15 February 2015

There are things I think and feel that I try to neatly wrap in the words that I know, the words that I have been given. The grant of writership gives me permission to try, but sometimes, it's not enough. My amateur self feels too inadequate, ill-equipped, and small to fully put into words what it is that I want to say. Not that what I have to say is profound; it is the same wave of emotions that everyone feels, those waves of simple sadness, secret joy, and bouts of frustration that escalate into anger.

So I drown in the melodrama of myself, and I look back on my writing and either laugh or cringe.

05 February 2015

Destiny. It is word that ought to carry immeasurable weight and contain unfathomable depth. Yet, beyond its surface, it's a word whose seriousness has become diluted. Too many Hollywood rom-coms and a myriad of Nicholas Sparks novels have made "destiny" a joke. But sitting here, it is the word that I find myself thinking of in the middle of the night.

It's sad, really. The fact that I seriously claim to know my destiny when in fact, I can't even predict what will happen in the next half-second. And if destiny is a joke, but I tenaciously cling on to it, does that make my life a farce? The thoughts that I ponder night after night have strangely mutated from grim to comical. And for some reason, that makes me think of Shakespeare.