As I sit here staring at the clutter on my floor (trying really hard to unpack), I realise something: university is over. I have dreamed about this day since A-levels, and now -- graduation has just come and gone all too swiftly. Similarly, this summer was never set in stone; just etched on a talcum surface, fingernail scratches instead of deep knifed grooves.
A four-month break has only been scratches that were easily rubbed off by the uncompassionate hand of time. Euro trippin', convocation, newly met strangers, St. Albans, London, the boy, friends and countless musicals and plays or even my excessive indulgence have somewhat worn into non-existence -- no proof that any of that happened at all. No manuscripts to tell of my summer plot, no history book to recount the moments spent together, no orator to lecture the memories I have made.
Granted that I am back at home, suddenly...everything shifts into focus as if the reel has been meticulously adjusted to fit onto my screen. And yes, the hand of time has become all-so-compassionate now to allow me a period of reflection: this summer has been more than eventful. A very finished business deal, I must say. Words were spoken, doors were opened, stories were read, feelings were exposed albeit some crinkled edges of the heart, forgotten dreams were searched, hopes were extinguished.
Life's been dusted and polished. The very least, I know me more than I did. But, it is because of such finished business, the sense of finality in a phase of my life or the loss of chance to wait on; all of which have seemed to spell the notion of certainty in my life. This, I fear. It is itching at my sanity.
After all, uncertainty has been the one thing I have always had faith in. It has been a world we shared, with our own language, a bubble that no one could penetrate.
Ermn...maybe the boy was right. I need a place that is not sodden with sentiment. The wouldas, shouldas, couldas - I thrive now.
A four-month break has only been scratches that were easily rubbed off by the uncompassionate hand of time. Euro trippin', convocation, newly met strangers, St. Albans, London, the boy, friends and countless musicals and plays or even my excessive indulgence have somewhat worn into non-existence -- no proof that any of that happened at all. No manuscripts to tell of my summer plot, no history book to recount the moments spent together, no orator to lecture the memories I have made.
Granted that I am back at home, suddenly...everything shifts into focus as if the reel has been meticulously adjusted to fit onto my screen. And yes, the hand of time has become all-so-compassionate now to allow me a period of reflection: this summer has been more than eventful. A very finished business deal, I must say. Words were spoken, doors were opened, stories were read, feelings were exposed albeit some crinkled edges of the heart, forgotten dreams were searched, hopes were extinguished.
Life's been dusted and polished. The very least, I know me more than I did. But, it is because of such finished business, the sense of finality in a phase of my life or the loss of chance to wait on; all of which have seemed to spell the notion of certainty in my life. This, I fear. It is itching at my sanity.
After all, uncertainty has been the one thing I have always had faith in. It has been a world we shared, with our own language, a bubble that no one could penetrate.
Ermn...maybe the boy was right. I need a place that is not sodden with sentiment. The wouldas, shouldas, couldas - I thrive now.
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