767: the unbearable lightness

But was it love? The feeling of wanting to die beside her was clearly exaggerated: he had seen her only once before in his life! Was it simply the hysteria of a man who, aware deep down of his inaptitude for love, felt the self-deluding need to simulate it?

- The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera

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trapped inside me is a dark, twisted and tortured soul of an artist who once ran rampant but is now shackled by propriety, soberness and a lack of inspiration.

sometimes i resent myself for not being as creatively spontanous and exciting and interesting and explosive and colourful as i think i can be.

as i think i can be. we are being mightily ambitious today.

give me the biggest box of crayons in the entire universe and give me the hugest piece of paper in the entire galaxy. tell me to draw as if my life depended on it. i will ask you for a bottle of cyanide.

all. i. want. to. do. now. is to run outside. (not when it’s dark. i am not good enough for when it’s dark. yet. if ever.) and take perfectly imperfect photos (i think i’m getting the hang of them). without having to worry about film or cost of post-processing.

i want to be free.

what would you be doing if you weren’t in med school?

i would be in art school. except maybe i wouldn’t be because they won’t accept me in the first place. i can’t play any musical instruments so beautifully they make the audience cry. i cannot draw pictures so moving they touch the hearts of millions. in fact i cannot draw at all. i cannot take photos that paint the world so magically that they whisk anybody looking at them into a different world. all i churn out is stupid boring predictable textbook-rule-of-thirds crap. i cannot write.

i cannot write.

i am so frustrated it isn’t funny.

i am in med school because it is the only thing i am remotely good at. cold, hard, facts. rules. guidelines. textbook. textbook. textbook.

i cannot even express myself in ways i want to.

all i am is this bloody wallflower who is crying for attention she doesn’t deserve. a wallflower who is shrivelling slowly in envy as she watches other flowers bloom gloriously and furiously and effortlessly.

effortlessly. all this should be effortless. people are artsy at their own leisure. they don’t even have to try. i am trying disproportionately hard to be effortlessly and leisurely artistic and whimsical.

i am the square peg that wants to be the peg that does not fit into any hole.

i don’t know what to do with myself.

i am not trying too hard. i have given up trying. how can somebody take a picture of the most mundane things on earth and turn it into one of the most inspiring things.

(i am somehow starting to sound like chong bing. haha.)

when did i lose my ability to see.

when. how. did i ever.

this is me being restless. being cooped up, away from civilisation as i know it, not having contact with the outside world.

i now know what i want to do if i weren’t in (maybe even instead of) med school

but i now know also that i wouldn’t have been able to do it anyway.

PS. i am not “artistic in (my) own way”. i am merely not artistic. not in the slightest bit.

PPS. have you ever experienced being total rubbish at something you are passionate about?

PPPS. the silver lining: the howling (literally) wind and grassy smell of raindrops on a hot tar road doth soothe my heart slightly. maybe i was a bit too harsh when it came to my photography. it isn’t half bad and i do see some character gradually developing. i just need some maturing. and now i am going to lie on my bed in the dark and just listen to the wind. good night. (oh look, my first poetic notion in a few years. glee.)