a story in progress

I'm completely burned out thanks to this one whole week alone. Not really because of the exams or the blunders I made in my Add Math and Physic paper (yes, I screwed up my Physic paper as well) - but I feel completely drained out emotionally and my thoughts are like in a limbo state right now. All sorts of stuff, are jumble in there, each trying to scream their way out to be heard. Sounds pretty emo, eh? You tell me about it.

During the Tuesday break from the exams, had an enlightening conversation with my friend (instead of revising for the next day) about life, the conspiracies in life (yes, she is a cynic as well!), the future and of "Pen-pen".

It may sound a bit unusual, but I was completely stunned when our conversation took a detour into our respective dreams and what our sweet dreams are made of. She asked me, "What's your dream?" I tried answering her, but I couldn't. My jaw was hanging open like some Venus flytrap awaiting for it's prey. I had that very blank, stupid look on my face.

After quite sometime, I answered "A physiologist I suppose."

But somehow, I knew something wasn't really right. The answer I gave her was a very carefully thought out, analytical answer. It wasn't a dream of mines. A dream is something that you hold dear to your heart. You dream about it constantly. You picture yourself doing it. A dream is something you habour secretly in your heart and pray with all might -that one day, you might actually be living out that dream. Mines was exactly the opposite of all that.

From that point onwards, I was thinking and thinking to myself; "Is it EVEN possible for a person not to have dreams?"

What is my dream?
What do I truly wish to do when I grow up without the restrains of obligations and responsibilities?

To dream is our purpose in life.
Our purpose in life, is our raison d'être to hold.

So what is my raison d'être?

During an English class last week (I think), we did a reading comprehension. Pn Jac gave us a poem and asked us randomly to go out there and recite it aloud. The title the poem was I Build Walls. It wasn't stated who was the author or the poet who came up with the poem, but it goes something like this;

I build walls:
Walls that protect,
Walls that shield,
Walls that say I shall not yield
Or reveal
Who I am or how I feel.

I build walls:
Walls that hide,
Walls that cover what’s inside,
Walls that stare or smile or look away,
Silent lies,
Walls that even block my eyes
From the tears I might have cried.

I build walls:
Walls that never let me
Truly touch
Those I love so very much.
Walls that need to fall!
Walls meant to be fortresses
Are prisons after all.

Somehow, I felt the poem had a very profound impact on me. Half of our life, we are trying so hard to secure ourselves from all the pain and grief that ironically that we all have to go through in life while the other half is spend on trying to make our existence known to others. Are these walls of a fortress, waiting to be opened? A walls of a prison waiting to be break? Or walls of a skyscrapper waiting to be relished?

By the way, for those who are free enough, do stop by at my Johari and Nohari window. I will be either proven right or pleasantly surprise. Either way, they are fine with me.