Good afternoon, Sunday. I'm quite happy the lackluster buffet I had for dinner last night got my mind off things. It was pretty effective - my mind got very clear the moment I woke up today at around eight, which meant I was able to call up Raymond Red for a copy of one of his feature screenplays for our class. I'm also slightly pumped for Friday - I'm submitting a concept for a sixty-second television short, and as you may have noticed, the school's television studio has got loads of new equipment and we're going to be the first to use (and abuse) it.
And sleepiness ruled Saturday. I typed in my concept and my article - actually, one more is missing, and I can just sense some concern with Osang's simple "from?" she sent me just now. So much for wanting to take on the challenge of laying out something without the aid of InDesign. I nevertheless ended up sleeping at one in the morning.
And yes, I realize this is entry number five hundred for my blog. Just how many things did I already write? Or, better yet, how many things have I written about already? I know my life has been powered by useless introspection - what would I be without it? Or anybody else, for that matter? I sometimes still get amazed at how I manage to grab something from an experience that basically isn't mine, and even more, get extremely affected by it. I'd probably call it a curse, or maybe I just feel desperately wanting for some affirmation, or something.
It's funny. I was reading something I wrote some time back and realized that I haven't changed anything. Not that I've been very complacent - I'm fighting it - but sometimes the pace of how things change just overwhelms me. Or maybe the way I want things to stay as it is, which is probably the biggest contradiction I still believe in. Or maybe the way I want things to silently go my way, for I still need my emotional support.
I was laughing at myself while I was taking a bath, because I just realized that I didn't have any use for complaining. Chex herself said it - "complaining is for lazy people who are desperate for answers but don't do anything about it." She suggested a solution, and I took it, but apparently I already did it in a way that wouldn't hit me harder. I did it hours before I texted her.
So, apparently, I can do things without doing too much premeditation? Without worrying too much, at least - Icka's advice still stands, two years later. I actually didn't follow that. Heck, I should've, but I didn't. After all these months I still premeditate everything and thus collapse before I could even do a thing. But right now I know that I should be doing something about this situation, precisely because it's going to be useless - very useless - moping about it in the future.
And I don't know how the heck I settled on this, or how I even got the closest term to what I feel. Jealousy. It's a terrible thing.
I'm talking to Chex again, and we're all just looking back at what I'd usually call another averted, err, crisis. Mister wordsmith here seems to be lost for words again, because nothing's matured into some convoluted mess. I'm quite happy about it. I'm quite happy, but I still get goosebumps whenever I settle down and become friendly. I am still friendly. I got to be friendly, although I know that I let it loose, let it loose in the most obvious of ways, and actually, well, almost said it. Or I actually did. Or my first words have let it loose from the start.
The only thing she had to say was, eventually, I'll have some potato chips to crunch on. Someone to cuddle, I guess. Or someone to love.
But right now, I'm too busy to worry about it. The television studio's got new equipment, I've got screenplays to think of, and I'm to do another layout without InDesign - I just contacted Maine and she's to send it by tonight. I hope it does happen. Sometimes you don't get breathing space for anything. But I still have the time to listen to the Manic Street Preachers do their thing.
When exactly did I become another boy struck dumb with love?