hello everybody...

there's nothing to blog about...
my life is so uninteresting...
and yes i realise boring is a less awkward word to use...

the fog people came by again today and thanks to them my history notes are imbued with mosquito repelling properties... wonderful...

i just realised a while ago that my dreams to enter into the music profession hve been put on hold... frankly... since i decided to enter a JC instead of NAFA... lovely...
and now i'm truly afraid that it's been too many times i've said oh no the opprtunity will come again... and it's really blown...
lovely...

i'm not blaming anybody here... neither do i expect anybody come give me reassurance...

There is no consolation for a disappointment, no, a fear such as this. Men approaching their prime harbour no thoughts of a life in banality; musicians approaching the stage abhor dreams of mediocrity. I may speak and say that a life far removed from glorious music is one I can contend with, and that may yet be truth. For now, to even think of an eternity in banality and to take my passion and make it a pastime, it is a horror.

To the ear of the seasoned and the wise, these words are but bombast outpourings of a mind entrapped and blinded by childish passions and musings. Yet it is my mind. I am neither seasoned nor wise, so let me rave in my madness, and drown in my fury, for be it pain or not, iniquity or idiocy, it is my life. Those truly wise will accept this and allow my fate to pursue its due course to my utter failure and destruction, or my awakening and mere acceptance.

Yet even as I write these words my mind, and more starkly, my heart, questions them. How can I ever accept a life far removed from the stage? One may say that profession and passion need not be one and the same, and that the pursuit of one need not impede a dissimilar other. I cannot be content with a weekly embrace, nor can I be satisfied with a yearly vacation; I need to be ever accompanied by my mistress. The meaningless burning passion of youthful love this is? It may be so, and perchance it may die out before long. Yet in the now, in the instance of the present moment, it consumes me. No young fool can love with the patience of wearied wisdom; and none of the ancients can embrace with fire in their souls.

It is my prerogative.

Yet there is worse. I see now my folly laid out bare before me, mocking me. I have turned and decided that the chance would always present itself, I have imagined I could pick up lost embers and breathe them to great fires. I was wrong. There is no one to blame but myself.

So the greatest fear still remains. Can I take a life where dreams are but dreams, and no more?

i don't like what i just written... sounds stupid and raving... looks like my estimation that the formal mode would salvage the savage teenage emotion within was a gross miscalculation...
but i shall keep it...
because i'm too tired to fill up that space with other meaningless fluff...
because i don't dare to delete it all and see my effort go to waste... once again if i may say...
and perhaps...
because it's true...

goodnight people...

and no i'm not going to jump so don't go calling my house asking if i'm ok because yes i am and sickly enough i will still be drearily trudging to school come monday.