It feels tiring, everyday. And I thought ever since I got the photojournalism assignment out of the way I would have considerably less hectic days. Well, not that these few days have been anywhere hectic (save Saturday, which I will get to later), but everyday came and went with a weighty sense of lethargy sinking in and numbing the mind.

Ah, the photojournalism assignment… I haven’t, in all my honesty, ever attempted something which I’ve undeniably poured in galleons worth of attention and effort. I have Michelle to thank, because if we didn’t decide to labour on this together as a makeshift team I wouldn’t have an ounce of the motivation needed to complete this exhausting but excessively enlightening (and fun) assignment.

Blink a few blinks, and I found myself liberated from insane the trudging through the many places we had to visit just for that few photo shots of old people eating wholemeal bread with a mug of coffee… yet, in a way, I wonder when I’ll be able to delve myself into another experience that was last month’s, and the thought of it makes me miss it already.

It felt as though I’ve flitted through a month of running around seeking leads, of having to face harsh rejection despite the immense trouble, of placing ourselves in the company of the lonely elderly and taking shots of them whilst listening to the exact definition of ‘grandmother stories’, of paying a visit to an orphanage and having fun there (well, I guess I’m the only one having fun there; Michelle was practically petrified by the culture shock). The prominence of the month had settled with weight on my shoulders; the exhaustion, the lessons, the experience… what a month. And great quality time with Michelle. What more can a single, un-obliged 20 year old guy ask for?

Then the presentation night, which was - if I may be permitted with a little pomposity – greater than I can ever expect. It wasn’t GREAT great, and I was journalistically wrong, but at the end of it I felt the effort pay off, the risk worthwhile and the experience priceless. And my marks for my photo essay wrap it up nice and warm. Cheers J.

Now I face the merciless, ferocious beast that is my semester finals, and it’s very safe to say that I’ve been dutifully vigilant with my continuous procrastination and carefree lazing, so I’m now wallowing in intense guilt while hovering close to the edge of failure. In my defence, however, I can say that the past weekend (especially the Saturday I mentioned earlier) was very unforgiving and willing to allow me some precious study time (most which are normally squandered under daydreams and Final Fantasy 7).

Saturday was a crazy day. Full stop. I was close to the brink of death, and no I’m not kidding, just exaggerating, and truly, Saturday was tiredness of the past month combined together with a year’s worth of social work and lawn-mowing. But the reward was good… no, wait, the reward IS FUCKING AWESOME. What’s the reward, you ask? Why, it’s hard to say it without the risk of bursting into an enthusiastic hysteria. Still, well, you did ask so I’ll just say I GOT MY OWN ROOM! WOooHOOoo!

Finally, after 20 years of my short life, I get to have a room of my own. Which means I have a sanctuary of full-privacy, complete freedom to do whatever I want and a bed I don’t have to share. Banzai! What’s left is a modem router, and soon I get to have an Internet connection without having to undergo mortal combat with my brother for it.

It’s not much, my room, but it’s perfect enough. I have a single bed, a study table which is over 15 years old or so but still fine, my novel collection right beside me, my laptop and a TV (which I haven’t gotten around to fix up, and it’s a sadly old TV, so the PS2 can’t work with colours on it). My only qualms are the large mattress that we had to hitch in our room, since there isn’t any other place to put it, and the mattress is taking up the wall room I intend to stick up some posters, and that bugs seem to manage to find their way into my room. Well, it was the maid’s room (and partial storeroom, for the little stuff we have no room to squash into), and heaven knows how well she takes care of her abodes.

There is something, though, about sleeping alone at night, and the fact that I’m sleeping alone makes me feel rather lonely. Not the sort of drastic lonely, like ones where people realise that they’ve drifted so far away from company and friendship, nor to the point in which I wake up and cry into my blankets and talk to my Wilson volleyball, but it’s a peculiar sort of loneliness that keeps my mind on it for a while before I shrug it off for sleep. I’ve been sleeping with my brother for years now, taking the top bunk of the 2 double-deckers we shared, and while most nights ended with either one of us uneventfully sleeping first, there were those nights where we found ourselves chatting into the night… chatting about everything and anything, from girls to anime to what constitutes a fuck. Now that we sleep apart, I wonder when those conversations might occur again.

I miss her, especially during those lonely moments, even though we aren’t intimate or exactly very close. But I find myself thinking of her, then hoping that she’ll be fine, and trying to shake off the discomfort of the cold truth between her and me and what we may ever be. And I wonder if she feels lonely, because she never does seem to be so, but she is one, whom I observe from time to time, project such loneliness that it would shroud me for several moments. I worry about her, but I try not to worry too much, because I know that, perhaps, I don’t need to worry about her so much, as she has the world that worries for her. She doesn’t need me, but there are times when I felt she does, and too many times already I needed her.

So here’s a goodnight for her, and goodnight to you too.

Goodnight people.