Desperately Seeking Christmas

Here I am, with a pretty important interview coming up tmr morning, yet I can't sleep. As a matter of fact, my agent called to tell me the appointment is at 0845 in the morning today, but her email to me states that its at 1510 on thursday. Having sent me the information only tonight, I didn't even have the chance to verify, but am left with no choice but to wake up early and show up tmr, hoping I haven't made a wasted trip.

Just bawled my eyes out watching the last episode of Tian Long Ba Bu. Its always gone down as one of my fav storis by Louis Cha, even tho its actually one of the messiest of his stories... cos its also the story with the greatest tragic hero he's ever written of. I guess I've always believed that fate makes the cruelest jokes of us all. The stories with the most happily-ever-afters naturally seem to be the most fictitious and unrealistic.

I dunno when was it that I started having such a view of life. The optimists see me as pessimistic. I naturally see myself as pragmatic. Having seen so much of the lives of those around me wrecked by the merciless twists of life, and left to pick up the pieces and make the best of their shattered dreams, I guess somewhere along the way I've become convinced that this is an unfeeling and unforgiving world we live in indeed. So much so that even we ourselves don't easily allow anything or anyone else a second chance to hurt us after the first cut, but choose to cleave away from the source of hurt, in the process negating all the good there previously was.

A part of me wants to hold on to what precious little remains of the the shreds of my dreams and ideals, thus forcing me to withdraw them deeper and deeper into myself, and protect it with a veil of cynicism that pre-empts any disappointments that might follow. Thus might the hurt never again touch my aspirations and hope of a better world than what I see around me.

For everywhere I turn, I see broken marriages, broken families, broken friendships and relationships, broken lives, broken churches... the list is endless. The never-ending cycle of the mockery that life makes of most of us, of our unfulfilled ambitions and our unrequited sentiments.

Ironic that I shd be marginally involved in the Christmas Play that Paul's writing for his church. I guess it reminded me not to drive my ideals too far within myself lest I suffocate it, but jostle my memory again to the fact that in spite of how God saw all that I saw, and then some, He still something saw something beautiful, so much that He was willing to stake His own Son, in order to redeem it.

Right now, I'm really wishing Christmas comes quickly.