Dreadful Sunday

** This post has nothing to do with Van Gogh -- except for the author's mental state that remotely resembles the great painter **

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It's been one of those days when making a decision on an easy topic is as taxing as solving algorithm problem. So, it's only obvious when facing with a difficult problem, trying to decide the best course to take is just mind goggling.

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On the other hand, I can absolutely say that I hate hospitals, doctors, medications -- anything that has to do with the medical system.

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I should be listening to the voices inside me, that soft whisper coming from the heart. Yeah, I should listen to that. The more I listen to it, the clearer its message will be. It will ultimately lead me towards the right direction.

The smartest thing my doctor has ever said to me.

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Saturday's evening: caught a movie called 'The Counterfeiter', which won the Oscar for best foreign film. The story is about a group of Jewish printers/artists who were forced to make counterfeit money (Pound & Dollar) in a concentration camp. Operation Bernhard it was called - after inspector Bernhard Kruger. The goal at the beginning was to flood the British market with counterfeit money causing inflation, but since the forged money was so perfect, the Nazi decided they would use the money themselves.

I like the movie overall although the movie drags on in the middle especially at the failure to replicate the dollar. This is where the movie tries to explore the ideal of one person against the lives of fellow mates. Is it the right thing to do?

Best phrase from the movie has to be when a young Jewish artist gave a picture to Sally and said 'The Academy didn't like my style of paintings. But, who cares? I like it and it is my painting'.

Well said, mate.

The Big 3 0

This past week I celebrated my 30th birthday. Nothing special – just dinners with friends. But, then again, I wasn’t expecting nor feeling anything special.

People kept asking me how does it feel to finally turn thirty years old and my answer was always ‘it feels like every other day’. No life changing events occurred to me – I didn’t wake up with any kind of epiphanies that would distinguish that day more than any other days.

Life begins at 30. Or so someone said. And you could change the number…life begins at 40, 50, etc…

Not exactly. For me, life begins as soon as you are out of college and looking for your first job. Full of zest, motivation, ideas – just full of life. Those are the time that you can try living out your dream – willing to work odd jobs to pay the bills. By the time you hit 30, that’s when you have to start contemplating about the future. Life doesn’t start at 30, adulthood does.

But, no matter. All of the above theories are wishful thinking to me now. My life was decided two years ago when I walked into a hospital and heard that fateful voice. For some unknown reason, I was thinking of one of the Guns n’ Roses songs…

old at heart, but I’m only 28, much too young to let love break my heart/ Young at heart, but it’s getting much too late, to find myself so far apart…

So that was it. Things that I could do in the past, I can’t do them anymore. Places I could go in the past, I can’t go anymore. So, life doesn’t begin at 30 – it ended two years ago. And it’s quite annoying to hear people tell me I should do all the things I wanted to do before time runs out…only to have them turn around and say that I shouldn’t do them because of my fragile health.

It’s always easier to tell others what to do or how to live – somehow, it makes us feel better about ourselves – like we have contributed something beneficial to society. Or maybe it’s a feeling of guilt…If I don’t have to see it, I don’t have to be responsible for it – therefore, I’m not guilty of it.

I don’t know…sometimes making a simple decision can become such a difficult task as if my brain was being asked to solve some complex calculus formula.

Or maybe it’s a sign of becoming too old and too tired.

I don’t know.