It's the end of the term. It's the time to unwind, supposedly, but I can't find the distinct point to start.

To put it simply, everything I assumed I was good at has, over the past six months, been slowly and systematically catalyzed into nothingness. Everything that was the past remains the past, and the past cannot be reincarnated. After all, as Mr. Purvis says, accolades are proof for nothing. So what if you were the model student once? So what if you were proficient in three languages under the now abysmal standards of secondary school? Illusions dissipate and so does the confidence, rendering me a shadow of my former self.

There's a persistent sense of urgency, that I should do something to rescue myself, that there's so much more I can do with the time I have. That I have wasted the past sixteen years of my life becoming a jack of all trades and a master of none. Can one ever cajole himself into understanding that he has another 50 years to live, and he wants to live in peace and joy? That the last thing he wants to do is to understand everything and find nothing?

There's a Chinese saying: when cold, the chicken flies up a branch while the duck dives deep into a river, but both achieve the aim of keeping warm. There must be more than one way to live, and consequently more than one way to die.