self portrait outside seven-eleven: Bangkok
No, it’s not love. Love isn’t new. Love has been there for centuries, and people will probably continue to love for centuries to come.
It’s independence.
Recently, I’ve realized that I no longer feel the need for company. It might be that life is slightly busier now: army, business, music – almost every single second of my time is spent on those things. But more likely, I suspect, it might be because I am finally over Lena. Truly and for good. I don’t feel sad when I think of her; I don’t feel happy when I think of her; I hardly even think of her, but when I do, I feel nothing, as if she is just some stranger whose name I can somehow recognize. I don’t think I would love anyone anytime soon, and I don’t see how that is a problem.
There has been a series of short affairs, however, sustained by nothing but a Dionysian impulse. They were fun while they lasted, but it stops there. In exchange for love, I’ve discovered the liberty to flirt and make merry. Nothing spectacular, just a different lifestyle.
My friends whom I once used to hang out a lot with also seem to be embracing vastly different lifestyles. Those who club, club; those who idle, club; those who failed their As, club. For me, I find no pleasure in clubbing. And thus we split apart, for the lack of a common activity.
I don’t feel sentimental a lot these days. (Is it bad? Am I losing my humanity?) I don’t feel the need to express myself, except only in ways that humor myself and those around me. Artistically, I am losing it.
Wayward in spirit, the force of commercialism pulls me hither and thither towards all that is interactive.
Marginally Philosophical 