I’m not going to give the mix CD to her. I did some preemptive Google searching (which I should have done weeks ago) and found that, indeed, she is someone who is very very far from what I am as a person. I feel a little sad at the thought of the CD I made with her in mind going to somebody else—or maybe even gathering dust in my closet someday—but I guess if I’m going to be realistic then this is the way to go. I might change my mind next week, though, if I see her and happen to have the CD on my person. It’s all about the risk-taking, my crazy head says.
Lately I’ve been getting the feeling that if I just pushed myself a little more, I could actually do at least some of the things that I ought to and want to do. If I didn’t dismiss small thoughts as useless, I could write entire posts & essays on them. If I tried really hard, I could stop writing about byproducts of navel-gazing and actually write a coherent paragraph on something. Getting started on my academic requirements sooner rather than later would mean I could probably finish them on time, if not earlier. A little happy small talk with my dad would make him feel a lot better about his problems. These feelings have been coming and going with alarming strength and regularity recently, but even as the ideas present themselves my brain fervently opposes them. It moves to squash it, and for all intents and purposes seems hell bent on keeping the idea at bay from my internal plumbing. My brain can be a real shitbag sometimes.
I’ve been immersing myself in literature recently. I’ve long since been insecure about the things that I read, mainly because I often feel that I’m not reading enough and that therefore I must probably be very stupid and unfit to make intellectual statements. Recently I’ve been trying to improve it, though the books I read aren’t exactly the ones at the top of the lists of people like Benedict Cumberbatch or people who read the likes of Bukowski. No, I’m starting slow and easy: books by Stephen King, short stories of Filipino writers written in English (thank you BLL 133), any poems I can get my hands on (thank you BLL 110), and generally material that’s more or less easy to digest. It’s primarily my ADHD-CT that’s making all of this hard, and sometimes I still beat myself up over the fact that I can’t really acquire as much knowledge as I want to with this state of mental health. But, seeing as how there’s no one else to blame, I figured I had to pick myself up some time or other—god knows no one’s gonna help me up—and get to work trying to make what I have now stay a little longer. I don’t know if it’s going to go back to the way it once was—when I could skim meaning from the page without so much sweeping my eyes across it—but I’m sure if I don’t let this one thing die, it won’t, and not until I myself do.
Also, reading Jose Garcia Villa and Jose Dalisay makes me want to rip out my innards and wipe my tears with it.
I saw The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey a few days ago. See, this is one of those things that I know I would have plenty to say about if I was able to force myself to choke out an organized set of lines on it. It was beautiful and it made me remember how much I had loved the LOTR trilogy all those years ago, which is something I somehow forgot over the years. BUT because I really cannot force my half-asleep brain into thinking of an intro, a body and a clincher to top it all off (oh god flashbacks of all the academic papers I ever wrote *cries tears of blood*) right now, I will simply leave the matter with a temporary ending: I have a massive crush on Kili. There, I said it.
I’m sleepy and I haven’t done anything that I have to do and have had to do since last week. Hell Week is approaching blindingly fast, but strangely I don’t feel any pressure. I don’t know what I was expecting; it just kind of feels odd, this time. Maybe I’m being too confident about my cramming skills again. I have to get my shit together tomorrow, though; it’s not like I can stay in internet-friendly Manila forever.