I don't care if this is my hundredth post today. It's my blog, and i'll be obsessive if i want to. The truth is, i'm just a bit upset. Frustrated is more like it really.
Why is it i just cannot come up with something? Just a small something for that damned book. I've been penning down all sorts of nonsense, why i can't i do the same now? It's just annoying really.
If you've been around me the past few days, you'd probably be sick and tired of my complaining just about now. But what else can i do? I pick up my pencil only to put it back down, everything that i write i stop half way through.
I have till monday. I want to do it now. I'm just so anxious to finish it now.
Maybe i'm putting in too much thought in it. Too much effort. Is there such thing as overdoing it? I'm sure i heard of it once, a foreign land somewhere far away.
type, type, type. Yak, yak yak. Just give me an ear to scream all this pent up frustration into, i think i'll feel much better afterwards. No, i don't want a pillow, i hate screaming into pillows, they never help.
Journal? I don't quite feel like looking at paper right now. Riles me up. Grr.
Haha, i'm actually feeling abit better now.
Just goes to show mindless jabbering does help, eh?
***
And the bird opened up its wings and took flight. It soared through the air, a tiny living jet plane Nature created. Even before the invention of the plane, there were already pilots of the skies.
Birds moving as one with the wind, the moving air. Imagine how it must feel? To have the wind blow in your face, to see the world from so high above. Even a kite cannot know such freedom. For it is still attached to the earth below, a long thin string chaining it, restricting it.
Just try to envision it's envy, at the carefree birds, whose life stretches out before it as the ocean does to a sailor, infinite, unending. The freedom to go where ever it chooses to, to do however it pleases.Not limited and shackelled to the ground, a prisonner behind bars.
I am the kite. The one whose soul lies writhing, tortured. I am allowed to behold others enjoy their freedom, but I am not allowed to join. I look at them as a hungry man would at a feast he is not allowed to partake in, only granted the permission to watch.
I am the kite, caged, controlled. But I long to be like a bird. We both soar high in the sky, but at the end of the day, I am pulled back downwards, while you fly off to some unknown land beyond the mountains.
Can I ever be a bird? Can you ever lend me your wings?
***
Sorry, that popped up from no where. Pointless really, it has no sense of direction. Only more pointless yearning. I wrote three and a half notebook pages worth of the title Freedom once. Amal said it was too longwinded, 'mama-ish', as T. Sarinah would say. She was right though.
It's 12.21 a.m. , I have Geo paper 1 and Arab paper 1 tomorrow - later - . I'd better get some sleep, else I'd start snoozing on my table tomorrow!
Goodnight then, whoever you are... Right... Nitez
^_^
