anguished languish

Human beings are not perfect.

It has been said in so many possible ways that it is almost clichéd to say it. But I must emphasise. We are not perfect. We are not made to be perfect. If we were made to be perfect, what is the use of religion, philosophy, and all the other humanities made to study human imperfection in interaction, or the sciences that alleviate the burden of our imperfect knowledge? There is no use in beating oneself up about the mistakes we have made, to the point where one belittles himself. The only way is to move on.

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On another note, this has been one of the worst Valentine's I've ever experienced. Yes, it is the end of the hall production, I've received many flowers, but there's no point. The person I wanted to see the most has gotten into trouble and hence, couldn't meet in the end, the people I care for are in emotional turmoil, and I sit alone tapping away at 4am in the morning in my room. I am helpless, useless as the dying flowers on my table top. Like these flowers, I make my presence known, I try to cheer people up, but really, I'm no help.

I just want to hold all of you close and wish that I could somehow make everything go away.