Highway To Hell

Witty Banter

I know it’s been a long time since I’ve written, and I’m sure most of you miss me (that number is probably one and yes, it’s me). But honestly, life has been hitting me with so many roadblocks at the same time that I genuinely needed a breather from everything. Anyway, I’m back to writing my random bullshit again, and this time, trauma included for free. Enough of the intro, let’s get to today’s topic. I have this habit of trying to do something out of the box, but in the process, I always end up choosing the harder path, even when an easier one is sitting right there waving at me. For the longest time, I thought there was no easier path. But then I had an epiphany: I was so deeply invested in the harder route that I genuinely couldn’t see anything else. I’d choose the difficult way over the easy one every time, voluntarily, almost instinctively. So, let’s get down to business.

Why I make my Life Harder (Even if Easier options exist)

I’ve reached that point in self-awareness where I can say this with confidence: I pick the harder path even when the easier one is not just available, it’s practically begging me to choose it. This isn’t a heroic trait. It’s not grit, or discipline, or “main character energy.” If anything, it feels more like a glitch in my internal settings. Because whenever I’m offered two choices, one simple and one unnecessarily complicated, I will, without fail, choose the one that guarantees chaos. And somehow, it feels right. Take my ART101 assignment. Everyone else picked simple, straightforward pieces to reinterpret, drawings they could relate to, sketches that didn’t need emotional excavation, art they actually liked. I could’ve done that too. But no. I picked one of the hardest possible pieces, not because it meant something to me, not because it resonated with some deep childhood memory, not because I had any artistic connection with it whatsoever. I picked it because it was hard. My friends actually asked me, “Why this one? Why would you put yourself through this?” And I gave some half-philosophical answer about “challenge” or “growth” or whatever sounded intellectual at the time. But inside, the truth was clearer and more embarrassing, If it wasn’t difficult, it wouldn’t feel meaningful. If it didn’t demand effort, emotion, and a bit of suffering, I wouldn’t feel connected to it. It’s like I need resistance to build attachment, like a plant that only grows if the weather’s bad.

“Why do you always choose the tougher option?”

This is something I’ve heard from friends so many times that it might as well be my tagline. In group tasks, they’ll brainstorm three ideas. One of them is obviously the simplest, cleanest route. Guess which one I choose? The nightmare option. The one that needs more work, more time, more thinking, more stress. In competitions, most people pick the low-risk category. I’m the idiot who picks the category that has a 0.1% success rate and a 99.9% chance of me regretting it at 3 AM. Even in everyday life, there’ll be a faster bus, and I’ll somehow end up on the one that takes a detour through hell. And when my friends finally ask, “Why do you always complicate things for yourself?”. I never really know what to say. Because even though their question is simple, the answer is layered and messy and says more about me than I’d like.

I Don’t Feel Things Fully Unless There’s Struggle

That’s the uncomfortable part. I wish I could say I chase difficulty for noble, disciplined, or "character building" reasons, but honestly, I chase it because it makes me feel something. When things are easy, everything becomes… flat. The days lose their edges and I start drifting, like I'm watching my lifee from behind a glass window instead of living in it. Hardship drags me back into myself, it forces me into the front row star of my own existence.That tension, the pressure, the deadlines, the late-night panic, it’s chaotic, but it snaps my senses awake in a way normal life never manages to. I think clearer. I feel more grounded. Even my breathing feels more real. And when something goes smoothly, when I finish a task without any friction or struggle, there’s this strange hollowness, like I didn’t earn anything, like the achievement arrived without the emotional weight that makes it meaningful. It almost feels wrong, as if the story skipped a chapter. It’s messed up, but it’s real, and it’s the way I’m wired right now. 

And Then Comes the Eerie Silence

But the strangest part isn’t the hard work itself. It’s the moment after the hard work ends. After the submission. After the competition. After the storm. There’s this eerie quiet that settles over everything, like the world suddenly forgot to breathe. My head stops buzzing, my routine goes back to normal, and suddenly everything feels too slow, like someone turned down the volume on life and dimmed the brightness a little too much. And the odd thing is, it’s not relief. It’s not peace. It’s more like the absence of something I didn’t realise I’d been leaning on. That intensity, the stress, the drive, the chaos, it was holding me upright, giving shape to my days, giving my mind something to orbit around. And now that it’s gone, I don’t quite know where to stand or what to do with all the space it leaves behind. It’s like stepping out of a crowded airport into an empty suburb, where the silence feels unfamiliar on your skin. The quiet is so loud it almost echoes, and in that echo, I can feel a version of myself disappear until the next storm arrives.

Maybe I’m Built for Momentum, Not Calm

When I’m in the middle of a struggle, I know exactly who I am. I’m sharp. I’m focused. I’m moving with purpose, even if the purpose is just getting through the next hour. There’s a version of me that only appears when things are difficult,  the one who suddenly knows how to think, how to push, how to exist with intention. But when the challenge ends, that version of me evaporates almost instantly, like steam fading off a mirror. And what’s left is this quieter, drifting version of myself, the one who feels like a background character in his own life, just existing in the leftover space instead of driving anything forward. Maybe that’s why I unconsciously pick the harder route every time. It’s not that I enjoy suffering or chaos; it’s that the harder route gives me structure, identity, a sense of motion that I don’t naturally feel in everyday calm. Difficulty becomes the frame that holds me together. Without it, everything feels too frictionless, too light, too slippery to hold onto. And the truth is, I genuinely don’t know what to do with frictionless, it feels like living without gravity.

Why I’ll Probably Keep Choosing the Harder Option

At least for now, this is who I am:

The person who picks the most complicated art piece in class.

The person whose friends shake their heads and say, “Of course you chose that.”

The person who needs a bit of chaos to feel grounded.

The person who feels eerily lost when the dust settles.

Maybe someday I’ll learn how to choose the easy option without feeling like I’m cheating myself. Maybe I’ll learn how to rest without first having to fall apart. Maybe I’ll learn how to live in the calm without craving the storm.

But right now? The harder path feels like the only one with weight. The only one with texture. The only one that makes me feel real. And maybe, just maybe, that’s okay for now.