glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with
those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live
in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat."
I told myself repeatedly, or rather, I told myself repeatedly, some mangled, half remembered version of this elegant quote. It kept replaying in my head, and I took out my journal to scribble some thoughts as I walked – fled – to the MRT. The strokes were not with the usual considered hand, I did not savour the sight of gleaming ink imperceptibly drying and losing its luster on the page. I scrawled furiously, because the act of writing puts distance between the writer and the thing written. It did not work. I thought it was darkly comic, to look for relief in writing.