Refuelling

Yes I've blogged today already (while invigilating, no less), but perhaps something should be said on the eve of my temporary return to the land of coffeeshops and kopitiams.

I realise that I've had this blog for nearly four years. Reading past entries still make me cringe and want to hit the delete button, but I suppose cringing is a sign of non-recognition, which is in turn a sign of change?

Four is really such a small number. It hardly means anything, really. But browsing through the old archives, I can hardly fathom how many inconsequential words I have typed. The chronicles of my life, organised by the month.

I suppose the worst thing is that I am still saying the same things, complaining about the same personal flaws and faults. I still have no faith in most people. I was out of it for a while but I'm a cynic again. I'm learning to live with my flaws, and I think that is a better way in which to get rid of them - rather than disowning them right from the start.

I don't think I will have nostalgic longings for Bangladesh if and when I return for good. I'm not too sure how to explain why, but maybe my nostalgia was just some weird love for exoticism that I refused to acknowledge. Sometimes I think I've had enough, I want to have my wanton mee and iced tea (how sad to draw the line at food, eh?), but then I look back at all my half-accomplished projects and half-fucked efforts at making a meaning out my life - and I think, I just can't quit. Not now.