Five days and a double-click away

Aspiration happens to be some insignificant thing. In a world where you're forced to be as original as possible - it isn't exciting, it wrecks your head, but you haven't got another choice - you try to peek at something just to get something to start on, and yet you're somehow restricted to do so.

And that's the problem. As I type I'm searching what's left of my slumbering cerebrum, if only to question how things work out in the world. I don't have anything to complain about, sure, but it's only because I'm almost risking sounding repetitive. I've been typing a lot of my thoughts lately, if anything's left of it, and within this week it feels like I've said it before - either the week before, the month before, or even in some far-flung era. Yes, it hurts to have a fairly resilient memory. And it hurts more thinking I've already said that before.

I haven't (significantly) talked to anyone recently - it's only been the usual naff tabloids are quick to pick up and needlessly elaborate. I'm tired of mere hellos, and I'm tired of typing in my thoughts to someone who won't possibly listen. That's why the holidays irritate me for some reason - everyone goes to sleep, and thus they refuse to become active. Sure, you go out and spend time doing what you really love. You know, maybe you go to the beach and build sandcastles until you end up digging endlessly. Or maybe paddle your arms. Or maybe drink to your liver's chagrin. It doesn't spark anything - unless death, or something else drastic, interferes, of course.

And yet I try ever so hard - sounds flowery, right? - to write them in kilometric sentences right now. To be honestly descriptive, right now I'm hearing Kim in my head, saying "hindi mo naman kailangang magsulat ng mahabang entry" - and yet I'm typing in another excuse at dominating the world. Insert Jason: "mas magaling si" someone I can't remember, and that give me another excuse to get insecure and intimidated. Come on, continue typing. Yes. It feels good, doesn't it?

Eventually I lose of stuff to write about. I don't know, really. At times I think I only have my life to tell, continuously glorifying it like I am Piolo Pascual involved in another soap opera plot twist. (The comparison doesn't have anything to do with looks, nor talent. And no, not even his rumored gender preference.) I have observed that I write my best entries when I'm, say, hopelessly falling for someone, and right now I actually became (somewhat) in control. Needlessly so.

Five days from now, things will, well, be back to how they ought to be. I'll be walking along the SJ Walk, thinking again of what to write, or eventually, how to shoot something. It'll eat me soon. And by then we'd all be yearning for another holiday, and when that happens my memory will fail me again, for I'll remember. I actually wished for a holiday, and when it happens I lose people to talk to. Golly, I might think. I'll melt, obviously.

You know repetition? In five days I'm back at school... yeah, you get the point. I said that earlier. For now, again, I'll maybe bid desperately for a conversation. I just double-clicked Tracy's name, and maybe I'll double-click Chexie's name - that nick stuck! - who's still cheering for the Pistons. And I know I mentioned that team two years ago. Right. So maybe I need something for aspiration. Or someone for inspiration. I can't hope I'm getting it - I think I already am.

What an excuse for an entry, I just thought.

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