An idea. Maybe multiple ideas. I’m not even certain anymore.

There’s this column I always read in one of our school’s weekly newspapers. (It’s quite difficult to miss, seeing as the editors place it at the front page nowadays.) It’s a column dedicated to imparting personal insight, random experiences shed in the speculative light of the author, food for thought.

So, there was a new issue released today, and, as usual, I grabbed a copy only to breeze through a couple of pages, and then finally read the aforementioned column.

I think it hit me hard. I’m not sure. It wasn’t even about anything political, nor was it of anything academic (… would it help you understand this point if I mentioned that my inadvertent failure in doing as I expect myself to do, acad-wise, has been this nagging frustration of mine since the beginning of this semester?) . Was it of love? Maybe. Although I know I don’t read this column for all this cheesy bullcrap.

Ah, but it was of love. More specifically, of waiting, of hoping. Same old sawi-ness, except, it’s more interesting reading a writer’s perspective on things. Creative. But still depressing to read.

I can handle sawi-ness. I can handle lovelorn whispers some people call poetry. I can handle these things. I’m used to them.

What I can’t handle is that I’m being accused of having this concept in my mind! Accused by an opinion article on a newspaper, even!

Okay, I’m overreacting. No accusations were brought forth by anyone… only by this single concept so bluntly exposed on a page of newsprint.

Falling in love, yet remaining only for one’s imagined concept of the other. But then again, if there really is no time for any interaction, how could one not imagine things? What is so frustrating about absence is that it cannot be helped! Creating constructs of a given person at a given time is inevitable, yet so is change, therefore, our capture of a person’s essence is rendered inaccurate as well.

And, due to all these inaccuracies and missed targets, would we ever be able to say the phrase “I know you” truthfully? And, would it even matter?

I might be a hypocrite when it comes to these things. I’ve spent, more or less, 17 years living on the safe side, and the only time I ever really risked anything, I screwed up. Badly. I don’t know what to think. There are so many procedures listed down on my mind— procedures on how to end up with something perfect, with something ideal. But, I wonder, is perfect the way to go in a flawed, flawed world?

I’ve always believed in one’s ability to choose the things that happen them. With that being said, I believe that we are the only ones who can shape how our future’s going to turn out.

What if we end up with something wrong? What if we end up with something that only makes us temporarily happy?

I guess that’s the big question. What makes me happy?

I might be horridly critical of myself but, so far, the happiest I’ve ever been was when I was in love with a concept of someone else. Or in love with love. Or in love with the actuality of being able to feel something nice towards someone. Or in love with the purity of what I felt. I’ll never really know. I don’t think it matters, though. I was happy. I cared about someone more than I did for myself. It was a real pain to think about, at times, but at the end of the day, it was all that ever really mattered to me.

And now, for some reason, it has gone off. (Like a horse.) Loss. I still grieve.

Perhaps it was just my way of growing up. In this case, growing up means being unreasonably selfish and self-centered. Yeah. Nothing’s fun anymore.

Oddly, success doesn’t mean as much to me right now (… although failure is still a huge frustration of mine. The irony!), and, let’s face it, good grades aren’t as easy to come by nowadays (frustration, I say!). I have no will left to pull myself up so that I could, at least, remain at a level of constant satisfaction with myself. I don’t even know how I manage to pull myself together to accomplish schoolwork on a day-to-day basis. Everything feels like a chore now. There’s nothing to look forward to, nothing to do anything worthwhile for. Everything feels pointless. (Funny how I use the word “feels” when I obviously don’t know how to feel anymore.)

Somehow, though, crushing on someone helps… though it feels awfully a lot like I’m only taking meds for an incurable disease— with the huge possibility of inducing side-effects that’ll make me feel much, much worse.

I wonder why people continue on with life. I wonder how you know if something’s worth your while. I wonder if something out there is worth my while, or if something out there is left for me to be passionate about. To strive for. To be willing to lose myself for, yet have the time of my life, despite.

Heh. It’s nearly 2am. These words sum up my thoughts for the past three weeks. Hopefully, I’m going to feel a lot better by the time I wake up again later.