time, and much harder this time round.

Someone in my TG is so gonna get an A.

That thought makes me... Nevermind.

After JJC, being average is an alien feeling, nothing more and nothing less. I hate it; and yet, despite how stubbornly I believe otherwise and want to prove otherwise, I just haven't the drive to do anything. No motivation, no purpose, just, simply, get through it one day at a time, make sure you don't fall down too hard and break a knee cap.

University life is a far cry from how I'd envisioned it to be.

To say that I am sorely disappointed would be a major understatement.

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