Nineteen.

One year past eighteen, 2 years to twenty-one. What an awkward place to be.

I’ve been so confused lately, and I don’t know what to do.

Well, technically I know what to do, but I don’t know where to start.

I want to pursue my artistic career, and yet I want to put it off a little while longer, so I can still keep my eyes closed for a little while longer.

Is that wrong?

(tastes like burning~)

Wobbly bits.

[Bridget gets out of bed covered in a sheet and begins to fumble around]

Mark Darcy: What on Earth are you doing?

Bridget Jones: Getting dressed.

Mark Darcy: Why’re you dancing around in that tent business?
Bridget Jones: Because I don’t want you to see any of my wobbly bits.
Mark Darcy: Well now that’s a bit pointless isn’t it. As I happen to have a very high regard for your wobbly bits. In all circumstances.

[Bridget's head emerges from the sheet]

Bridget Jones: Really?
Mark Darcy: Absolutely. I think it’s high time we had another look.

[Bridget drops the sheet on the floor]

24 days?

1 alternative daily work
5 final sketches
3 concept drawings
1 final drawing

1 landscape daily work
10 concept sketches
1 final drawing

1 min 30 sec  video to draw, edit, animate.

1 photo/video installation to prepare

1 (wood-based) installation

4 subjects left, 5 main projects across the board. I still don’t understand why this semester seems the most disturbing. Probably because I haven’t been sleeping well, eating well, exercising (at all), or did anything that I truly wanted to do. I’ve had to share my room with my mum, then my sister, then my mum again, because of relatives bunking at my place. I’ve had big arguments, I’ve had brushes with madness, near-madness, and yet I’ve had moments of extreme ecstasy.

This past semester, I’ve been reminded of how fragile life is. Cliché as it may sound, it’s ineffably true. The fragile things are the most dangerous and precious at the same time.

(such so precious thus)

“Because no matter what happens in the world,
no matter how terrible life turns out to be,
no matter how cruel people are with people,
no matter how far apart we fall,

and no matter how much of ourselves gets left behind in places we’ve been through,
the fragile things I carry are those I’ve held with you.  ”

Today was precious. I never want to let it go. Thank you, for seeing the best in me and forgiving the worst.

(btw readers, pictures can be found on weheartit.com if not stated otherwise. )

one grand passion.

Thank you, Jenny Holzer.

–

The fact that I can find the time to blog a tiny post almost every day must mean something. Am I not doing enough homework, or am I purposely putting it off till the last minute? Has a part of me fallen into the trap of “Oh, you’ve done well enough so far. Time to take it easy”

Remember the story about the Tortoise and the Hare? I don’t want to be the hare.

I cannot become the hare. I will not fall asleep under the tree near the finishing line. I refuse to. This blogging thing is to release stuff (equivalent to talking to yourself) (but I don’t talk to myself) (much) to get things off my chest.

1 history essay
3 landscape drawings
1 portfolio thingie (for PP)
143059834 digital art daily assignments
1 sculpture final

By monday. Really?

I love my bedroom.

The Wrong Alice.

I never used to be this anti-school and anti-homework. I never used to care what people thought. I used to be braver, stronger. I used to write more often, and sketch more often. I’ve lost my drive. I’ve lost my muchness, haven’t I?

For all I know, I could be the wrong Julie.

Oh, sweet sunset.

You slept so much, and when it seemed like you had just emerged from behind your curtains, you fall back and return, leaving us to fumble around the darkness again.

Now it seems I sleep as much as you used to, except it’s summer where I am.

I miss your soft glow through the winter cold. Take me back there someday, will you?

8 days.

Why do I behave like there is time, when there is in fact no time at all?

I like History.
I love Western Art History.
I hate SEA History.
Why?

Listening.

Hark, why is the door to the next room busily opening and closing
Hark, why is the bed in the next room creaking
Hark, some people whisper in the next room
Hark, some people sigh low in the next room
People this side are listening to the activities on that side
People that side are listening to the movements on this side
This side to that side, that side to this side
At last they discover nothing exists in this world
Even their very selves