Hot Chocolate

I resolved to finish the assignment by the end of this week, but the surreal realism of Haruki Murakami sunk into my heart. I'm sorry, that's an excuse. I just plain don't care about third world countries being economically oppressed. It's boring, it doesn't concern me at a time like this. Not while my there's a 5.5 tremor on the Richter scale rocking my world.

Yet, it just suddenly hit me. I'm so preoccupied with existing, too busy to even live out my life. I wanted to write a story, learn how to play the harmonica, perfectly hone my badminton skills, or even just finish a video game...

But it all comes down to me. So scared of an academic death that don't even dare to live. Deep inside I just build a wall, praying someone will care enough to break it down and liberate me. It's quite a selfish thought though, isn't it? Wanting people to reach out to me, yet sometimes I can't be bothered to reach out to another.

I remember the hazelnut hot chocolate I had last weekend in Melbourne. The stark contrast of the warmth of the cup mildly scalding my cold fingertips. I remember how the thick, rich liquid scorched its way down my throat. How I desperately pried open the cover and puffed lightly into the drink so it would fog up my glasses, warming my neck and earlobes in the process. As if all of that weren't enough warmth, I obliged a greedy impulse to take a gulp, knowing well enough it would burn my tongue.

A sharp surge of pain snapped me out from my post-flight lethargy. That's right. I came to Melbourne alone to take a breather from my violently turbulent emotions. I used to neatly pack my problems in a box, then shelve it into a compartment in my heart. What a great, mature way to handle things, I thought to myself. But this approach is kinda like making notes throughout the semester. First you start of neatly, then it gets sloppier as lectures get boring, in the end you don't even turn up for the lectures. It doesn't take much foresight to guess what happens next. Just a couple of months, those boxes tower up like this half-played tall UNO Stacko structure, with people and circumstances threatening to poke out a piece each turn. Her aloofness, failing evidence, grandpa's death, along with other uncertainties and regrets... my attitude lately was as if an unreasonable child emerged in front of the emotional UNO stack and with a kick, smashed the whole structure to pieces.

Pitiful and tragic? I must confess, I was the unreasonable child himself. I was the one who kicked down my very own UNO stacko. I was responsible for driving myself into a corner.

I had to take responsibility for my own decisions.

Well, it would been better that way, I thought. Better to chain myself up privately and break down, instead of bottling it up and eventually lashing out erratically at friends. I'd rather get hurt than hurt others. Though naive, that was my principle.

And what should I then do? If I gather the pieces and start building from scratch again, it's only a matter of time before it gets torn down again. I sit there, looking at the pieces scattered all over. What a mess. Well, I'll get Ibsen to clean up after me. So I went to Melbourne. Even the hot chocolate was on him. Well, that's what friends are for, right? Haha... okay I feel bad.

Speaking of the drink, I guess the way I used to be in love was like downing hot chocolate in a go. Knowing I'll get burnt, then hurt, then paralysed, and finally end up in a totally helpless emotional state. Guys like me only know one way of doing things, and that's giving it your all. It's true that everything should be taken in moderation... everything but passion. I don't see the point of loving half-heartedly... nor am I capable of doing such a thing. Passion in moderation, how self-defeating. :S

So... not wanting to get hurt again... I sealed my heart. Somewhere along the passage of time, I adhered to the norm how adults rationalize everything. The pride that I put down for love, I picked it up once again, though.. unwillingly. For the sake of instilling artificial confidence within myself. Fake, I know, but it's better than nothing. Or so I thought. Rather, I should think so.

What happened to those rebellious days when I would go against the entire world for what I believed in? What happened to the me who would passionately cry, wholeheartedly, as I struggled? It's a strange admission to make that I miss those days.

Now I stare at the boxes of problems once again. If I pile them up, they'll fall down again. Maybe, instead of waiting for the flow of time to biodegrade them into harmless memories... maybe I should dismantle and resolve them. It'll be very hard and I might just make a bigger mess than get rid of it.

But maybe, just maybe...

There's this saying that if you wish for something, it's still highly unlikely to come true. Yet, compared to not wishing at all... a spark of hope is enough for someone in the darkness of despair to cling on to.

Okay, time to start reading up for that stupid assignment.