Spring and all.

I’ve conceded as of this week that spring (as in the season we are currently experiencing) is merely a synonym for ‘idealism’. In amidst the abundance of sneezing and wheezing and other onomatopoeias that occur as a result of beautiful flowers scattered across sundrenched sidewalks, spring is intended to epitomise both perfection and affection. Technically, this should be fuelling the creative minds of notable cynics like myself, but much to the disappointment of my pessimistic/sarcastic core, complaining has become a transitive impossibility. I am a cynical caterpillar, only to be hatching into a beautiful (not really, but you get the idea), optimistic butterfly only to eventually regress to drab, derisive caterpillar-dom. And how I managed to associate a season to a persona and then to an insect and then to me (not to mention maintain such an absurd transition) is something that is well and truly eluding me.

Due to the overwhelming nature of said idealism, mostly replicating itself through female friends courting sweet boys and warm school days lazing on the oval, I’ve taken this opportunity to make myself immune to all of the aforementioned and knuckle down in an abnormally Asian fashion. I’ve realised the error of my ways in both my revision technique and my “parental obtainment of love” technique and have decided to review both, spending hours glued to a Science book somewhat living vicariously through Thor Taylor. Incidentally, I’ve found myself loving what I do; the ink from my excessively-chewed pens has become my lifeblood, the blank pages a canvas for overachievement and trust from my parents, and to be honest this is why people have doubted the presence of a social life or a legitimate reason to live for that matter. I feel like I have everything I need at the moment, despite notable deficiencies of a good source of hugs, respect for John McCain, or high alcohol tolerance.

Told you it was idealism.

One month and twelve days until I leave for Cheese-land.