It would probably be a wise idea to take a shower right now, seeing as I’m covered in heavy duty Nippon paint after my mural painting this afternoon (plus residue from yesterday’s session). In fact, I should probably have done that three hours ago when I got back, instead of having dinner and then taking a nap.
Am procrastinating, though, as usual. The past two days have been a surprising hit of exhaustion, and it leaves me vaguely worried about my (lack of) stamina. Yesterday coming back on public transport, I felt the fatigue I used to feel after canoeing last year, the one where you feel boneless and the edges of the world seem blurry. I miss that a lot, both canoeing and how I felt after it, showering in J blk toilets, sometimes so exhausted lifting my arms to wash my hair hurt. Coming out into the canteen with wet hair and slippers but so clean and sleepy the train felt as cosy as my bed. I miss it way too much for it to be commensurate with the amount of time I spent doing it, but I suppose part of it is also the joy that comes with dedicating yourself (almost mindlessly) to something, partly out of sheer obligation but just not quite that simple. With reflection, I venture to say that sometimes it’s not about liking something instantly and passionately the moment you do it, but doing something so consistently that you end up falling in love with it, through familiarity and proficiency – that with time and experience, it becomes so integral a part of you that it doesn’t even occur to you that you should question why you’re doing it or why you like doing it (except it does for me because I over-analyse.) As always with this newfound consciousness of nationality, it seems fitting and natural to label this the Asian way of doing things, that you keep someone at something long enough to produce competency, and with discipline (usually enforced), you’ll eventually breed a kind of passion – though since I didn’t exactly give up my dreams and stay for canoeing, you can question that extent of that cultivated passion. But this gives a reason why sailing hasn’t quite captured my imagination in the same way, though sometimes I feel it trying to.
It reminds me of something I read recently about the difference between Western and Indian marriages; someone said that in Western societies, you fall in love with someone, and so you marry her (to fall out of love with her), whereas in India, (re: arranged marriages), you marry someone, and so you fall in love with her. Choice isn’t always a good thing.
My dad called earlier, a couple of moments after I blearily awoke from one of my infamous naps. It was a little funny – he didn’t have anything special to say or things for me to do or whatever, just said he was in transit on the way back to Shanghai, from the US, and he wanted to see how I was, and that if I was sleeping, he won’t keep me up. It’s quite – I sense I will always have a kind of guilt complex regarding my parents IS THAT NORMAL.
I should have given myself food poisoning by now, with all the eating I’m doing with all the paint on my hands.