Because I Entertain These Thoughts

Sometimes, I feel like I'm standing still and everything's changing way too faster than I want. 

You'd think that this is contradictory to my previous journal entry which said that I'm okay with the changes. But this is not meant to serve as a recantation of what I've written. On the contrary, I stand by it -- I am happy with those life changes. But I refer to other changes this time. The changes of life in general, of everything surrounding me, of a generation passing by, waving goodbye, as new things come and eventually overtake me. 

Am I moving too slowly? Am I too cautious? Why is it that I feel like I'm not doing enough to effect changes in my life? I feel utterly lacking. I feel like I'm letting life pass me by as I blindly trudge on, complacently reassured by the new things I'm seemingly adding to my life, only to realize that these so-called life-changing decisions are but minuscule additions to my existence, or to the entire transformation of life? 



Is it the unavoidable quarter-life crisis? Then again, I've always been existential. Right now, I just feel like I should do more, squeeze myself dry of everything I can do. I want to be something, and I want to affirm myself of my worth. There is a pressing need to establish myself and prove to myself that I am deserving of something.

I am standing at a crossroad, thinking that I should do all of these, while also convinced that nothing is important in the end. I am perpetually discouraged by the futility of existence and this hinders me from achieving what should be done. I want to be so many things at the same time I am being stretched and spread to thinly, and I become confused of what I really should be doing. 

I envy single-minded people. I know I can be like that but it will perhaps take me tremendous effort to be like that. I am scared of failures and to dedicate one's life in the pursuit of a single endeavor is a scary idea. What if I fail? What if I never make it to the top? It is a scary proposition. And I know I should block out negative thoughts but paranoia is this monstrous parasite attached at the back of my head, whispering that I won't be able to make it, and really, trying is pointless.

Am I doomed?

Perhaps. 

A Pig in the Cage with Antibiotics

In an attempt to jumpstart the mood and get myself in the writing zone, I'm back here, blogging on a lazy summer Sunday. The air is suffocating me with thoughts of beach getaways, but here I am, stuck instead at home, trying to finish a 4,000-word primer for a competition our company is joining.

Bah, adult life. But I'm not exactly complaining right now. I am too tired of whining -- note that this is merely an observation. 

I've never been the most responsible person on Earth, to be truthful, and adult life isn't exactly the best experience for a 24-year old boy who refuses to grow up. Mornings, like when I was a kid, are still the most horrible parts of the day -- waking up is still a drag. I still make a mess inside my closet every time I pull out clothes to wear. I still doodle when I'm forced to listen to long-drawn blabber -- just like in elementary, high school, and college. I am forgetful as always, yet I continue to resist making notes if only because creating reminders make me feel like I'm such an organized worrywart, which takes away the fun of spontaneity and surprises. 

Yes, I am inefficient. I am the gear that creaks and squeaks and goes all wonky. But somehow I'd like to believe that being this crazy, kooky person that I fashion myself to be makes me a whole lot interesting. I don't know when my aversion of becoming a bore began, but for as long as I can remember, I've always been that kid who tried to cross the line. Never mind if I ended up falling in a deep pit (which by the way was difficult to lie about at home, after I showed up with soiled clothes, bruises, and all),  or got punished for challenging authority (elementary days, discipline officer, nipple-pinching -- don't ask). 

The attempt to challenge the flow stems way, way back to my childhood, when I was forbidden to go outside and play. Our helper would lock the gate so my brother and I wouldn't be able to escape. But we were smarter (or stupider, take your pick): we'd scale the walls like the monster brats that we were, unafraid of jumping the height for the promise of the large playground that is the outside world. It was an ecstatic, rush-of-blood-to-the-head feeling. The defiance of imposed limits using ingenuity and lots of balls became a fruitful pursuit that led to fulfillment. It fuels my existence -- from then until now.

However, it doesn't make me a decent, respectable adult in the eyes of snooty companies and an uptight society. This is a world of rules, and I am trapped to slave away for the remainder of my days until the pension kicks in and I'm stuck in some senior citizen's home, waiting for Death to knock on my door at 2 in the morning with chloroform in my soy milk and arsenic-laced oatmeal cookies.

LOL. Happy Sunday everyone. :-)