There are days, and there are days.
Days when I can pour myself into whatever I do from minute to minute. Days when I can start something and know, that it will get finished. Days when I wake up by myself. Days when I almost love myself.
And then days when nothing, absolutely nothing enthuses me. When nothing seems to go right. Days when I can't make the transition from hour to hour, smile to smile. Days when I walk around like a zombie and try to get something done. Days when I wake up with ten minutes to spare. Days when I can't take myself anymore.
Don't get me wrong, I love what I'm doing. I love surgery, I love medicine as a whole. I love being able to write.
I spend my days cooped up in a place without sunshine, where I learn how to bring healing and health to people. Suffering with the patients I help take care of is an essential part of me, one that can never die out. I have watched pain in every stage, sorrow that will leave scars and I have felt the cold sweep of affronted Death turned away from the door.
I have stayed up entire nights reading up on stuff, passing from one link to another, one page to another, fascinated by the journey of disease and health, and then trudged my grassflower-kissed path to the hospital at various hours between 4.45 and 10.00 a.m. What drives me is the knowledge that this is the fulfilment of a dream. A dream I shared with those closest to me, some of whom have left my enchanted circle. I miss them, I always will. I learnt from them lessons that will guide me forever, the most important of them being to value myself first. Everything else is secondary to that.
My emotions are awry and tangled, all it'll take for this sweater to unravel is one tug on a loose end. I need the sunshine, the air, the rain on my face, the smell and touch of life upon bare fingertips. It is my elixir, my philosopher's stone. My cocoon is my poetry, and the wonderful people I've met through the sheer magnetism of words.
My pen runs overfull, paper is never enough. But I'm unsatisfied - I feel like each word I write is a cliche, each figure of speech plagarized from my reading. My poems are getting macabre, one life intruding, interfering with the other. My words feel weak, without conviction. I don't like what I write, and I throw it away; then I feel guilty that I should be reading for Big Exam II.
I started this blog intending it to be my diary, but I post, on an average, once a month. I wanted this blog to be the beginning of my renewed learning in poetry, in looking at life on the other side where there is grass. I aimed to make this the place where my friends could keep track of me. But I failed. For pretty much each objective with this blog, I failed. I haven't even found a picture of a guinea pig to post on here. I've turned away the very people I wanted as readers from coming back here by my inexcusable tardiness. Yes, I've managed to make them feel guilty for wanting information about me. Since I'm the only one on this planet in my position, I'm too busy to care.
To those of you who come here looking for me, I'm really sorry. I hope I'll get better. I'm emotionally tired, tired of wrestling with myself, tired of pushing myself, tired of competing with others, tired of being compared to others, tired of being valued not for myself, tired of being disillusioned. I think I'm tired of pretending to be myself.
