Return

So I'm home for the summer. Ok, not quite. 2 weeks. Not quite. About 10 days left now. This sucks. Why oh why did I agree to go to Shanghai for the summer? I just want to spend the summer at home. Is that such a crime? I don't need to be occupied; I would be happy just sitting at home surfing, playing my games, popping out in the evenings for dinner or supper. It's home. I want to be here for a while. But I seem to be regarded as a spoilt brat for not wanting to improve myself over the summer. Sigh, this bites.

I think I need to become more needy and whiny. I'm entirely too sensible and grounded for my own good. Everything is internalised and worked out rather than allowed to leak out in bursts of angst or whines or anger or the like. It would do me a world of good to make a little noise now and then, here and there. I sit here in the wee hours of the morning, basically whining to the internet, when what I should be doing is whining to my dad. People say I have a choice whether to go to China or not. But I don't, not really. As ol' Goffman would say, I have a particular face to keep up, and the internal consistency of that face does not allow me to simply refuse. In other words, the construct of my personality is such that I, as represented to the world, will do the sensible and logical thing, and simply head off to Shanghai, work diligently for 9 weeks, then return to Chicago, my summer being considered a learning experience. To do otherwise would be a breaking down of my self, and that cannot be allowed.

Sometimes, I think I really need to stop being the sensible fellow. Stop doing the right thing for once. I'm like this paragon of virtue who studies hard, spends frugally, works for my future etc. Note that I refer to my public image, not necessarily my actual self. But it seems impossible for me to escape this image. I detest it, but strive to maintain it nonetheless. It is as if I am trapped in a dance. The dance started out quite novel and interesting, but now it seems confining. The slow pace was lulling and comforting initially, but the time has come to either rest or switch to another more pacy dance. The music refuses to change, my partner is happily dancing away, and I am powerless to pull away from her. I could just step aside and move off to another dance floor, but that would be impolite, and I could not leave my partner in the lurch, for she has been faithful to the dance I picked in the first place. So I continue going through the steps, going hrough the motions without any lingering enjoyment. I no longer even try to control the rhythm and pace, for I know the music will go on eternally, grating upon my ears more and more as time drags on. The time may come when I will become so frustrated that I shall throw up my hands and march off the dance floor. The shock will be palpable as the world watches me leave. Yet I know that the longer I keep dancing, the harder it will be for me to stop. Even as I change partners, I find the music to be unchanging, the steps to be immutable and equally frustrating.

Ah, what am I complaining about? I created this self, now I shall have to live with it. Fatigue, frustration, boredom; hardly sufficient excuses for me to fight out of this. I shall enjoy home while I am here; it seems I have little choice in the matter anyway. The sky lights outside my window, and it is time to go grab some breakfast.