Of eternal springs

Aaaah ...

Such is the sound that escapes from my parted lips as I try to puzzle my current predicament.

I would like to think -- that despite my aloof, callous demeanour -- I am not a person given to hate.

I'd like to say that I'm a rather amiable person. That I can be content -- if not happy -- in my current lot compared to the poor swabs around me and not feel the twisting stab as I begin to see washes of red in my field of vision.

Perhaps this resentment stem from my restless nature. Although I can be very patient, the dullness of monotony does not sit well with me. There are times past that I used to stab myself with my name-tag pin in class just so I won't keel over out of sheer boredom.

What does it say of a person who prefers pain over joyful ruckus in class to break the humdrum study hours?

I wish that this hope that one day I might be able to feel won't be just that. That while hope springs eternal I am only mortal. Even the most ardent of force must one day cease. It is the nature of things to wither and be replaced. Will there be hope left if I tire of waiting?

Everyday, I pick at my mental scabs -- countless scores of them -- as I beat and puzzle my way through this sparse expanse of my worldview.

Everyday.

I should be an old hand by now.