of prime numbers and little pleasures

So I turned 23 last week.

Not terribly old, but not young anymore either. It’s that in-between number that makes you feel as though you are suspended in that space between a kid and an adult. But it’s safe to say that I am no longer regarded as a wanton, brash (although I doubt I have ever been brash) teenager with the world dangling at your fingertips.

The truth hits even harder now that I’ve graduated from university. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve wished I could return to school. Passing by a secondary school this morning on the way to the pool, I saw students hanging around the staircase leading up to the doors, loitering around the courtyard, making their way to classes, some looking a little beleaguered but otherwise still cloistered in the certainty of their lives. No worries about jobs or money or promotion. Has it been SEVEN years since I was left secondary school? Kind of depressing to realise that you can’t ever go back to those times. The world spins madly on as you keep looking back, and then you find yourself dragged forward.

As storm clouds loomed in the distance while I was in the middle of my morning swim, I got to thinking if I would regret anything if I were to die now. Yeah, I think about things like that sometimes. Welcome to my weird, macabre mind. And of course, there’s much to regret. Because while I have lived more than two decades on this earth, I haven’t really done a single thing to write home about, and while I do have plans to do what I’ve set out to do since I was thirteen (become a best-selling full-time author) I don’t see any end in sight, no clue as to whether I’m ever going to succeed as a writer.

So, no: don’t let me die yet. At least not until I’ve received an answer from the contests and literary agents I’ve shipped my manuscripts to. I haven’t even collected the hard copies of the manuscripts I intend to send out for the Asian Scholastic Book Award contest from the print shop. Imagine if I died and the print shop called my cell to ask when I was going to collect the damn pile of paper sitting in their shop, the pile of manuscripts that were never going to be sent out or published or ever get an audience….

Okay, I did not mean for this to be such a morbid post.

*pulls head out of ass*

Let’s start over:

So I turned 23 last week.

And I finally got my hands on this:

Had a good laugh over THIS. (Who knew Disney boasts such witty gems? They just don’t make cartoons like they used to anymore.)
Saw this lovely view:
Spent time with these people:
 
And *ahem* swooned over this:
Those eyes! That smile! Instant perk-me-up.

And, finally, listened to this:

Yup. Little pleasures in life. There’s still much to be thankful for.

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2 thoughts on “of prime numbers and little pleasures

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