1. The semester’s barely started and I’ve already managed to wreck possibly irreparable damage in something that I should have held dearer. Part of me only sees the past unfolding itself out again, and how once again, I’ve managed to royally screw up big time; the other part of me is surprisingly calm.

2. I’ve been thinking quite a bit about my LITTLES recently. Not the best BIG in the world, given my tendency to forget the weekly phone-calls, or the fact that I didn’t show up for two consecutive BBBS sessions. The way they greeted me at my first session after I got back from Yale made me realise how much I actually do matter to them, egotism aside. And as much as I like to whine about the crazy kids at BBBS, I’m glad that the two are my kids.

It’s difficult though, trying to figure out how best I’m supposed to function as a BIG. I want to be there for them if they need someone to talk to, but I think that’s still not where they’re at. Whatever it is, I hope that even if it’s not me, that they have someone to talk to whenever they’re feeling down, whenever — or if, even, they’re feeling upset about their family. If they’re going through the cray I did in Secondary school, and even now, I don’t want them to be alone.

3. My dad has this idea that at birth, we should all be given a pill that allows us to commit suicide instantly. The idea is that whenever we find that life has no more purpose, we can just down the pill and off ourselves; because to him, choice is the most important thing. The reason for living shouldn’t be the fear of pain of death; and hence, the pill would give a painless death.

Life’s purpose can be anything — from wanting to attend class the next day (though who really does? answer: rei does), to looking forward to having a bowl of ramen for dinner — and that’s the beauty of it: to find reason in the smallest of things. Our purpose doesn’t have to be anything big, the meaning of life doesn’t have to be found by cracking the cosmos.

I quite like this, and it’s honestly constantly on my mind. He’s only told me this recently, but somehow my dad’s attitude towards life/death have shaped mine too, despite how little we’ve actually talked about it. I remember my Secondary School (and even JC) self deciding that 28 would be the best age to die, given my lack of any career ambition or marriage aspirations. Because to my 16 year old self, life’s purpose could be easily equated to one’s job and marriage; but the idea is certainly there.

Maybe it’s my version of the religious/moral debate that has plagued my dad when he was a teenager, but I find myself more and more blase about dying — the more I read or think about it, the more I couldn’t care less. Perhaps it’s just the product of the hubris of youth, perhaps I’ve mentioned it so casually so many times that it’s locked itself into my brain. I should really hunker down and get to reading properly about the philosophical ideas behind this, instead of relying on second-hand paraphrases from my dad.

Suffice to say, I question my indifferent attitude towards life/death, but meh what does it matter!

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