For me, it's the clacking of the keyboard on the computer. As classic as the typewriter is, I'm straight out of the 90's generation, so it's gotta be the key board. I could never use the sleek new Mac notebooks because they're just too quiet and well, the futuristic projected keyboards would have no give to the fingers. There's a satisfying soreness to the tips after you've finger punched your way through 100 pages of pure thought and analysis that you can't find in any other exercise.
It's been a while since I've taken up the chance to pound out my thoughts. My excuse is as generic as any other full time working adult: I had no time.
That's a flat excuse now that I think about it. Everyone has the same amount of hours in one day. Of course I had time; I always have time. Truth of the matter is, I didn't want to sit down and write. I felt overworked, stressed and wanted to escape from my troubles by falling head first into the black and white pages of my books. Maybe it's not coincidence literature is still printed in black and white instead of multicolor. In between those bindings, everything is still black and white. There's an beginning, a trajectory, a climax, a denouement and an ending. Maybe each part is not always predicable and in the best cases, they completely shatter our imagination's boundaries. But they'll always be black and white: clearly obvious in their tone contrast.
For that same reason, we can't live in those worlds. Real life is always changing in prismatic patterns from soft morning hues to clashes of techno blots. So when people ask me: "What's up?" or "What's it like on the other side of the world?", I still feel too blindsided and overwhelmed to give a creditable answer. At the end of it all, I guess I just feel a bit gray.
Work isn't perfect. No one's work is. And honestly, it has become even more frustrating in the last few weeks than before. For reasons that logic can explain in full detail, but emotions and immaturity still reject as incredulous. It makes me think back to when I was talking to Dao about "the real work world". Her reply was that: "It's the politics that make it different when what you're use to." Without fail, it's the politics. It's the "who-said-what" overlapped with "he/you should have done this". Top that off with threats to dock more pay and you have a very gray phuongy.
I do work quite hard. Perhaps, harder than I have worked before and the credit is slow and often ignored. But I know it...then forget it...and then I hate myself when I don't remember. My ideal of myself is impossible to attain. I have so many powerful images of people I want to be, but never achieved any of them. Reason being is probably because I was never really cut to be any of those people and I kept looking for approval from others to ensure myself that, that was the person I should be.
I guess I should put to pen my thoughts on myself. Maybe seeing it in black and white will bring some clarity to my haphazard life.
1. I'm really insecure. Especially around my friends but even more so around my family.
2. I think being marked "wrong" is a sign of my stupidity.
3. I wish I was cool. (Ever since grade skill to now).
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