21 Guns

"..your faith walks on broken glass

and the hangover doesn't pass

nothing's ever built to last

you're in ruins.."

Dear lonely isle,

Notable thing of today: spoke so much chinese speaking in any other language felt pretty foreign for awhile. Oh, and I actually thought in chinese for awhile too.

Somehow, it seems pretty small.

Everything seems pretty small after awhile, when you've had enough time to get away from it and look at it from a distance.

Somehow, its all I've been feeling.

Gosh. Is it that time of the month again?

It sucks to be the girl always associated with this affliction, but what sucks even more is that it somehow seems to be true.

I think I need to do something with my life.

The other day as I watched season 5 of Desperate Housewives, I mused as I watched Tom and Lynette fight because the tired wife had fallen asleep during a sex session. The next day, Tom had said, "Do you know why sex with you has become so important to me lately? Its because the only thing that I'm passionate about in my life right now, is you."

And I think I understand truly.

I am all for and always with condoning living life with passion, but somehow, just like how Tom felt silly about sharing it, so do I; I don't have anything I'm passionate about.

Sometimes I wonder if there are people out there who feel this way.

Because all the other people I've known and met aren't like that. Everyone has...something that they're passionate about. It could be their job, a pet, animals in general, a hobby, an idea, a culture, the environment, something.

I don't even have anything imaginary to the passionate about.

Some people are passionate about living itself. Striving, pushing forward, and always wanting to improve.

Sometimes I wonder if being a lazy person has anything to do with it.

I mean..I understand that I am a lazy person. But to the extent where I am passionate about nothing because I do not put in enough effort to be passionate about something? If that is so then I guess I have never felt so ashamed in my life before.

Most of the time I feel like half an adult, like a child not fully grown, because even children are more passionate than I am.

Someone once told me that this is a syndrome of people who are too well endowed in the upper regions; note: brain. If such is true I'd give away my grades for half the passion that any normal person has.

Sometimes, on days like these I feel like my life is one long, straight line from point A to point B. And much as I'd like to pretend how interesting point A and point B is, and how eventful the journey from former to latter was, I'm afraid I'd only be lying. My life is just as eventful, and just as interesting as 2 points on a sheet of plain white paper, with a ruler-straight line connecting them. And that was very painful to say.

Perhaps its better to be boring and uneventful than to be filled with sorrow and pain. And perhaps, I agree, yes that is better. But honestly, what would I know?

Yes, on some days I feel very small indeed. Tiny in fact.

And I wonder if its because of the change of hormones taking place in my body.

And secretly, I think it isn't true at all, because there are some things you just can't lie to yourself.

I know I need to find something to do with my life.

Because people only usually feel this way after experiencing near death, or after they're forty and hitting mid life crisis.

I can't imagine how I'm going to be like when I hit forty. I'm probably heading for a nervous breakdown.

Did you stand too close to the fire, like a liar begging for forgiveness from a stone..?

Sometimes, when I take a look at my blog, I realize, it is, a very long, and very personal diary. I say very personal, because whenever I come here, its always because, I have something to say...about myself. Does this make me a self obsessed person?

And to make things even sadder, I'm now going to try to explain to myself why I always and only write about myself. There are a lot of other things I can write about, and I know this to be true. There are a lot of other people I can write about, but yet, I tend to write exclusively about my feelings.

If I were poetic I'd say the biggest puzzle I've always tried to unravel was myself.

If I were an ass I'd say I'm just plain narcissic.

If I were a realist...maybe I'd just say that it doesn't really matter, because your biggest audience is yourself, and I need to remind myself that even though I started a blog for someone else, I need to keep it going for myself. Even if it does make me seem self absorbed.

Hell. In every blog post I am essentially writing to myself *facepalm*

There's just days like these every month.

Maybe they just happen to fall near that particular time of the month.

I know my life is one long, painful search to find something I'm passionate about, because at each and every stage of it, I thought I'd found it, only to find that it wasn't true.

And in every stage of it I hid behind the mundane routine hoping that one day I'll bump into something and it'll say on it on big, red, capital letters with neon signs "PASSION". And then I'll finally know what its like.

And until now it hasn't happen yet. I thought this was something people just were born with, or something they just like or love with all their hearts. I didn't know it took finding.

And even with finding, it still eludes you after 23 years.

I always envied people who went out and lived in the jungle to research animals and plants for National Geographic. I still do.

When I was younger I wanted to be just like them, because they loved something so much, they were willing to spend their lives doing it.

I envy Christians, even though I'd never admit it, because they believed in something so much, they were willing to spend their lives following it.

Which, I note, is probably why, religion and I never really got along. I couldn't believe in it, like I couldn't believe in anything else.

Do you think perhaps when God made this little girl he left out a great chunk of Passion in her heart?

She must somehow be defective.

Love, Joyce.