Dcfc, and straight bourbon
There are things that happen in life which make you bleed and things that happen which make you smile. There are also things that happen which make you do both at the same time.
Cinderella Man was made to do just that. His ribcage battered, his teeth knocked out, all he did was simply to look up and give a bloody smile, and continue into the next round. And the following round, and the following round, and the bloody smile followed him around. It was not by any means an ugly smile, bloody though it was. In fact because it was Russell Crowe, it was a very charming smile, and the way it was delivered—-laced in unconcealable pain, caked in overwhelming resignation, yet etched with eternal flamboyance, that fearless strength against death, there emerged a smile so ambivalent it could by any measure be the rightful manifest of bittersweetness.
I don’t know what to say. Or rather, I’ve got too many things to say and I don’t know which to follow through. A voice comforts me. It says the mistakes I made were not the result of a lack of preparation, but the result of a lack of fortunate circumstances. Another voice says I am already close to the mark. It tells me that the number of marks separating me from a distinction for maths is less than the number of marks left totally undone—figure the implications yourself.
Another voice tells me everything was screwed up in a very inexplicable way. It tells me that things do get incomprehensible at times. It wonders why essays done in full passion, rationalized by the highest attempt at thought, could score lower than essays (done by me) composed primarily of standard arguments which anyone could supply anytime. Im not one of those outspoken critics who harp on the clichéd issue of rigid education, but when things like that happen I cannot help but think the system places more emphasis on stable structures than it does reward rich architecture. (By the way im not referring to stoppard here; comments essentially read: I dont get you. But mark my words: I will continue enjoying him, and others, the way I enjoy them. You can never, ever rob away my pleasure even if you rob away my results) It also wonders why essays fuelled and done in similar strengths of analysis, expression, insights, could score so relatively low where previous equivalent models formed the bulk of what I have thrived firmly all this while. It seems like my writing style (or rather, styles) has turned against me all of a sudden, and this is cause for concern so close to the final exams. Then again, one could argue it was never on my side. I can’t explain why, I’ve got no answers, and I can’t shut this voice up.
Another voice--a particularly high-pitched one-- tells me that I fell for the lack of competent delivery. Not putting in 100% effort in revision is not an excuse because I was able to churn out content during the papers. Obviously, then, the fault lies elsewhere--and this makes it all the more painful because content deficiency can always be overcome in time; content mismanagement is a more fundamental problem. I've reached my own structural limits and if this is the kind of grades Im going to get at my limits then I think there's something seriously wrong with my foundation, and a path of distinguished mediocrity is all I can consign myself to. Well, at least it's the road less travelled? But who cares if it's the road less travelled if the road less travelled doesnt lead you to your destination most wanted.
Thoughts like this very frequently lead me down the slippery slope of, in a sense, universal issues. It's very easy, for one, to tell myself: God has another destination for you, so he's making you take the path less travelled, never mind if it doesnt bring you to your perceived favourable location. Yet this very often puts one into a grave of fatalism.
And I now despise myself for having thoughts like these, and for having always to fall down slippery slopes, and for always to having spot graves and cover them up, and for always having to think about Life, the Universe, and Everything in between. I regret reading so much, exposing myself to so much, not just in terms of Life's Issues but also in terms of advanced theories that I cant apply adequately. I really do. People who dont bother about such issues, people who indulge exclusively in celebrity gossip and all other things material (or should I say, immaterial), people who read Lime magazines, they get As for gods sake. Maybe thats the secret huh, Lime magazine?
What’s worse than all these voices in my head is the lack of a clear voice around me. People around me just pass it off, saying: hey, I got a F you know. Your grade is good already. (well it isn’t. your F is your own damn business); you didn’t study right? Im sure once you do you would score well lah; we’ve got 30 more days.
I don’t need noises like these. What I need is something which has been absent for this 2 years in NYJC: a partner or two. Someone in my class, or at least someone in the same faculty, someone who has ambitions and who works toward them, someone who is as gay as me, someone who has similar general viewpoints and value systems, someone who understands. Friends outside can cover the gap yes (and they definitely have all this while, and I appreciate them for that), but only to a certain extent, for they are on the outside and can never have the shared experience that is so crucial to a shared connection.
Enough of whining. Only losers talk like this. I hate losers, especially when Im one of them. Winners don’t talk—they only give a bloody smile, and the bloody smile is important not because it irks your opponents, nor because it is charming. The most important function of the bloody smile is to give yourself the reassurance that there is still one hell of a fight left in you.
Cinderella Man was made to do just that. His ribcage battered, his teeth knocked out, all he did was simply to look up and give a bloody smile, and continue into the next round. And the following round, and the following round, and the bloody smile followed him around. It was not by any means an ugly smile, bloody though it was. In fact because it was Russell Crowe, it was a very charming smile, and the way it was delivered—-laced in unconcealable pain, caked in overwhelming resignation, yet etched with eternal flamboyance, that fearless strength against death, there emerged a smile so ambivalent it could by any measure be the rightful manifest of bittersweetness.
I don’t know what to say. Or rather, I’ve got too many things to say and I don’t know which to follow through. A voice comforts me. It says the mistakes I made were not the result of a lack of preparation, but the result of a lack of fortunate circumstances. Another voice says I am already close to the mark. It tells me that the number of marks separating me from a distinction for maths is less than the number of marks left totally undone—figure the implications yourself.
Another voice tells me everything was screwed up in a very inexplicable way. It tells me that things do get incomprehensible at times. It wonders why essays done in full passion, rationalized by the highest attempt at thought, could score lower than essays (done by me) composed primarily of standard arguments which anyone could supply anytime. Im not one of those outspoken critics who harp on the clichéd issue of rigid education, but when things like that happen I cannot help but think the system places more emphasis on stable structures than it does reward rich architecture. (By the way im not referring to stoppard here; comments essentially read: I dont get you. But mark my words: I will continue enjoying him, and others, the way I enjoy them. You can never, ever rob away my pleasure even if you rob away my results) It also wonders why essays fuelled and done in similar strengths of analysis, expression, insights, could score so relatively low where previous equivalent models formed the bulk of what I have thrived firmly all this while. It seems like my writing style (or rather, styles) has turned against me all of a sudden, and this is cause for concern so close to the final exams. Then again, one could argue it was never on my side. I can’t explain why, I’ve got no answers, and I can’t shut this voice up.
Another voice--a particularly high-pitched one-- tells me that I fell for the lack of competent delivery. Not putting in 100% effort in revision is not an excuse because I was able to churn out content during the papers. Obviously, then, the fault lies elsewhere--and this makes it all the more painful because content deficiency can always be overcome in time; content mismanagement is a more fundamental problem. I've reached my own structural limits and if this is the kind of grades Im going to get at my limits then I think there's something seriously wrong with my foundation, and a path of distinguished mediocrity is all I can consign myself to. Well, at least it's the road less travelled? But who cares if it's the road less travelled if the road less travelled doesnt lead you to your destination most wanted.
Thoughts like this very frequently lead me down the slippery slope of, in a sense, universal issues. It's very easy, for one, to tell myself: God has another destination for you, so he's making you take the path less travelled, never mind if it doesnt bring you to your perceived favourable location. Yet this very often puts one into a grave of fatalism.
And I now despise myself for having thoughts like these, and for having always to fall down slippery slopes, and for always to having spot graves and cover them up, and for always having to think about Life, the Universe, and Everything in between. I regret reading so much, exposing myself to so much, not just in terms of Life's Issues but also in terms of advanced theories that I cant apply adequately. I really do. People who dont bother about such issues, people who indulge exclusively in celebrity gossip and all other things material (or should I say, immaterial), people who read Lime magazines, they get As for gods sake. Maybe thats the secret huh, Lime magazine?
What’s worse than all these voices in my head is the lack of a clear voice around me. People around me just pass it off, saying: hey, I got a F you know. Your grade is good already. (well it isn’t. your F is your own damn business); you didn’t study right? Im sure once you do you would score well lah; we’ve got 30 more days.
I don’t need noises like these. What I need is something which has been absent for this 2 years in NYJC: a partner or two. Someone in my class, or at least someone in the same faculty, someone who has ambitions and who works toward them, someone who is as gay as me, someone who has similar general viewpoints and value systems, someone who understands. Friends outside can cover the gap yes (and they definitely have all this while, and I appreciate them for that), but only to a certain extent, for they are on the outside and can never have the shared experience that is so crucial to a shared connection.
Enough of whining. Only losers talk like this. I hate losers, especially when Im one of them. Winners don’t talk—they only give a bloody smile, and the bloody smile is important not because it irks your opponents, nor because it is charming. The most important function of the bloody smile is to give yourself the reassurance that there is still one hell of a fight left in you.
<< Home