My Thoughts on a Sunday at Quarter to Midnight

During a Friday night-out, a friend told me that if I were to make a essay, it would be in bullet-point. I agreed with him; I could've also added it will also be in power-point, and with charts.

That same night, I had been in a car crash. It was one of the worst night of my life because I had never felt so useless. I will never allow anyone to bring me home again.

I am so sorry.

Just a few years ago, I liked being awake at midnight. I had felt invincible then - no amount of sleep deprivation can topple me.

I don't want to be awake during midnight nowadays, not because my body can't handle the loss of sleep. I hate midnight because it's then that melancholia tend to creep up, threatening to smother me. And often, it succeeds.

That last one sound hokey, even if it's true. I roll my eyes at myself.

I am a fraud. I am skeptical of the sanity of people who listen to my ramblings. I applaud people who are skeptical to the saneness of my ramblings.

When I was in elementary, I won a few awards in essay-writing. During the second to the last contest - the regional level - I lost. I asked one of the coaches from other schools why. She told me that I paint detailed picturesque essays, the sort that makes one imagine the scenes vividly in her mind's eye, which will then coaxes a smile or two. But there is nothing beyond the nice pictures. My pieces don't have depth, they have no soul. I don't inject myself in them. She asked me what am I afraid of.

I still don't know the answer to her question.

I need to sleep (even if I had escaped and slept most of this weekend away). I am glad to go back to my cubicle tomorrow. I don't want to think dangerous thoughts anymore.

Image is Melancholic Tulip, NY by Andre Kertesz

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