My goodness. I can’t believe I have written this particular entry last year. Since a lot of the gang, the Union, the Drama Club, or the Tralala Troupe now knew the affairs of my subsistence, there’s indeed no more point keeping things hidden in the casket.
The story is that I had a little argument with this person who, in his birthday, spilled to me that he felt so inadequate in all the things he had done. This person was absolutely worried that all throughout his existence as a student for a time span longer than the usual, he thought his efforts remain unexceptional, uninspired, and common. These, of course, I didn’t believe in. Evaluating this person’s annuity in his special field, I think he should eat his own words of negations—especially right now. I stressed this point and, eventually, he accepted defeat. I won in this unexpected debate. And that’s all.
I bring focus the gist of this old post because presently I believe I’m starting to feel the same way he felt before: I feel so unsatisfactory, laughable on all efforts I have managed to do. Call this another bullet on the long list of emo-posts I have written in cyberspace lately but, you know, one cannot really get away from frustrations. Maybe I am just one of the many victims who got violently clawed upon by aggravation’s extra-sharp talons.
The story is that I had a little argument with this person who, in his birthday, spilled to me that he felt so inadequate in all the things he had done. This person was absolutely worried that all throughout his existence as a student for a time span longer than the usual, he thought his efforts remain unexceptional, uninspired, and common. These, of course, I didn’t believe in. Evaluating this person’s annuity in his special field, I think he should eat his own words of negations—especially right now. I stressed this point and, eventually, he accepted defeat. I won in this unexpected debate. And that’s all.
I bring focus the gist of this old post because presently I believe I’m starting to feel the same way he felt before: I feel so unsatisfactory, laughable on all efforts I have managed to do. Call this another bullet on the long list of emo-posts I have written in cyberspace lately but, you know, one cannot really get away from frustrations. Maybe I am just one of the many victims who got violently clawed upon by aggravation’s extra-sharp talons.
All of us continue to age and there’s this weird, indefinable “something” we all wanted to achieve, to attain, and to get hold of, which explains our obsession for perfection. Because of this, contentment is pushed at the back of our minds. At twenty, I understand how that person felt on his twenty-third (and will be celebrating his twenty-fourth soon).
I have said in the old post that age is just a number. It has no significance at all. But right now, I am thinking the other way around. I feel it has.
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