For some reason, talking with John with always makes me feel better. It’s uncanny. It’s good to be able to just cut loose and talk, not worrying about what I’m saying. It’s good to be able to relate to someone, to be at the same level of insight. For the last few years, I never feel good after talking with anyone but John.

I actually have three assignments, a test, and two projects left now, within the next two weeks. Hopefully, I’ll be able to finish them.

I was considering going to Hong Kong by myself at the end of the term, and not seeing relatives there. I just don’t want to miss the Christmas season. It’s just not worth it to go without my parents though, and to not be able to see my grandmother. I’d be able to appreciate my time there a lot more with them. It’s a pretty scary idea too; I hate going places I’ve never been to before, cause I’m always scared of getting lost, especially in a place where the language spoken is one which I’m not confident in.

I had a dream last night, a dream that seemed so real, a dream I did not want. A dream of scattered memories sewn together, creating such a perfect world, where love was requited, where I was blissfully happy. When I awoke, everything I had was gone.

All I was left with was hope, and emptiness. I immediately knew that what I had was false, too perfect a world for me to live in. I felt bitter, as if I had something taken away from me which I felt was rightfully mine.

Why would my subconscious trick me so? Why should I feel so terrible, so laden with hope? Couldn’t my mind simply give up this struggle, freely, without interference?

Hope is not a good thing for me. It makes me weak and vulnerable. When I have no hope, then all is known. Nothing is uncertain. I am sure of what I have and what I don’t have. Progress can be made on accepting this. But when hope enters my mind, all progress is lost, and I can only try to fight for what I’ve gained.

Yet I wish to dream again tonight, of memories strewn together, for they were so wonderful, that any let down seems worth it. I don’t know why I’d want to torture myself again, feeling empty and bitter when I wake up. Somehow, the high seems worth it, like some addictive drug Pandora was selling out of her magical box of plagues and death.

Perhaps I actually do believe in what my hope is telling me. Perhaps I need to believe in something, that somehow this will change, that things will be different. Or perhaps I’m simply a fool, willingly falling for something that may make me happy, but empty in the end.

Nothing good ever came out of Pandora’s box.

The night sky outside my window burns with orange pleasure, and I try some minimalistic Vincent Gallo songs to mellow out. It’s working.

Ever since my Christmas trip has been cancelled, I’ve been at a loss for things to do. I really have no plans now. I think I might just spend it here, instead of going home. I think I’ll buy a pair of skates for myself as a Christmas present, and go out on the canal at night, when it’s lonely and chilly. The winter sky is always breathtaking. I’ll just stay here and relax, not actually doing anything. Perhaps I’ll be able to catch up on some reading, or I can work on some projects I’ve been meaning to finish. Sometimes it’s great to be alone, because it’s so brutally honest when one doesn’t want it to be. The stark reality allows me to realize many things.

Things which need clarity.

Sometimes people say things that just seem to hurt. One knows that they don’t mean it, yet it hurts anyway. For some reason, it’s even more painful, due to the ignorance involved. But what can one do in such a situation? Pretend as if nothing happened? I simply become antisocial. That happens a lot actually. When someone upsets me in any way, whether I become angry, sad, or forlorn, I’ll close up. I’ll distance myself, and I can’t help but be taciturn.

No wonder.

I got my cryptography mid-term back yesterday, and it turns out that I failed it. That means that I failed more than half my mid-terms. I’m starting to worry about my finals. I was actually considering my absence at Dougie’s LAN party, but Aaron (rather easily) talked me into going.

I wasn’t really planning on writing anything today, but I suddenly have an urge to express myself.

Dina gave me a bottle of Godet, and a Russian novel for my birthday. She was the only person not related to me to buy me something. It made me happy. Pita asked me why I’ve changed in my opinion of birthdays. I explained to him that it hasn’t; I just hate it when people feel forced to buy me something, which is exactly what happens when you live in residence. I’m at a comfortable point now where no one feels forced to get me something, they can just do it if they please. I don’t really recognize the birthday tradition anyway. I’ve always believed that one should give a gift when one wants, not at a set time every year.