What Makes Me Tick?

Plugged into my little world created by Chet Baker's soothing voice and trumpet, I walked from room to lecture theatre. Its cold. Winter beckons. The wind finds its way through the threads of the fabric.

I meet someone familiar; I smile and move on quickly. Then another. And another. Chet, take me away faster. Familiar faces, quick smiles. Some trees are shedding the last of their leaves. Winter beckons.

Soon I was smiling without conscious effort to familiar faces, more like a Pavlov response than a sincerity that is meant to be attached to a smile. I was only caught up in one question: what makes me tick?

What makes me tick? What makes you tick?

I'm so afraid once I return to permanently live in Singapore, I will fall into a rut, one that catches you and tends not to let you go. A rut, due to locality or just permanence? A rut that finds hard to shake off the inertia to try new things, go out and discover, putting yourself through the baptismal fires of self-reflection, a rut that will make me yearn for my days here in Warwick. A rut that I have seen some friends fallen into upon returning home to Singapore.

As I near the doors to the lecture hall, my mind could only grasp one solution for now: find what makes me tick, what makes me passionate, what makes me want to disregard meals, skip temptations to laze, what makes me want to lose sleep over. Once I identify that, I will ensure the activities and people I surround myself back home will continue to be in-sync with this rudiment.

I could be totally wrong, yet totally right. As the lecturer's voice booms through the air, I reluctantly remove my earphones, and Chet Baker, and settle into lecture on theories of justice and with a momentary resolve to find what makes me tick.

What makes me tick? What makes you tick?

Uncle T