The post-exam phase never fails to be punctuated by several bleary-eyed mornings and deviating from my usual wake-up time by half an hour; the by-product of being huddled in front of the laptop - occasionally with dad - having late night movie sessions. As of this day, the Grand Budapest Hotel never fails to amaze (as does Wes Anderson), The Pianist leaves behind stark impressions, and High Rise is plain depressing.
Anyway, back to early mornings! Breakfast at home is always a must (I've spent too much of my childhood dropping crumbs left right and center in my mum's car), and most mornings, its a bowl of oatmeal or pancakes, if I've got some stocked up in the freezer. But recently, the weather has been atrociously hot, and contrary to what some believe, yes, there IS a limit to how much bircher muesli and chia puddings that one can consume.
This leaves one answer, and one answer only: granola parfaits.
It's over. Four years of institutional education culminated in a week-long span of exams. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. It's kind of surreal, innit?
The past week has been spent studying myself into oblivion - tossing myself headfirst into stacks of notes and trying, so, so hard, to memorize the different phases of cell development, reagents for a colorful range of reactions among other content from the three teetering stacks of notes beside my table. The notion that its all come to an abrupt halt is inconceivable, as if these subjects - hate or love them - have suddenly released their too-tight-its-painful clasp on me and "be free". I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Here I am, a year later, typing away at the same fuschia laptop - only slightly more battered and decorated - and baking myself a small cake for my birthday. Going to the museum and watching a film isn't too different, either. Nor is trying to find the words to write here. In fact, nothing much has changed. I've made some and lost some. It's still the same old me here, bearing that increasingly nonchalant attitude towards my birthday.
To think that half a lifespan ago - that's 8 years to you, having a sweet sixteenth equated to the proverbial celebration involving too much pink and glitter, as advocated in one too many movies revolving around high school. And here we are, 8 years down the road, along with too many vows made to myself (i.e. all thou shalt wear will be black), that celebration has translated to a quiet day with a good friend with promises of good food and quality conversation. The loud, pinker-than-a-suckling-pig celebration is nothing but snatches of thoughts from days past. This very realization makes me feel both so old and so young.
(I'm getting maudlin)