throughthelookingglass
about
To be honest there is nothing much about me worth knowing. I live in an island, enjoys being a photographer at times and dance like no one else business. Thats all. I can't think what to write for now so it just stays like this. Welcome to the little life of mine and lets try not to get utterly bored, shall we?

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We're all mad here


Catharsis and change
Sunday, February 23, 2014 @ 2/23/2014 10:46:00 PM

Do you take it I would astonish?Does the daylight astonish? Does the early redstart, twittering through the woods?Do I astonish more than they?
I set myself up for such great expectations only to fall for great disappointments.

It's like being hit with a massive wave of emptiness that I cannot comprehend. I haven't told anyone about it yet but I briefly discussed it with a few friends last night. However, I did not dare express the full extent of my angst because that will be coming off as depressing and unfriendly. And I didn't want that to happen. As much as some people believe that friends are there for emotional support I prefer to think that I should not impose such a ridiculous burden on them + it wouldn't make practical sense because they wouldn't be able to help me either. It will just make myself seem whiny and needy instead, desperate for unwarranted attention.
Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude;How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?
What is a man, anyhow? What am I? What are you?
All I mark as my own, you shall offset it with your own;Else it were time lost listening to me

These days, I seem unable to connect with anyone. Things just happen around me, I am merely an organism part of the colossal ecosystem; drifting, breathing but not really living. I feel lost, I'm questioning who I am as a person and if I'm even doing anything with my life.

I am nothing but a bystander of my own life. A voyeur as I watch my self act and react normally. I have pleasant conversations with friends. I take meals with my family. I try to do my best work.

The stability is frightening. Whatever I do is not enough. I sound like a spoilt first-world brat don't I? I decided to do community work. The emptiness isn't leaving me but rather gaining speed, it feeds off my insecurities and grows steadily. I have been feeling like this ever since the year begun but I don't think I showed it too much (obviously). People are good at concealing stuff and sometimes, I think I try to hide it from myself too. I want it so much to be ok but it is not ok and the problem does not go away. Things start to go downhill as I pretend I'm alright but I don't feel alright and as I celebrate so many people turning 21, I feel like the last thing I really want is to pretend that I'm happy when I'm not.
In all people I see myself—none more, and not one a barleycorn less;And the good or bad I say of myself, I say of them.
And I know I am solid and sound;To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow;All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.
I know I am deathless;I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by the carpenter’s compass;I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.
I know I am august;I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood;I see that the elementary laws never apologize;(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.)
I exist as I am—that is enough;If no other in the world be aware, I sit content;And if each and all be aware, I sit content.

I watch flaccidly as I began to grow weary of my interactions with most people. I do not feel like talking. I lose interest easily. I do not feel like reading. Even I scare myself sometimes. There is no point trying to find the cause and fixing it because I think the best way forward is to move on.

All this writing though has been catharsis for me. In fact, this blog has helped me tremendously.  But there are a few things which I have been considering for quite a while and I think closing the blog is one of them. I cannot continue to engage in this blog anymore. 5 years. It's like breaking up with a very close friend. I don't even know if I'm deliberating inflicting emotional pain/anxiety/distress on myself just to feel something these days... but but that's a whole other thing. For this, I'm quite sure that as much as I love this blog, I cannot go on over here. It's heading nowhere. Like my life right now which means it serves no purpose whatsoever and I feel useless over here.

Instead, I will be taking a break from rambling nonsense and try to finish what I have started. My lovely nonsensical life since 16 ahhhhh the joys when I re-read my first post. The embarrassment. I'm really grateful for any readers I ever had. To those that followed this blog, thank you. The grammar is horrid, I know. If you would be so kind for this final post kindly leave your digital footprints here in my old cbox. You don't have to type your real name you know, just initials will be fine. I always wanted to know who reads my blog secretly because sometimes they don't reveal themselves but end up knowing stuff I have never told them about except typing it online. I have unblock my cbox too to make it easier to leave comments so please please please do.

I will try to return to writing online again once I manage to get a nicer webpage design and have decent stuff to write about. At the meanwhile I tweet @allisongoh and have an insta @wuyingli :))) No new plans or ideas yet but any suggestions/help are welcome. I love you downtherrabbithole and I still do. Perhaps when we meet again and I'm reunited with you it will be on happier times because you have been such a uplifting virtual online platform to me. I hope to see you soon because you remind me of a so much more carefree and simpler times that I had in Secondary School and Junior College.

There was never any more inception than there is now,Nor any more youth or age than there is now;And will never be any more perfection than there is now,Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
 - Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass. 

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