24 hours after the release of results, the reality sinks in. What I've got, I realise, is sufficient for the end all of my dreams, perhaps sufficient for most of my peers. But I aimed high and was disappointed, unable to accept things so ordinary. Effort was never minimal on my part, and when what I sow was lesser than that, I felt hopeless, cheated, betrayed. I distracted myself, avoiding my grief by hanging out with friends, getting intoxicated but yet when I was alone, awake and sober, like now, 24 hours later, I'm just another loser who had lost a battle and I have to face defeat like suckerpunch in my face.
The only good thing about my results is that, I passed. Knowing me, I don't want to just pass. Out of rage yesterday I tore off every motivational banner I had on my wall. now they're lying in pieces on my table, exactly, the boulevard of broken dreams. I was packing my notes, ready to give them all away knowing that I do not need them anymore as I am moving on. I can't help but to realise the bulk, the research materials, the effort, all the hardwork and sweat. My pile of articles and notes, essays, scribbled texts, torn books. I remembered those hopes those days, the energy I had, the dreams I believed in. I was so happy then, even though I strained myself senseless trying to comprehend, analyse, argue, and I thought all was for the best, and I will be rewarded in the end. I remembered amidst the mockery, the disbelief, I carried on knowing I am fighting for my better tomorrow.
Now, the enormous pile of paper meant nothing at all, nothing but representing the scarce event of an unfortunate incident where failures do, happen to those who work hard, aimed high, and believed.
Now, you know what I meant by feeling cheated and betrayed. For all the heartbreak, I can't help but to let those tears fall freely to soak those dreamfilled sheets, once, a person who dedicated so much to her dreams had wrote her heart and soul in each letter on those notes.