(Un)naturally sad that it feels like everyone is leaving the country permanently.

Or moving on with their lives.

A few friends of mine have left for overseas, back to their home counties and never to be seen again in this country I’ve called home for so long.

It’s not terrible. I will always see them when I return back to my home country, once (maybe twice) a year. It just feels a little lost.

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Be and do more.

Everyone who I know seems to be getting on with their lives, and I can’t help but feel the want to go ahead and be more.

I want to go places, and do more things I have not been able to do in the past however many years I thought about this. I’m confused, I don’t know what I should be doing, and how I should be doing things. I’m in the middle of things, and I feel, kind of trapped.

Whinge. It’s burning up inside of me, and all I can do now is sit and be safe in the knowledge that one day it will turn into a mass of fire that only those around it can admire.

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23, and a hunger to be places.

I turn 23 next February.

Slowly, edging away from the meaning of the ‘birth date’, closer to that quarter-life crisis John continues to sing about. What does the 23rd year of my existence hold for me?

Lately I’d been feeling rather intrepid. I hear about friends and family going to new places, exploring new worlds, TRAVELING. I want in too.

I think this is my time to travel. Once I’m out of university, that’s it - the end of long, extended holidays and it’s off to ‘build’ that thing called ‘a career’. Two places I’d like to visit next year are China and Japan.

Japan in April seems highly possible at this stage in time, considering how cheap flights are to Tokyo from Sydney are. It will take a bit of time convincing Kieran to be my ultimate travel buddy, but I’m adamant about this trip and think it will satisfy this hunger to be ‘intrepid’.

Till then, I’ll just have to keep traveling interstate. If only it counted as ‘travel’.

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There is no sadness and no cruelty in that gaze; it is a gaze without adjectives, it is only, completely, a gaze which neither judges you nor appeals to you; it posits you, implicates you; makes you exist. But this creative gesture is endless; you keep on being born, you are sustained, carried to the end of a movement which is one of infinite origin, source, and which appears in an eternal state of suspension.
Roland Barthes, “The World as Object” in A Barthes Reader, various translators (via proustitute)

(via multidark)

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Hey guys. Thanks for telling me about Kristian. I can see why you kept failing to tell me about him.

Be still my heart.

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One of my older cousins Shu came to visit Sydney not too long ago just around winter and I took this set from a walk through Paddington during her stay.

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Shot on the iPhone 4S.

Can’t believe my eyes.

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The moment you feel comfortable is when you become a skeptic. You fear you will one day lose that moment. All around you - the others you know, the others you don’t - they fall to that very demise.

The fear builds, for at that very moment, that very feeling of ‘comfortable’ may never again be felt once lost.

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In other news, look who’s home!

In other news, look who’s home!

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Assessments

I am doing the worst subject of all. If it has anything to do with writing your own journal articles (the kind those wanky professors make all their lives), going to a class that quotes assholes like Foucault, Baudrillard and Rousseau in every discussion, and comparing tradition to modern to post-modern and bringing it back to everything about life in the present. This subject is so damn stupid.

In other news, I’m struggling like HELL on this assessment even though I started this thing where I start a week before it’s due date to help myself (because God forbid I did this from the very start of university). What does writing a journal article and getting it published in a fake journal have anything to do about Public Communication or Communication in general? And why is it that this is the best part of the subject when it’s clearly not?

Alright, end of rangst. Now where was I… ah, ‘Fuck all.’

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