it feels immense

[rant]
You're (i) working totally behind schedule — but I can try to accept that, (ii) unable to handle criticism — but I can't blame you for it and (iii) in perpetual absentia and acting like you're stressed all the time — but maybe it's not your fault. But I don't appreciate your veiled anger, your passive-aggressive retorting, your self-righteous finger pointing and the fact that you paint yourself as the tortured victim all the time. The entire PW enterprise is already marred by overwhelming flaws, but this is turning things into yet another horrendous nightmare. Talk about a nightmare within a nightmare. Within a nightmare. But for now, I'm sorry for being part of "individualistic individuals" and for causing "much inconveniences, miseries and distruptions (sic, sic, sic and sic again)" to your big if not nebulous plans. (Love your choice of diction by the way.)

And I apologize if you have to find everything out this way, but I guess it's only a fair game if I play on these terms. After all, my future apparently hinges on you, although it also wouldn't matter not getting an A. Well, hope I don't stress you out. Have a good weekend.
[/rant]

Anyway on Thursday after Chinese, I stumbled out of the cesspit cursing and swearing to fight my way out of that mediocrity, but was reminded by a friend that it's like this everywhere. Besides, the only reason why I'm still hanging on is because of choir and my class and the tutors that I actually like (but refuse to associate with the school, thinking of them as people existing independently of any institution.) I'm also really interested in the inquiry into the Aesthetics and its link to epistemology that we're covering this week, which, despite the initial confusion, is fascinating. I'm still trying to see what God's plan for me is there, but then here I am, struggling to trust in a will bigger than what I can conceive with grossly imperfect knowledge and understanding.

I'm not sure if I like JC life at all. Every day, I walk past the hideous though endearingly ugly canteen not knowing what to expect. Sometimes the day starts off slowly, with the jamming of thermometers into our lips, thinning and losing their youthful pinks with the hours of sleep lost, and staring at each other above a symphony of beeps. We would then trudge out of the Lit room into the miasma fogging our spectacle lenses and minds.

Sometimes the mornings start off like a race, beginning with a huge bang and the ensuing flurry of airborne tutorials and essays, and ending in a the diminished wail of a turnstile in desperate need of an oiling after watching the hundreds of overburdened young things slipping through with the weight of the world on their shoulders.

A day seems like a microcosm of life itself. Our existence seems to be made out of an unending series of fractals. We threaten to drop out, but then decide to swing back in. We laugh, but mostly we cry. We cringe at the mistakes of higher authority, we experience oppression and suppression, and we attempt to bounce back. Some people grow up, but others merely change. The entire construct is composed out of individuals who struggle to retain their individuality amidst the blurring of definitions. If this was a play, then I guess I could appreciate the use of metaphor. But there are no walls to contain the unfolding drama — it just plays itself out over and over again, a continual pattern, a tessellation of varied shapes against the backdrop of eternity.

(Oh, I so do love the phrase "against the backdrop of eternity". It's too cheesy for poetry but it works like a charm when in prose.)