Is feeling happy for no reason at all good for one's health?
I think it's the first sign of insanity.
I don't know why, but I just feel happy. Not the sort of yay-I-got-dark-chocolate-mm type of happy, it's more of writer's euphoria or rabid fangirl type of happy.
Been having moodswings lately. Normally I don't stay up past 12, but I valiantly tried to fight sleep in order to talk to Hui Ting over the phone. I don't know why either, (don't ask me!).
Does anyone want to see Accuracy of Death with me? I really want to watch that movie, adn this desire is further fuelled by all the good reviews it has earned.
Just feel very disconnected with everyone lately. We stayed up all night discussing about the class bonding and the outcasts, and suddenly I had this irrational fear that I might be the next outcast. It is either a hallucination or my old 'problem' cropping up.
I don't know why, but I can't seem to trust anyone. Which reminds me of the irony of typing this problem out into cyberspace for everyone to see. I recognise this problem, and I try to overcome it, but I can't. I have no fear of confronting my problems, and I have nothing to hide. So what is my motive in typing this? I don't know, maybe to provide my friends who will (hopefully) read this gain a better understanding?
I'm sorry if I'm bitchy or plain irritating/obnoxious. I'm sorry if I can't get along with any one of you classmates out there. I'm also sorry for using this miserable excuse to cover up why I don't really bond with the rest of the class.
Do you understand the feeling of being trapped? No? It's ok, I'll explain it as we go along.
Anyone will know that any emotion is hard to express in terms of words and paper. Strangely, all my poems and prose all have a similar feeling :despair, melancholy, sorrow, apoplexy. The really weird thing is that, I don't even go out of my way to express it. It just comes out like blood-red wine from a cracked crystal goblet. I can't help it dripping down and staining the pure white linen.
Let me spin you a story.
Someone, some one person, had gone on to build my own castle with iron-wrought gates, black and imposing against the green lands and azure skies. The whole castle is strangely clothed by fog and mists, demons snarl and prisoners groan their tortured song. Every now and then there would be visitors knocking (some impolite people rattling) on my gates, trying to go in or peek past the gates into the inside. The metal gates are strong, and cold for many years without the warmth of human hands. After a minute or two of knocking or rattling, some, gazing at their worn knuckled and sore hands, would shake their heads in resignation as they turn away. Others might stay around longer, but they too will eventually turn back.
No one will dare to venture forth in fear of the horrors which might lurk inside. The phantoms and ghosts proliferate, infesting every nook and cranny, filling the souls of the living with dread and negative emotion, until the gloom will overwhelm the azure skies and grassy lands, turning them into grey, overcast skies fitting of a funeral, and a bare wasteland.
No one will ever visit this place. One day, the gates might rust, and collapse altogether, but no-one shall ever venture forth, for gossip and rumours now serve as the iron gate.
