This and that

What does one write about at four in the morning? Thoughts of present and past perhaps. Perhaps also, try not to give in to temptation of commenting on the just-watched US remake of Dark Water, letting loose one's imagination in the still and darkness of one's room and scare the poops out of oneself.

I met two of my old friends today (sigh, need I mention that one made us wait 75 minutes, said there's a reason for it - and that was probably that she spent the morning blogging! Don't worry, I still adore you, you-know-who-you-are). We haven't met for months I think. Yet strangely I didn't feel like it was a long while. Strange how we feel the effects of time. It was as if not many days have passed since our last outing. Strange.

Not too odd is how a certain dreadful feeling settles on one's mind as the semester break nears to an end. Feli has described it much better than I can. One returns home, be a kid again, then face the prospect of leaving these comforts behind and try to function again as an adult. One morning you wake up with your poodle licking your face, your mom around the house, the next you wake up, thinks your poodle is beside you but silence quickly settles in and you find yourself staring at four pale walls. The mind is blank at first, but realization strikes and you think of that pressing deadline, that unfinished assignment and that reading undone.

I try not to think about that. There's more pressing unfinished business. C, OS labs, OS tutorials, OS readings. Software Eng midterm on Friday. Software Eng project preparation for Sunday meeting. Those USE papers. Need to take care of these when the sun rises tomorrow. Really looking forward to checking off those one by one. Looking forward to that sigh of relief.

Then brace for more. Those Cyberarts videos. OS midterm. OS assignments.

That Video. Professionally and personally I resolve that it will be the best of our efforts.

I think, I worry too much. There's something called selective focus and I will need it now and the coming weeks.

That will be the end of my stressful stories. Selective focus in motion now.

This is another thought. I am an observer. Not in the attentive sense. But I rest on a bench at the underground subway, watch the shuttle of time dart by. Nothing much changed on the bench, but I am amazed by the people alighting from the train of time, those whom I met before they boarded the train.

Actually if I recall properly there were a number of friends whose house I frequent when I was in primary school. Those times. Girlish chatter, video/computer games, R.L. Stein, Russell Lee, Doraemon. We end up alighting at different stations. Essentially we aren't all that different. The stops differ.

What became of the little girls with flowers? They rode on the train. They grew. They are little girls with flowers no more.