I’m lost in the dizzying throes of perfection, seeking perfection in every single thing that comes to writing: from planning the writing to editing every single paragraph and line in the writing.
It’s like I’m trying to compensate for being the silly first year I’ve been in, who jeopardized her own starting point in the line of this educational marathon.
It can be an issue of taking enormous pride in own writing, and it can also be a fear of failure that is inculcated in this society. It can also be a constant questioning of self-doubt whenever this kind of papers come along, because you can think and ponder, and edit, edit and edit, and even revamp your whole writing…until the deadline draws near, that is. It’s this seemingly never-ending process that seeks to fulfil the aim of perfection, of which it knows no bounds.
In the educational marathon, I’m considered lagging far behind people I know. Overseas exchanges, well known internships, they have it all. Thesis even, coming along the way. And it’s not because I’m more stupid that them, but that I made stupid decisions right in the beginning.
Here I am, trying to compensate for being the lost first year student who knew nothing about competition, of planning ahead, of the bell curve, a funny girl who chose her modules almost like impulsive shopping.
What am I trying to achieve with this post, you ask.
Maybe I’m trying to achieve something, through a catharsis.
To feel less dizzy about it…
But don’t get me wrong. I really enjoy what I’m studying now, a process that came with the making of stupid decisions and discovering what I really want to study about. But not this kind of writing and editing…it really feels like it is taking out something which is a part of me, everytime I have to do this. Maybe it’s just a writer’s thing, something like writer’s block.
And all along, I was hopeful that people would want to make friends with me for the pure sake of making friends with me, to know me for the pure sake of it. Now I know.
I was too hopeful all along. Too optimistic for my own good. That is called to be naive.
No such thing as being friends for being friends. There’s always a motive behind, although it ain’t necessarily be a monetary one.
Except for a handful of pure friends that I have, I can’t speak for some or most people I meet.
I feel quite disappointed, but more in a way that is disappointed upon seeing an empty present box than being truly sad. I don’t want to waste my time putting in effort into something that is not worth the toil of my emotions.
But such is the sad reality.
No more, time to grow up.
Haha, such are the memories of innocent friends in childhood, to play with each other for the sake of enjoying with each other, and not to profit or gain from one another at the expense of the other.
And oh wow, I miss writing for the sake of writing my own ‘unique’ way. Some say it’s abstract, some say it’s out of the world, but who knows what it truly is…