Once you’ve fallen, the hardest thing you can do is pick yourself back up. But that’s what makes winners. There’s this notion that whatever happens, however tragic or devastating, you’ve somehow got to use it to become stronger. To be a champion.
And I’ve been on the worst place a human can be in. For two years. No growth, no aspirations, no decisions, no expectations. It’s horrid how happy I was, being nought but a shell of a person, a shell of a character, a shell of a destiny.
I don’t want to be in the place anymore. I never have. But it takes a lot more than physical strength to rise up from the ashes. You need mental grit, a strong resolve and commitment in order not to automatically fall again to the same place, maybe even lower.
I’m still in the pits. Tomorrow will be my attempt to climb up, crawl up, haul myself over-whatever it takes-to get to the ground of the living. Because the living have dreams.
I want to be alive.
I’ve been what society’s told me to be for far too long. I think I’m ready now.
As I battle my constant internal struggles, or rather, as I indulge in them, I realise that I’m paying for my addictions with my very life. Right now, a DS game has captured my attention-and kept it for more than 5 hours. It was hard to stop playing. Although I couldn’t fathom why I wanted to keep playing; my eyes stung, my back ached after being hunched over the screen, my work awaited, and the worst part is, well, it wasn’t even entertaining. It’s like I was only torturing myself because it was supposed to be fun, not that it was actually fun. So I kept playing, trying to get to better levels so I could taste that fun.
It never came.
And so right now, in the midst of my various unopened textbooks, I’ve come to realise I’ve fallen. I’m standing on burning coals intentionally, which is absurd. And in this moment, with nought but the deep silence of the room, the hum of cars moving outside, and the distant sound of water falling, have I come to know that I am better than this. I’m so much better than what I do. I need to strive so that my actions are complementary to who I am. So that my core values are not banished or compromised in the knot that is life.
So my life doesn’t bleed out every time I do something that I don’t want to do.
I know I’ll die soon. Everyone does. It’s the cycle of life: ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
How often have you thought about dying? Once a day? Once a week, month…year? Decade even? So many past nations have risen and fallen, their remains now scattered in the earth. It’s as if they were never here, like they never existed. What proof do I have that such-and-such person ever lived? Of course you could use DNA testing and all of those other snazzy science-tech tools but what if you can’t find anything to test on? No remnants of life or..or anything.
How many of those dead-those countless forgotten people-do I remember? Merely a handful compared to those who have once been. Just those who’ve changed the world in a substantial way: the scientists who advanced modern living, authors, royalty and the like. The name flashing in my skull right now is Thomas Edison. He gave us light to brighten the darkness.
We had to replace a faulty bulb today and the newer one is so much brighter.. It hurts to look at it. It’s artificial, sure, but that I’m depending on that very light to light my way-without it I would have had a few sprains by now. And before suggesting ‘candlelight, duh!’ you should know that candles are hardly as bright nor as convenient as device just hanging passively from the ceiling.
I think it’s just so profound, so, so meaningful that a person who lived, some uh, 81 years ago had the power to affect everyone’s lives today. And this is what he said:
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.