The Pupil

I woke up this morning the way I did ever since I have encountered adolescence— taking everything around me for granted. My eyes who have never shown signs of poor sight did not see anything interesting that came in the transience of life. I wonder if that is the reason why the pupil in the middle of it is black. Perhaps it is supposed to represent the void that one feels inside and sees or shows in the outside.

                It took every ounce of my strength to get out of the only thing that I believe have loved me for who I really am— my bed. Parting it is such a painful sorrow that I have to endure every waking day of my life just to explore barren moments that never had the ample vividness or saturation to touch my line of interest.

                As I took my daily bath, I was welcomed by water that I think have seeped from the glaciers of Antarctica because of the extreme chill that it brought to stimulate my sensitive skin. The supple touch of soap and the marsh embrace of shampoo on my hair made me feel rather filthy than clean. Filthy in the sense that, I have to stain myself just to get the perfection that everybody, who knows nothing is perfect, still looks for. I am reminded of snakes and how they have to itch and scratch perpetually just to shed the skin that they have gotten used to living in. I wonder if life is really that unfair—that one has to shed and sacrifice a lot of things that belong to them just so they could be pleasing to the eyes of those who do not care at all.

I do not resent bathing because I know it is good for my health and hygiene. However, I take umbrage of its selfish metaphorical concept that incessantly haunts me at the insipid touch of water.

                Getting ready for school every day is a sally that I consider horrific rather than blank or exciting. Being the performer of such sham actions make me feel tyrannous and unsure about myself. It is ironic how, as I prepare to go into a place where I will be educated and fed with infinite amounts of wisdom could make me feel oppressed. However; paradoxically, I once learned from school that life itself is full of ironies as it is full of love as well. Perhaps irony is a form of love that governs all oppositions and adversities.  It must be the reason why love conquers and fates those who are different. In some analogous sense, if irony is love and I live in irony every single day as I prepare myself to go to school, then, it must mean that I love going to school as much as I despise preparing for it.

                If I myself am one complicated thought akin to the concept of the powerful forces of love and life, then, I must be relevant for the paramount existence of the world. And, in order to give depth and value to my significance, I must be educated. I have to be a pupil of the world, the school, my thoughts and even the concept of the things that I hate.