I am about to finish university and I don’t want to.

I feel inadequate at the things I am good at (ironic, is it not?).

I am dealing with a possible health problem that makes me want to hide under my blankets and never return.

And one of my best friends betrayed me earlier this year, leaving me disheartened, untrusting and alone.

Needless to say, depression settles deep like snow on a windless day.

What was odd that on the very same day a friend had left me a facebook comment gushing how great a writer I was. She was referring to an article I had written during my two week internship at The Age Online, for which I had received considerable praise for.

I felt like a fraud, a feeling a feel quite often with my conquests. But the publication was right; I do write with flat language. I also repeatedly use worn and tattered metaphors and similes. But having sat on this thought for a few weeks, I realise that  the only thing I can do is smile in the face of battle. I must write the rubbish out, I must struggle and practise until I am as amazing as I want to be.

So I am aiming to update this blog a lot more from now on in the hope of improving my writing. Yes, that was what this blog was originally for, but I strive, again, to be better. To work hard for the goals I seek.

This blog is for me, not for you.

My current housemate is insanely obsessed with keeping the house spotless. Now, I am a really neat and clean person and I advocate the saying “everything has its place and a place for everything”. She, however, takes it too far.

Most of the time I just giggle and think how she would’ve reacted had she been taken to my old share house, a typically dirty student cesspool of grime.

We had a room called “The Mouldy Room” because the walls leaked onto the floor, which had holes by the way. The back door didn’t lock, the shower was an abomination and the floorboards appeared to be stained a dark brown, yet I’m sure they were never given such attention. It also had orange and  blue and purple and red walls. But it was cheap and ultimately I loved it.

My entertainment in times of frustration (hers, not mine) is to imagine my new housemate stuck in this house for a few hours with no escape. I giggle and scrub a little harder.

Of course, I forget the things that everyone forgets; names, moments from my past, times, dates etc. What annoys me most however, is my inability to remember things to the same capacity of those around me. My friends remember jokes and stories that don’t even feel familiar; others pull out pop culture references like the magicians endless hanky; I, instead, laugh along and wish I had just a a drop of the wit they possess.

I find my memory fails me most when I am in class. I am strong in my comprehension, but it all tends to get muddled with different theories from different theorists. Philosophy is saddens me the most, for I love it the most. But again, my mind splutters and stalls.

I took an online memory test to see how I am functioning, and apparently I am doing better than the average Joe. I recieved 100% on the visual memory and higher than average on the word test. Then what exactly is my problem? Perhaps the grass on the other side remembers the rain a little better…

The problem is, I am still not ready.

I absolutely loveuniversity. The thought of continuing and doing honours is very, very appealing to me. But am I just trying to hide from the inevitable act of growing-up? At 22 I feel as if I should already be at the ellusive ”there”, but I despairingly feel 18 all over again. Just a little pudgier and with a new set of goals.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? My goals have changed and have been changing now for about, oh, 22 years. I feel like a fake to my original ideas, a fake to my “passions”. I quote for my passions are perhaps the phoniest of all, words I use as a sheath to cover the blade of truth.

I am not as passionate as I make believe; I am not as motivated as you may think.

I am in fact, empty.

Unfinished projects, scripts and notes taunt me. Books unread, movies unwatched and homework unfinished do much the same. The incompleteness I possess is an ice- cold reminder that I am much more like my mother (who throws herself in 150% then crashes and burns once it gets too hard) than I care to believe.

So now it is up to me to choose: what do I want to do? Who do I want to be?

Am I a filmmaker, as the years 16-20 would have you believe? Am I a writer, as my recent facade would delude? Traveller, poet, artist or intellectual? If I choose to be all, is my passion forever destined to be decrepit and thin, stretched like a shirt too small over a belly too big?

Am I forever destined for a life of mediocrity?

“C’mon, you know you can tell me…” his sobs softened as he looked at her and smiled, the throbbing of her heart in tune with the throbbing beat of the music.

“Did you ever want to just fly away…?” She stammered, her eyes searching his face for clues.

“Shhhh…” his voice was soothing. He touched her lips with his finger softly, tracing the delicate outline of her mouth. He slowly leaned forward and stroked her cheek as his lips parted slightly, his eyes searching for the reassurance he was needing. Their lips touched.

“Yes” he answered afterwards, “Forever and always… except for now.” Their lust confused for love connected them, their friendship made it feel real. The intoxication of the evening faded and their thoughts were in disarray, but neither regretted their fleeting glance at happiness.

(Note: an oldy, from an ancient LJ post.)

Later, when they reminisced as friends over wine and age, he would tell her why he had left so abrupt.

“It was just so hard pretending…” he said as she laughed and spilt her wine.

“Alright then…” she replied, and never asked again. They did not often share wine, and even less so after. It had been sad to remember, but so it was and so it was.

small but faithful flame. It licks

at the wood hungrily, as a

small child does toffee. It jumps

from one side of the branch, then

back to the other. As if playing

with the wood, teasing it,

taunting it, daring it to respond.

but the wood stays still, letting

itself be devoured by the greedy

fire. In the end no one shall

win, for the fire will die, the wood

will become ash and nothingness

will take over, as was before…

(Note: written when I was 16, rediscovered on an old LJ post)