First of all, don't ask me what the title is all about. I was poised by my idle thoughts to churn up something unique for the title of this post, and uninterestingly, the first word that came to mind was 'dance'. Ever-so-trying to be super cool and different I was, I consulted the thesaurus and guess what? This phrase means dance! So, yeah, err... not very interesting.
Actually at this very second, I am supposed to be assembling my arsenal of draconian arguments which I have to spam expediently, strategically and perhaps even cunningly on the day of my moots. However, I chanced upon my doppelganger's blog and just like that *finger snap*, I am thrown into this yet-another pensive mood. Sigh.
Sometimes I hate it that Fate has mould me into this good-boy persona in my family. Not that I mind, but really, I have always been that small boy who is... good; who instead of running around the neighbourhood chasing after frogs and dogs, decides to be cooped up in his own little corner swamped with comic books while secretly labouring to copy his maid's drawing of ducks, which to him is equivalent to the Mona Lisa; who instead of being that kid who has the audacity and the courage to throw away his lousy exam scripts into the gutter beside his house, ends up being the kid who partakes in the national physics olympiad (shocking huh?). Sometimes I hate it that my parents take so much pride in me.
Don't get me wrong, I can only feel ever-so-grateful that they feel the way they do. It's every child's dream (or at least, normatively and conventionally speaking, this should be the case) to make their parents happy and feel that they have successfully discharged their parental duties. Ok, fine, I don't hate it (capricious much?), but when these people whom you hold very dear to your heart treat you like a trophy, flaunt you to the left and to the right, you can't help but to end up having these self-imposed expectations on yourself. And kudos to my folks, they aced their attempt in imbuing such dare-I-say masochistic trait. Well, at least sometimes, particularly when my teenage hormones are bubbling through my veins such as now, I would take a step back and view my life at large, sadly, only to find this tendency to feel that the universe is ganging up on me surfacing.
Perhaps this is the reason why my soul is so aged? Gotta get a face-lift real soon! Chicken soup anyone? LOL. I don't really know what I want to get from venting out all this. I'm not even sure whether I would want to get anything back. Everyone has a motive in doing things, but that does not mean that everybody knows what that motive is, and whether that motive is actually too much of his own good. Perhaps I just feel like doing things that's unprecedented-- unprecedented by me, of course? Attempting to crumble my clampdown on things in my life-- to be less overreaching, less paranoid? OK, coherence level hitting the zero mark now. May be I want to stop being that kid who always colours inside the lines. May be I just want to colour the feathers of those ducks green, the beak red, the tail purple, and everything else black? How are these things connected again? Especially as regards the title? Discuss.
Apology if this has got a bit Freudian.
