“Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.”

Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath

There have been many occasions where these famous lines by Plath resonate quite closely with my own sentiments, but alas, it seems I’ve deliberately misappropriated her words for comic effect today. No, this won’t be a post about feminine angst (though I must admit, I find myself on the verge of penning thousands of words on said topic on most days). It’s simply to inform anyone who cares on here that I’m, well, not dead. And this blog isn’t either.

Funnily enough, I find myself with much more time on my hands this semester, since the classes I’m enrolled in aren’t too heavy on both the readings and assessments. I’ve arranged my classes to be so since I knew I’d be spending more time towards the end of my semester working through administrative details for my exchange programme, and didn’t want the the latter to detract from my studies. And so, I now find myself with hours and days to kill between classes. You would think this equates to more time for blogging but this, as I’ve discovered from experience, isn’t true. Sitting before my laptop, logging into wordpress, and banging away on my keyboard, disclosing my thoughts to no one but pixels isn’t something I’m inclined to do when I’m free; rather, it’s a procrastination device. Every word I write here is a word I’m not putting into an assignment or a submission piece, but the fact that I’m writing, at all, makes me feel productive. It assuages my nerves, so I write.

In the past months that I haven’t been blogging, I’ve been writing – mostly in my diary (I’ve been so good with keeping a diary this year, I think this habit might actually last through the year) but also for my college journal (penned a piece about cats, which I’m rather proud of). I’m working on my entry for the Vogue Talent Contest for Young Writers right now, whilst researching a review paper for my art history class. And I’ve got a rough sketch of an idea for another paper on Woolf’s The Waves, which I might develop into a paper, despite having sworn off that novel after spending an excruciating three months writing my previous paper on it. Oh, and I’m learning Latin now, after years of promising myself that I’d do so.

I suppose I’ve finally settled into the rhythm of university life and I’m in a much better place than before – that my suitemates have been most kind to me helps too – and, thus, it is such a pity that this stability must, and will, go. In half a year’s time, I’ll be flying off to London and settling into the city, alone. I know that my friends will be there, and that I’ll be comfortable enough (particularly if I receive a scholarship to finance the trip, which I likely will), but things will be different there. For one, to get to class, I’ll have to make the daily trek through Covent Garden (I’m not complaining, really).

If anything, I’m more excited than frightened about the future. And yet, at the same time, I feel such great remorse that college life, as I’ve known and lived it for the past two years, shall end. No longer shall I return from classes to my tiny and almost pathetic shoebox of a dorm room, where my library books are perched on the window ledge and the corners of my table because the shelves are much too small. No longer shall I plunge straight into bed after a particularly long day, only forcing myself to leave the warm sanctuary two hours later, because of the limited dining hall hours (“get out of bed or you won’t get dinner” always does the trick.) And no longer shall I spend hours watching clouds morph into and out of each other, from my bed, on days that I can hardly muster the energy to be productive.

Things, being transient, will change at a pace that I cannot determine, and as for myself, an inconsequential remnant of the intertwining of time and space? I’ll be coaxed along like a baby chick stumbling to catch up with its mother.

In this moment, however, I think I’ll just enjoy what I have: the camaraderie of my peers, the comfort of good literature, and the promise of an enthralling future ahead.


strange mumblings

today I learned that sartre owned a cat named ‘nothing’.

and so my decision to name the cat that i’ll eventually own, when i move out of my parents’ place, ‘woof’ after ‘virginia woo(l)f’ doesn’t seem like such a cruel one, after all.

“It’s bad too to tell you how tired I am — so maddeningly tired — but maybe I have to be tired to wake up — I’ve had enough — I feel bored to distraction with people and things — I’m ready for my own company again and lots of it too.”
— Georgia O’Keeffe, from a letter to Alfred Stieglitz featured in My Faraway One: Selected Letters of Georgia O’Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz: Volume One, 1915-1933