Hi there future self.
I am sorry that I am only reaching out to you when there is a war inside my head; noises that I need to shut; ends that I need to tie ends to.
I'm sure you understand that, right? After all, we are only here for a while.
Right now I am trying to understand the concept of justice among different society. The idea of a system that declares black and white, right and wrong, decent and indecent. Impose these to a person, and that person ceases to be an individual. Just another cog in the machine that some would call a community.
A reconciliation between a unique self and an acceptable person within a confined world, that is also trying to fit their truths onto another world many distance away. That is a struggle I find myself thinking about.
How much is enough? The level of contribution of a person into his or her own world is hard to quantify. After all, within each person exists another world that is solely owned by themselves, with its different set of rules and truths. I feel that education in the early stages of growing up is meant to synchronize these rules and truths to the immediate outside world. Paste a while cloth onto a white wall and both will seem to integrate seamlessly.
Who can judge whether a person has paid their dues to the world, and from that moment therein is free to pursue whatever he or she wanted? There's nothing to be measured to, nothing to weigh and compare to like the feather in the ancient carving. There's no need for us to know, they said. It's beyond our realm of mind, and questioning it is akin to encroaching a zone reserved for the higher plane of existence.
Is there a need to broadcast every good deed that we do? Doing so might be seen as hubris, an unpleasant personality. It's easier to be a tattle, recording the bad deeds of others in our little black book, keeping our good deeds as a countermeasure when someone accuses us of something that will cast us in a negative light among others. It's never our fault if we fire back at the ones who shot first, right?
Lately I can feel the slipping of my own self who has been standing between a person who is true to himself or someone that will chip himself to fit better in the society. I don't know which side I will end up at, and everyday I am afraid that I will wake up and become a different person, and no matter which one I have become, there are aspects of myself that I will lost.
Then come into mind that is this sense of self that I am harboring worth preserving? Time is ticking, and I am growing old by the second. I don't know why but there's a feeling of dread that I have, that perhaps by growing up the way I am, I have breached some kind of sacred rules of the world unknowingly, and the punishment has yet to come.
Am I comfortable with myself? Sometimes I find myself rather pleasant and agreeable, and there are times where I loathe myself so much that I want to reach out into my brain and tear away the regions that decides who I am. I try to project myself into the people that I try to bring to life in parchments, to pour my essence, my sense of truth and set of rules into a fictionalized character and upon reading back, the character feels lacking and no better than the passing trees we see everyday from outside of the train going to the countryside. I try to split the character into two, one that carries my truth and rules, and one that carries on living no matter what, and suddenly the two become people who I cannot see being friends for more than a few years. There's just too much idiosyncrasies, too much similarity between the two that it was apparent that the two are originally the same person, but combining them results in a character that doesn't seem pleasant to follow the point of view of.
Everyday I write, and then read, and then erase. The next day it loops again. More and more it goes, and when I stop and take a look at the calendar, the second summer had ended months ago. A few months from now I will have survived longer than that senior of mine. As an author wrote, and if I may bastardize the quote: "only the dead stays the same".
