Valete
Last night marked the end of an era.
But the flurry of time has upset me; I am not sure whether to laugh or cry. As I sit and admire my peers, my conscience cogently startles me with my lack of achievement. The array of faces of fantastic leaders and amongst them there is me: a weak, seedy bastard. All those awards and prizes appear to be worthless; they reflect the person that I once was and the chauvinistic beast that I am now. To be given them, is to present me with a pack of intelligent and self-deprecating lies.
As I look back to my contribution to school life -the musical ensembles that I played for, the handful of debates that I incompetently involved myself in, the series of spiritual development courses that I have been both a student and leader- I ask myself where is my passion now? How can it be that after eight years that at this point of time, the end of my journey, that I am not imbued with school pride? Up until now, school has been everything to me. It has encompassed my social, sporting and acaedmic life. Now I leave without any sense of direction. This weak little child cries in my heart as I crave to be back in the cycle. The cycle of one year of success and failure and the prospect of a more fulfilling role at the school. I look back with regret, as the oasis of time prevents me from fulfilling those dreams that I had. This illusion that I will be forever chatting in the corridor, causing mischief in the classroom, and toasting bread in the safe confines of our kitchen, has dissipated. It is sad but I am so scared that no tears bleed out of my eye. I am so anxious of the future and I cannot elucidate any of my feelings. There is nothing I feel I can do to reverse the aging, there is nothing I can do to speed the voyage. I am not tainted by school pride because I am soaked in humility. The disease that doesn't let me provoke. Something that tells me it isn't the end, and yet somehow it is.
The stars on my palm are fading, they no longer illuminate the vast planes of the night sky. Instead, they grow old and the atmospheric pressure clamps down on its youth. My glow has expired and those indoctrinated ideologies implanted in my indefatigable brain wither away. I must remain pro-active for these few days, otherwise I will fall victim to a collapsing star. I must explode rather than implode. That is my only choice for survival. Where do I stand in this universe? Why must I leave now? All these questions I cannot answer. The rain spills its precious drops of purifying water onto this world: a clean new blanket for us to sleep in, a new canvas for me to shape. Hopefully it will be a better one than the last.
But the flurry of time has upset me; I am not sure whether to laugh or cry. As I sit and admire my peers, my conscience cogently startles me with my lack of achievement. The array of faces of fantastic leaders and amongst them there is me: a weak, seedy bastard. All those awards and prizes appear to be worthless; they reflect the person that I once was and the chauvinistic beast that I am now. To be given them, is to present me with a pack of intelligent and self-deprecating lies.
As I look back to my contribution to school life -the musical ensembles that I played for, the handful of debates that I incompetently involved myself in, the series of spiritual development courses that I have been both a student and leader- I ask myself where is my passion now? How can it be that after eight years that at this point of time, the end of my journey, that I am not imbued with school pride? Up until now, school has been everything to me. It has encompassed my social, sporting and acaedmic life. Now I leave without any sense of direction. This weak little child cries in my heart as I crave to be back in the cycle. The cycle of one year of success and failure and the prospect of a more fulfilling role at the school. I look back with regret, as the oasis of time prevents me from fulfilling those dreams that I had. This illusion that I will be forever chatting in the corridor, causing mischief in the classroom, and toasting bread in the safe confines of our kitchen, has dissipated. It is sad but I am so scared that no tears bleed out of my eye. I am so anxious of the future and I cannot elucidate any of my feelings. There is nothing I feel I can do to reverse the aging, there is nothing I can do to speed the voyage. I am not tainted by school pride because I am soaked in humility. The disease that doesn't let me provoke. Something that tells me it isn't the end, and yet somehow it is.
The stars on my palm are fading, they no longer illuminate the vast planes of the night sky. Instead, they grow old and the atmospheric pressure clamps down on its youth. My glow has expired and those indoctrinated ideologies implanted in my indefatigable brain wither away. I must remain pro-active for these few days, otherwise I will fall victim to a collapsing star. I must explode rather than implode. That is my only choice for survival. Where do I stand in this universe? Why must I leave now? All these questions I cannot answer. The rain spills its precious drops of purifying water onto this world: a clean new blanket for us to sleep in, a new canvas for me to shape. Hopefully it will be a better one than the last.
