i realise that i write only when i feel melancholic. writing is an outlet for me, a poring of the soul, a desperate attempt to create, articulate and mould thoughts into form. sometimes i'm not quite sure of the shape i want them to take, these half-formed thoughts just escape as writing to a faceless audience makes it easy and convenient for words to flow, wander and meander

i've been thinking about career these days. about what i've given up to come here and what my peers have also given up to arrive at a similar position. some have felt that although the decisions and actions made were better than never having attempted. have decided that this part of the journey ends for them and that this choice of path is not what they currently seek right now.

seeing people leave, hearing their stories naturally forces me into introspection. i am happier here than i was working. as phen coined it, i was the "un-civil servant". while working was a great experience, i felt that i often came home frustrated and resentful. unlike my colleagues who saw a purpose in their job and worked with the organisation in mind, i felt detached from my work.

being here however, i feel like i have a purpose and that i am working towards my goals. i feel like i am being challenged and that i am learning alot. and even more so, i see clearly the keenness in other people's minds and it motivates me to sharpen my own senses and thought processes, and to learn how to question. too often i have left stones unturned and have cast aside lingering questions in the effort of moving forward. here, it is as if the point is to get things internalized and to see from first principles the reason and intuition behind why we do things.

it is this last reason that makes me so excited about where i am and about where i could go. i look forward to becoming an economist (and hopefully to becoming a professor).

but even while i am excited,

i really honestly do

still miss home

in the end,


"I come out of books to people orchards
with the hoarse family of my song"

Neruda, "Ode to the book"