an anthology of regrets
. on continuity
What I've been doing for the past few weeks: tons and tons of storyboards for the oneshot MP is working on right now. I have mixed feelings about the experience: whether I'm really as good as a team worker I thought I was, the standards I set for myself (and others), disappointments, satisfaction, but of course, there's also that bit where I think I'm looking forward to studying animation in future. Come quickly, animation major. I think I can begin to envision a career in this for myself.
About that thing about working in teams, it remains a work-in-progress. There are many times I still wish to monopolise my time with art as something wholly personal and sacred. That's just my naivety, of course, especially in the face of uni and work in future.
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. on departure
I stumbled upon a vacant account a few days ago - the user had passed away this time, exactly a year ago. The last journal entry was littered with well wishes, remorse (I-wish-I-got-to-know-you-you-must-have-been-wonderful and I-can't-believe-I-didn't-talk-to-you-more-until-now), even (past) friends who had hit rock bottom indulging in a soliloquy in hopes for divine counsel and direction. On that page, time had frozen to a stop because of how little (and how much) it said about its user - personal enough for you to half-guess an image of who he was, but also distant enough for you to sew flowery laces on the edges of that silhouette.
It disgusted me; because all the regretful words felt superficial and self-centered, all the come-back-to-me's, I-miss-you's, did it ever matter before? Do you truly feel regret, or feel like you are on some kind of egoistic noble mission to help the dead pass peacefully?
But I was also revulsed because I, immediately, irrefutably, was overcome with the same fear because of the weight of this reality. Any sadness I felt for this person was accompanied by the trepidation that the same might happen to any of my close friends and I would find myself suddenly alone; with memories I may or may not remember, remnants of imaginary personal effects scattered around where we used to wander, and the largest sentiment of a friendship that would never renew.
The thought haunted me through the night and would not relinquish me even past sleep.
However, the next morning, I could no longer recall even an inkling of that person's name, handle or what sort of person he projected himself to be. The only thing etched in my brain was the overwhelming terror of how small we are compared to Death, how sickened I felt by the narcissistic way we perceive everything in relation to ourselves, and how much I repulsed myself.
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. on spirals
It has always been a personal goal for me to try my hardest and put my everything in all I set out to do, especially in terms of art where I make it a point to exhaust all possibilities before hesitantly completing an artwork. It's mentally exhausting, physically taxing, but most of all, psychologically grueling. But I take pride in doing my best, and never conceding to settle for any less I could have achieved at that point in time.
But when the shadows come out, sometimes I hate that side of me. I think of myself as "the girl who tries too hard", and sometimes I feel embarrassed by own ambitiousness, yet I'm too prideful to step down and call it a day. I laugh at myself bitterly for the effortlessness in which others can thrive with, yet my struggle in this puddle of sweat, blood and tears just seems to suffocate me even further and my motivation continues to slip the more I try.
It's an internal conflict I cannot refute.