Countdown (to Home) 10

It's Tuesday, and nine more days before touchdown. Resting at the hotel now, as I ponder on my eccentricities and if ever it could be reconciled with society's norms. And that probably I should abandon my idea of living with another person, novel as it is initially. I am too solipsistic by nature. I miss my original lifestyle and today is the closest I have ever come to it. The end of the year draws near and my resolution seems more than ever pressing, being the resolution so many years hence. At all costs. I have made up my mind not to travel next year, just to further my cause. Would I get a chance to enter something into my blog tomorrow? I have no idea. I have no idea what comes tomorrow.

He keeps saying that it is a waste to stay in the hotel, but yet, is it really such a waste when I get the time to myself? 10 days will pass. but in what manner, I may ask.

Road March

The days grow longer. The excitement pales as the mucus grows longer. I cannot imagine myself saying this, but I am slightly homesick. Would I ever grow accustomed to the alien tongue that casts me as the outsider? Would I ever overcome the puzzlement and the irritation that the language barrier presents? My speech betrays me although my skin resembles theirs. My face mirrors the exhaustion, its blotches of angry redness in contrast to their pasty whiteness, and but a nasty reminder to the days passed in coldness and tiredness. My money runs out as fast as my energy. My roommate finally succumbs to the exhaustion although he is hesitant to admit the weariness. The road march continues, as I lower my head to the blistering cold wind howling in my muffled ears. Where everyone suffers, I am the god of suffering and shall render its administration in due order. No one is spared. The road march continues.

Dickens

Once again, the night and weariness have drawn out the words that should never have seen light. The constant barrage on the pyschological turf has taken its toll and I become more weary than ever. Ghosts of the distant past revisit in the way Dickens' story materializes for Scrooge. And ironically, Christmas draws near. The present may reign but there are moments like these when I wonder the 'what is to come', while dwelling on the 'what has been'.

As said, the bones are better left undisturbed. The Quixotic is never meant to be, neither the Gump. What is ever pressing is the adage; 'Live your life every day as though it is your last'. I may be a social construct, but when the destruction of everything is complete, what will be left is my Will alone. I am not of the Faith, nor of Nature. Instead, let my Will guide me in the ways of the unseen, let my cryptic ways form my identity, for I am me. I may be subsumed in the traditions of humanism, of civilization, but beneath it all, I subscribe to nothing, except my free Will, for lo and behold, it is what I have left.

The husk will not last long.

My name's Gump. Forrest Gump.

I have been hinted on my apparent stupidity before, but it has always been on a subconscious level. This time round, however, it was a direct frontal assault that left no hope of recovery.

'You are not that smart'.

Coming from him, it was rather unexpected, but what with tired minds, it was the truest and most sincere statement issued forth. The words still ring in my ears, and the shock of the aftermath remains. It is but another scar over the old wounds on my psyche, and it hardens my resolve ever than before. The ex-student is scathing indeed, and on retrospect, it is not surprising. Elitism is a cold hard fact of society and prejudices, a natural aspect. I am unwittingly guilty of that and the hunter becomes the hunted. It is indeed ironical.

So what are the earmarks of intelligence, I am wont to ask. Is the bearer of the RI and NUS badge the intelligent person? Is the person possessing an IQ of 350 intelligent? Are the lawyers and doctors the only intelligent people around? And the rest are but mere blabbering fools, I presume? Or should we continue to delude ourselves by insisting that everyone is intelligent? Hold on that thought. I seem to be contradicting myself.

But the question remains. Does he know me well enough to deem me stupid? I need to fight stupid, stupid I may be.

The Day I Died

It was a disaster, as I had more or less expected. It was like asking a dog to fly. And yet again, I had to endure the incredulous stare and the patronizing smile that set one on cold fire. With his subconscious blasts of frustration directed towards my direction at my ineptness, I could only wish it ended earlier than it was supposed to. The gaze was unintentionally withering, although polite on the surface. I swore that the incident would not recur.

It rained at my funeral, although it would have been better if it had been pouring.

The Evening Descends

The battle rages, as I desperately sought the words that I thought I knew well. This confused state of debilitation corresponds the internal turmoil that I thought was over. My mind blanks, withdraws into the familiar shell of darkness. It is a familiar state bordering sickness and wellness.

The evening descends, as the sorrow reigns in its pure, unadulterated form, I reach out to the connective states of sick-wellness in my previous modes of life. I am unsuitable for anything. What would I do?

Doppelganger

A man in his 20s
Was found dead in the rivers of Clarke Quay
Is that me
Is that him
As I stare into that visage
As it takes on my mug
Who is it then, who is typing out the words here
Who is it then, who is lying so dead over there
And where is here
And where is there
As we continue
To stare
Time stops