Seven Cheers


Seven years. It took me seven years to earn a college degree. That’s a full Hogwarts education right there. That’s as long as Carson’s college life and unrequited love for Dio in I’m Drunk, I Love You.

Still. It has been seven years of grace for me. True, it took me a long time compared to my classmates in high school—but, more than anything, these past seven years have been formative. I have learned to look at the bigger picture: that there is a world out there lacking sorely in justice and compassion, but this world is where my true calling lies. To help, to serve.

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Albeit being the shortest month of the year, February is surprising in its capacity to hold so many experiences in such a limited amount of time.

It’s so rare for me, a notorious homebody, to be outdoors experiencing things. I’ve been really stressed this February for a lot of reasons (e.g., pulling my grades up so that I can still get a full scholarship next semester, and generally trying to survive the Biology life—which isn’t rainbows and butterflies, I tell you). On top of that, I’ve been engaged in a string of sleepless nights, which was really terrible. The fatigue really hollowed me.

Beyond all the academic humdrum, however, life is unfolding. 21-year old me is very happy, and tired in a good way.

Continue reading “Novus”


When I was younger, the words came to me more freely than they do now. I could write about the most mundane of things, like a trip to the library or a day spent cleaning my room. I was too eager to write about anything, about everything, that I lacked filter and the words just poured through my fingertips like drops of water.

Now they pour out like drops of blood. These days, writing about things feels somehow like slicing my flesh open so that I can extract what’s within me: the joy, the ache, the fear and thrill. It is more difficult now than I’ve been accustomed to, and everytime I try—and goodness, do I try—I end up getting frustrated because the roaring thing inside couldn’t get out in peace. A big fraction of this year has been spent facing the glow of my laptop, two to three lines in, and then blank. Perhaps this is one reason I’ve been so erratic this year: I lacked my one vital outlet, my saving grace.

And so, for the last time this year, I scratch and claw and dig for all the words that I’ve kept caged for so long. For the last day of 2015, I open up the prison of my mind.

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Study Saturday: Echo

Saturday commenced at roughly five minutes before eight in the morning. Despite wanting to sleep in, I begrudgingly lifted my weary head from my pillow and managed to extricate myself from the bed—which I barely slept on this week.

Oh, the joy of exams.

This week has brought me to highs and lows, and despite all the growth and maturity I’ve been claiming to have achieved, I still couldn’t prevent myself from being frustrated at not acing every academic requirement and from chiefly placing my self-worth upon grades. It’s a conditioned response I couldn’t unlearn easily, as majority of my life has been persistently occupied by academics. (I know, it’s a sad story. But I also had an angsty teenager phase, spent trying to write my heartbreak into songs and listening to OPM, then to the likes of Secondhand Serenade and Paramore.) Good thing I have Roi to basically knock some sense into me, whenever I’m worrying unnecessarily and thinking unhealthy thoughts, and he reminded me that it’s not just about the grades. To an extent, yes, but they do not define a person. They should not define a person.

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Study Saturday: Battle Preparations

The bed shifted underneath me as I rolled onto my back. Morning light streamed through the gap in my curtains. Another Saturday and I haven’t done anything productive yet since the long weekend started. I rubbed my bleary eyes, feeling like throwing every ounce of responsibility off my shoulder and going back to sleep again.

Reluctant, I rose from my bed.

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Study Saturday: Blood Sport

We meet again.

In a (quite frankly) desperate effort to resurrect this blog of mine, I have decided to launch a project, aptly named as Study Saturdays. It sounds mundane, I know, but instead of acknowledging my lack of creativity, I’d defend my poor alliteration choice by laying down my reasons for said project:

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To the Brave Ones

It started around this time last year, maybe even earlier―how I knew I wasn’t going to stay. When I finally, consciously, acknowledged it, though, I was struck by the gravity of what I was leaving behind: more than the university, more than the sacrifices, more than all the time I have devoted to the course.

I was leaving all of you behind.

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