I wondered why things had to end the way it did. I did want it to end, but not that way. In any way but that way. Nonetheless, things are so less in our control that much as we hope, pray and cry for things to be different, at the end of the day, it either is just not different, or the difference is not the difference we cried for.
So we don't really have a say in certain things, much as we'd like to. We'd all love to delve into time and redo things, say things we wish we'd said, and unsay things--take back things we wish we'd never said. Only it's too late for all of that. Memories can never be erased, though they can be buried, tucked away in some corner that will remain unexplored till necessary.
It's been a wierd semester in University. In ways that I wouldn't particularly like to recollect or blog about, but returning home was like waking up after a nightmare. A nightmare that haunts you and clings onto your very being--a nightmare that you remember so distinctly and that now holds a corner of your brain and your heart--a fact that you will have to acknowledge and be strong about.
I didn't think that writing a novel would be so difficult. I'd always believed that the writers block is only a psycological phenomenon--an excuse for writers to plunge into the occassional lazy spell, which is understandable and de rigeur--I tell you from the personal experience of swishing through a bout of laziness myself. But well, I've been sadly mistaken. The writers' block does exist, it does, and much as you try to write despite the aching emptiness (and the feeling of stupidity in my case) in your head, words get stuck and twisted and sentences are constructed all wrong and ideas are cliched and often repetitive. The experience of proof-reading is sort of like reading a sappy novel only to realize that it's so mundane and unreal, like the many things that are unreal in our daily lives.
I'd like to add that there ought to be a society or community for socially inept people. People who are socially awkward and who spend ninety percent of conversations revelling in uncomfortable silence or cracking lame jokes and who are misconstrued as original fun-suckers due to their terrible inter-personal skills probably stemming from an entirely different and uncommon wavelength all ought to get together. I'd probably fit in then.