Salient Pus

I used to be able to write so freely—a word will leap from my head, and with utter conviction, I’d think to myself, I have to put this word down, and let the rest of these mini-bunnies spill forth and multiply—but it seems a permanent writer’s block has been festering inside my head. This pus of inadequacy and salient silence hung forth in my blog, but mostly because my studies (during my pre-exam days) and HS (during my post-exam days) have affected so much of my time that I found it difficult to find times as quiet as this when my mind would be cleared from work or studies, that I actually want to blog.

If any, this self-censorship, the advent of Twitter/Plurk, and severe lack of time (or as my excuses would plead) contributed to this. Or the fact that my grades dropped drastically and nearly pulled my CGPA below the edge of 3, that I felt that I’ve disappointed myself or my parents (but mostly myself). Or that I felt that my writing has gone completely sub-par. Or the lack of comments. Or any other self-deprecating thought that seemed to pass through my head these days. I thought I wouldn’t care about my grades—and indeed, a part of me don’t—but I need to maintain a bare minimum of good grades to be even eligible for a post-graduate, which was something that has been in my mind since a few months ago.

Lately I have been pretty much on my own, submerging myself in this truckload of work, but strangely, I found a deep-seating sense of pleasure. Perhaps it’s my own obsessive compulsive nature of collecting data, but being able to present useful information to a wide range of audience and getting some returns in the end felt most satisfying.

As such, I will be taking a break from posting up my journal’s log on my NZ trip and let it sit in a backlog. I have many things I’d like to say or detail menial things about my daily life, but because I’m quite anal about following a system I’ve set up for myself, I let all these details perish with time. Details like how 5 days ago, I was woken up quite rudely by a knock on my door at 8am+ by my housemate, who proceeded to tell me how our electricity is out, and annoyed by this interruption of my sleep, I told her that I slept at 4am last night and hoped she’d take the hint.

Which she clearly didn’t, as she continued to rant there, tried calling Ken, our resident master, but we later found out that he has already moved out, and then she wanted me to go over to the next building of Walsh Main to utilise the free phone to call the management, and I reluctantly relented. They didn’t pick up the phone, and I don’t know if she’s being plain stupid or is a subset of a lesser species but she proceeded to tell me how her ice-cream would melt and “you would be responsible for this”. I told her that since it was still in the freezer, it shouldn’t melt that quickly but she gave me the look that said “no are you dumb or what?”.

Oh yes she was prolly just joking, but that annoyed me so much that I retorted, “I didn’t cause the blackout” and I nearly wanted to slap her mouth shut.

Now you see this is why I don’t talk to my housemates unless absolutely necessary. To think that she’s studying a PhD in cancer research..

Earlier today at my uni’s library, which is where I’ve been spending most of my afternoons and evenings at, I briefly contemplated restarting my Project 365, in which I post up a picture everyday, but I fear that enthusiasm would soon die as quickly as it came.

But most of all, I fear that little piece that held me together has come loose and everything is slowly but surely to unravel in a manner like a roll of fabric would. And as you unroll this bunch of skin and tissues and muscles and bones, I fear you’ll discover nothing. An empty space, a void. Perhaps this downward spiral first began with my arrival in Melbourne, or time is doing this to me.

What happened to that strength of my enthusiasm and little roots of pleasure that grew in me for languages and writing? I brought Carol’s friend, Albert, around in Melbourne just 4 days ago (both whom I haven’t met prior to that faithful Tuesday night—hilarious tale that would come soon in a subsequent entry.. I hope), and when he learned that I wanted to do a Masters in Creative Writing, he asked what sort of writing I like to write about, and I couldn’t give him any specifics. They were vague—fiction, short stories, melodramatic—and that’s because I just don’t write short stories anymore.

I remember how I had once vehemently proclaimed that in the next few years, I’d like to self-publish my own collection of short stories (and no, I don’t remember that title and cover and whatnot I had wanted to publish with), but clearly all that pool of creativity and conviction has dried up, leaving a bubbly mess of turd behind.

I honestly wonder what happened to that me from just a year ago, with my dreams waning away. I seemed to have lost all that stellar confidence and surety of what I want with my life. I do still retain some of it, but right now, I’m inexplicably jaded.