the threads in her head

I come back to this page, wondering if I still can write. My fingers goes tap tap on the keyboard, and for a moment, it seems like words are flowing out again. Like I am able to write again.

Yet I do not know whether this be an illusion or not. Ironically, the only way to know if I can or not is to continue writing. And see where I can go. How long I can go. How long can my finger do their little dance on the keyboard before it stops, confused, for the brain has not sent any more orders down the nerves for it to run to this letter, or that letter.

I'm tired. My eyes are drooping down again. Seems like the past few afternoons I have just gave my all for my papers, then come back home, eat lunch and then fall onto my bed. For sleep and rest, only to be shaken awake by my brother or sister, to wake up daze, head spinning, giddy, still tired, still numb from want of sleep.

But I can't take any afternoon naps see. When I do I don't feel tired at night. And then I'll stay up till twelve plus, nearly one. Standing beside the window in this silent home. The rest of my family members are but soundly in sleep, their bodies in deep rest. Oblivion perhaps, but peaceful. They're not tossing and turning with nightmares.

And I'm the pathetic person who stands there. Standing there, waiting, waiting until my eyes tear. One drop by one drop of salty water wells up, and then flow, like a mini stream, down. No. I'm not sad. I'm not upset. I'm not crying. I'm just tired.

Yet sometimes the wait can get too long. A little too long. The little ghost that slowly wells up has a name. Restlessness, aye, that's what it's called. I fancy that it's related to desire and longing. Maybe second cousins. Maybe. For it tumbles about in the same way, and your thought flies, I tell you. Flies flies, spinning, turning, twirling, diving, somersaults! And you wish you could be somewhere else. Perhaps, around a campfire! Singing songs and laughing and telling stories. Or just out there, lying on the grass, looking at the stars with a friend. Or or, just lying on the slide of the playground, looking at the blocks of flat way up here, and then shifting the angle of your head so you can see the big vast sky, with great puffy clouds! Or taking a taxi and just driving past past everything. Or travelling, being elsewhere. Hong Kong, Japan, Malaysia, America, England, France, New Zealand, Australia! Anywhere! To run off and see the Louvre, or Sydney Opera House, or Hong Kong Wetland Park once again, or the Petronas Towers! Travel, see the world! Cycle around with a backpack, feeling the wind on your face.

Doing something rather than thinking about something.

Because there's a strange feeling of being lost without stuff to do. And I've changed changed again! From the girl who didn't care much about her work except for those subjects which she liked, to being willing to put in work and effort into every piece! Actually doing her work. Doing stuff. Busy with stuff. Learning, understanding, practising.

"You need to learn to be consistent. Your grades are like my heartbeat. Mountains and valleys you know." And comments are taken seriously into account. They've actually become a thing of concern, a thing I take into consideration!

Great changes. And with every change of such, there seems to be something good that comes with it.

But there's also something lost...

In the broad sense, it's of how something that was always there is gone. You've changed, and the old is gone.

Yea, in the broad sense.