I just heard recently that a colleague of mine got beaten up about a year ago. Because he had many enemies, it was unclear who it might have been. I think my sympathy is however ambivalent. As much as I do not think he deserves to be physically hurt, I cannot but feel like he should have seen it coming someday.
I remember my days in school,
there were
these girls who were caught with cheap mall-bought drugs. They would unashamedly partake
these diamond shaped 6 dollars tablets during school hours, getting
themselves into a dizzying high before embarking on idiotic missions such as french kissing in
the middle of a lesson. What were
they thinking? I don't even know
the options here, but my two cents is,
they were thinking that
their guts could have maybe brought
them to a whole new platform. They were
the epitome of
the 'cool' and fearless. The girls who dared to do shit.
I don't know why I linked the two stories together, I had my share of swaggering, bitch slapping and curse-filled afternoons in the common toilets. Those hot and humid, effusive days.
You know that feeling? Whereby you do something so incredibly rebellious that you felt that sweet yet metallic taste of fear and power?
These days, I'm still trying to finish 1984. I know it is a literary prized piece of work. But I cannot appreciate it. This inescapable depressive oppression that builds around you envelopes you into a darker shade of grey. I'm still waiting for the proles to rebel. Hurry up.
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