Haven't been writing for quite some time, and the culmination of my emotions inside of me is just baffling. Perhaps Virginia Woolf was correct, that writing is a kind of emotional outlet.
I've been dreaming. Not exactly the proudest happenings worth being euphoric over. Perhaps it's just stress teasing my creativity, that I dreamt of the boys of my past all weaved into my ingenious fiction which left me waking up perplexed with some parts of my being wishing that the details be true. I savoured the very moment when I awaken, to find myself still fumbling my way into reality; still lost in transition, yet conscious enough to want to dream that dream again. I struggled to envisage and to place myself back into where I dropped out from the depths of my imagination. But I've come to realise that the more pressing issue was to retain the last bits of sweet memories I had of it. Then it was gone.
The only consolation was that I did have most handsome boys featured. Albeit illusional.
Boyfriend, don't feel sad. You're not phantom. You're the reality. My reality. (:
As I struggle now for my lit examinations, I wonder if all these effort were worth burning the midnight oil. Certainly isn't now, that while I'm typing this, the time could have been better spent on the notes.
Somehow, every step I take forward seems to bring me further from my dreams. I need to pace myself faster. Much faster.
Hope everything will go fine. To the 24-year-old me, when I look back at this post again, be proud to say my worries are unfounded, and i'm just being stupid+silly+hysterical.
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