Warning: This is pretty much a rant.
And yet another day that I can't force myself to sleep early. My mind is bursting at the seams. I so wish I could channel my thoughts and feelings to someone whom I had understood and built a connection with. It's been difficult to convince myself that the reason I'm away from my family for freaking 5 years (dammit!) is just writing. I have no writers group that would share my passions, aside from the university's club, who are... let's say different from me (still the best thing I could find). And next year, I won't even be able to see them since I'll be working full time. I'll grow even more isolated, even more alone, until the point of writing itself would be lost-- may as well the point of living be lost. These thoughts have been whirling around in my mind...
I watched a rockumentary just recently. A great piece. Really reminded me of my teenage years. I was so fond of doom metal back then. For some fleeting mintues, I remembered how I had felt 9 years ago, what had concerned me, what had given me joy, what I had dreamt of. What was painful was not the realization that I hadn't reached what I had dreamt of, but that I no longer even dreamt of it as passionately as I used to. My emotions were now only little figments, lost in a sea of constant delegation. The leap was too much for me... 5 f*ing years... Can you believe this? It passed like a blink of an eye. I'm positive that the rest of my life will pass just the same way. What I had wanted to achieve feels so meaningless now at this point in time... unbelievable.
The point is... "I was me but now he's gone" as Metallica once mused. I can't see myself reviving anything valuable where I am now... these people don't need me to write for them. People back home did, and yet they would bite my hands whenever I tried to help them. I am stuck in an endless loop that goes nowhere. It would feel so pointless if I ended up wasting my time away from my family not even being read. [Sighs and leaves the scene with no answer]
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