-loosely quoted off English Made Simple
Like now for instance. I'm supposed to be studying Physics in preparation for my mocks in 2 WEEKS! Yet here I sit attempting to stammer out a broken song of pitiful insufficient words.
Good God, did I just type that out? This production is taking over me, mind, body and soul! I can't wait for it to be over. And yet, oddly enough, I can. I'm going to miss rehearsals, draining as they are. And laughing my head off with Sumi and Su yin and Balqis, or talking about the most nonsensical topics that are in not the slightest way related to the play, then trying to rope them back to rehearsing again. I have a sneaking feeling I am actually going to feel quite empty once this whole experience is over, seeing as how it now governs every aspect of my everyday life. Yet it's an emptiness I have visited before - when I left primary school, then secondary; when I watched my friends leave for an overseas education; when I think of a loved one I'll never see again.
What are we left with?
A wealth memories. Plenty of laughs. Priceless life lessons. Iron-forged friendships.
But does not something seem amiss? Do you not anticipate the dull throb of that gaping hole left in its wake? Is't not the case with every project, every endeavour we throw ourselves into? No goodbye, no long speeches, no satisfaction of a job well done can allay the regret and heaviness one feels with each turn of the pages of our lives. Every ounce of the being we pour into each chapter passes into its possession, embossed in the pages from which we turn, ne'er to return.
So what do we do? Lay lead between our hearts and the fast-filling book in our hands? Or continue to allow this slow draining? So that with each new chapter, we drive another shaft through our body and pray somehow, somewhere we find a cure to close the wound.
Human beings are hardy creatures, so we are told. But how are we then to become whole and happy with the passing of time and experience when we continue to puncture our bodies so? What good must come from this continual pecking at our liver that we bear it with such patience? One which when night falls we bandage with begotten cherished memories, laughter, priceless life lessons and iron-forged friendships, only so come morning we are impaled again.
Perhaps the point is to allow ourselves this slow substitution? The substitution of lust-prone, sin-ridden flesh with the bandaging and ointment of cherished memories, laughter a-plenty, priceless life lessons and iron-forged friendships. Perhaps it is these things and not the wholeness of our flesh that will propel us to the happy ending we dream of. Perhaps, perhaps....
"Dust thou art to dust returnest was not spoken of the soul"
