I often noticed it too late and caught myself sighing in exasperation while saying “Well, this is what life has brought me to,” with an apt amalgamation of defeat and conscious ignorance.
The advancement of technology has left me more impatient than ever before. On nights when my shape-shifting LSD-like dreams stop haunting me, I find myself ignoring warnings about seemingly alarming dangers of staring at my dimly lit phone in the dark, searching for a conversation partner across the Pacific Ocean. Talk over text on nights like these are emphasised by the painful waiting, quiet whirring of the ceiling fan, and the ever-loving weather of this country, which despite the heat I make sure to cover my feet. It’s the fleeting feeling that I will never have another conversation like this again that makes it strange yet so familiar at the same time. Again and again, these conversations happen. Again and again, I ask, “where do you think where you will be in five years?” I made a point to stop asking after I received a “five-year-karuna” nickname in jest.
Despite my unabating obsession with the nostalgia of imagining the future, I strained to defy it. I rigorously debated major decisions until it has been known to those around me and myself that I might be doing it with intent to torture my sanity. The contradictions fueled my anxiety which I desperately attempt to curb only to end up in a Catch-22 freefall.
“Well, this is what life has brought me to,” is both a testament of my being and a statement to taunt the mind games I put myself through.
It could also be a hint of indifference to uncontrollable variables and my refusal to be culpable of my own fallacies.