Thursday, April 25, 2013

All Sorts of Beautiful, Some Kind of Wrong

To be honest, I had this title for quite sometimes now. It just suddenly crossed my mind at some random moment of clarity but I don’t know what to write about it. When the stress is impending, my writing productivity (as act of displacement) inexplicably mounting. I rather write than study. And I found out that whenever I am with my Netbook, my urge to write blog entry is intensifying.

Maybe because it felt personal, this little ‘black book’ of mine. Tried writing on tablet, but due to my factitious ataxic fingers, I spend most of my time correcting my spelling instead of writing. So yeah, that one effort down the drain. Sometimes technology is just another way to screw you frustrated; front and back, left and right, up and down.  

The exam season is here. First, the end of cycle (EOC) clinical and theory exam followed by Professional Exam III. Yes, back pain, I am anticipating you like a loyal dog wagging its tongue, full Pavlov.

Arghh, something deep inside of me felt such fondness towards the system as it unravel into such way, molded and crafted into pre-perfection if not less flawful. I want to be medical student forever. I am pushing 30 and still I am not ready for responsibility. License to kill. I wanted to be careless and not worrying any consequence it may bring. I know my dark and twisted mind will somehow trying to sabotage something, hell if I know what it is but we’ll see.

Some part of me dreading on fact that we will soon part ways. Oh how we’ll drifted apart. I am a sucker of nostalgic feeling. Those memories though sweet are indeed lethal for you in an attempt to move forward. Like some invincible strings tugging you backward at each endeavor to leave. Like dog on leash. They keep you yearning, vacillating and lingering on past moments. Along come sadness and melancholy in bulk. Come crushing abruptly like a flipped figurative cargo truck. 

It never easy to walk away from something good and familiar, something comfortable and warm; but reality is one mean bitch you need to face. Should instead of would. Pocket it all and tuck it neatly in ever-vacant corner of your heart. Know that wherever you go, those pieces are there to keep you whole, covered and dressed. Rummaging through it is like pulling on pointless layers of band-aid, on chronic non-healing venous ulcer. You know you fucked up, but still you want to see the damage there is, pus, necrosis and all (ultime hyperbolique).      


This memory I will treasure. Bittersweet such it is. All sorts of beautiful, some kind of wrong.

So this is another Pre-Goodbye. My favorite song from my favorite singer. I know it kinda pathetic, but yeah I never said I ain't one.

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