It’s a trap

Having no specific goal or not knowing what you really want can be too much of an obstacle, really. A lot of people have asked me about what I wanted to do, and it was natural that I answered in accordance to what they say I’m good at. Because I didn’t really have an answer. I’d only blabber and confuse people with my self-contradictions.

My being a jack of all trades has been a curse more than a blessing to me for the longest time. I have a lot of insecurities, and I always envied people who do well and great in what they’re passionate about. I was capable of doing a lot of things–-–but I don’t really excel in anything. I don’t even know what I really want.

I love making graphics and illustrations, but I also find an unusual sort of elation in writing research. I like talking. I like having debates in my head. I like teaching other people things I’m relatively knowledgeable in. I like to talk and read about philosophy. I like dissecting people, analyzing their weak points and figuring what destroys them. I like going to unfamiliar places, meeting new people, hearing new voices, and remembering new faces. I want to do a lot of things and I try to do all of them. I want to make the most of what I can do and what people say I cannot do. I want to get the most out of whatever life has to offer. Life was too short.

I guess you can say being enthusiastic about life was how I turned my insecurities around. I do a lot of things and fortunately I don’t have to be necessarily good at them. Unless I care about what other people say. Which I still kinda do—it’s hard to change that. So I try to be ‘good’ anyway.

I wrote this after imagining Sir [Espanto] asking me ‘bout what I really want to do with my life. And I anticipated that if I respond with uncertainty, I’ll get those cliched lessons about how difficult it’s going to be if I don’t know where I’m going. And I have to decide.

I know that. I’m perfectly aware of that. But people have different paces. I’ve been indecisive for goodness knows how long, and I can’t make a decision without putting every single thing into consideration. I’m obsessed with planning. I’m obsessed with calculating everything before making a decisive move. Is that a bad thing?

I really don’t know anymore. It’s like whenever I write I explore every kind of sadness flowing inside me. It’s as if I try to utilize every hint of anxiety and uneasiness within me to be able to write, because it’s what I like doing. To write is to throw your feelings out in the open; and that, for me, is freedom. I’m finding freedom in writing. And freedom in these terms was only attainable through writing.

And now, while it has always been a means to escape, writing it seems has made me more stuck than ever inside my head. It ends that what I was trying to escape from becomes the very thing I need to escape.

What am I even saying

Double-edged sword

Don’t know what’s with 2am that gets people all depressed. That gets you walking down the memory lane, that gets you recalling all the bad and wrong decisions you’ve ever done.

That makes you wanna die. That makes you want to end it all. That makes you think there’s this perpetual agony inside you. That gets you thinking nothing makes sense.

I wrote this without really thinking about anything. Usually when I write, I’ve thought about what to write—and I don’t like that process, because I gradually forget what it is that I wanted to write about when I begin typing. The momentum goes away so easily.

I was holding my phone and I opened my notes. I thought about writing at an earlier hour. I don’t usually go through what I wrote but as I typed this, I remembered how every night, past midnight, my thoughts start slipping into the darkness. And then I write about things. When I wake up the next day I wonder what the hell hit me that night.

Because the truth is, I’m not miserable. I say I’m not good with words, but I’m good at making people think I am miserable through my writing. Or maybe this was all a part of that—me convincing myself that I’m not miserable, contributing to an even larger misery.

Social media really gets you thinking you’re doing it wrongly or badly. As much as I want to shun all sources of my negative feelings, I refuse to rid of the connections. I might go insane.

Follow-through

I suck at relationships, really. Not specifically the romantic kind because I don’t even have first hand knowledge of it. I mean in a general sense. I suck.

I fucking suck.

Beside sucking at keeping in touch, I suck at being appreciative and expressing my sentiments in a way that does not come off too offensive. I have a sharp tongue. I kind of believed I had it toned down a bit but it’s as sharp as ever. I don’t know how to apologize properly, and I keep choosing my pride and ego over anything.

There are times, though, that I stepped on my pride to keep my friendship with someone but most of them ended up with me regretting doing it in the first place. I don’t know. I try for people but I just don’t seem to get any of it right.

I like rare and a lot of rare things and people that I stumbled upon ended up slipping away. It has to be my fault, isn’t it? And I know that opening up this kind of thing to people will only result to them reprimanding me and lecturing me, telling me the same thing almost everyone has told me, even myself–-–that I only stop at realizations and I don’t really attempt to change anything.

You know, reality is, you can have all this kind of realizations and still be unable to do anything about it. And what I fucking hate the most? Almost everyone I talk to makes it sound so simple. They speak as if knowing the right thing and doing just that is so fucking easy. NOPE. Knowing what’s right and doing it are two separate things. Not everyone easily learns the follow-through.

It makes me sick. When people start getting self-righteous, I have this urge to scream at them. But I resort to silence. I resort to walking away. Because it will get nowhere. I will get pissed and become irrational.

Maybe I’m really better off alone.

I’m probably better off alone.

Grey in the rainbow

Indifference is a scary thing.

It fucks you up on the inside out, and without a clue, it starts taking everything away from you.

I was grateful about being indifferent to what others have to say about me. It was some kind of freedom, something I’ve always wished I could be. But I didn’t think it’s going to extend its effects to other things.

I’m becoming indifferent to my studies, my grades, and sometimes even to my friends. I am breathing and existing, but I’m not sure those words were synonymous to living. I go on with life with not much of anything getting done, and I stop halfway with realizations alone.

I don’t know. I’m an inch away from getting totally disinterested about everything. The results of the elections do not bother me at all. I don’t have strong emotions for or against anyone. I watch everyone get worked up about their lives, and I rest content with the normality of my breathing pattern, or the rate with which my heart beat.

I didn’t care about anything, but I guess I was believable enough to make everyone think I give a shit. I’m lifelessly walking a crowded road of colorful people, a colorful sea of humans laughing, grieving, and protesting. I was grey, and they were full of colors. Full of emotions. I watched them callously, wondered about the hollowness expanding within me, and walked away. That’s what I do. At least that’s what I’ve been doing the moment I realized I could simply walk away from all these. I was tired of humans. I was tired of getting angry. Of being happy. Of ricocheting between being happy and pretending to be. I was tired of my sadness, tired of distinguishing which is real and isn’t. I was tired of the crazy dynamic life had. I was tired, period.

I always thought I was brave, not fearless. There was a difference.

But now I’m beginning to think I am the latter. I couldn’t feel anything. Not sadness. Not happiness. Not fear. I don’t have the kind of will I thought I used to have, suppose that I did have it.

This stupid self-analysis is starting to exhaust me as well.

I’m tired.

I’m tired.

A feeling long forgotten, trapped in a memory

Note: The names are changed. (Still undone)

Last night, when Sarah and I were reflecting about our lives, a realization hit me.

It was 2am. We were talking about a lot of things. We were pondering on every stupid thing we did and were about to do, when we started discussing the consequences of confessions.

Yep, confessions.

She had planned to confess to Peter the following week. Her feelings have become toxic to her. She overthinks and overanalyzes everything nonstop, and it’s becoming destructive. She never tires of creating conclusions based on far-fetched assumptions and incomplete information, despite realizing it’s to her own detriment. She needed answers. And she bothers Beth and I a lot. Way, way, lot.

But the thing is, what we have were merely conjectures like her own. We don’t know Peter the way she does. And Peter alone has the answers she’s looking for. Does he feel the same? He probably has a clue, right? Why is he awkward? Why did he ignore me that day? He thinks I’m being stupid, right? Maybe he doesn’t even care? But why won’t he talk to me? God, you go add to the sequence. It’s the same stupid questions you’ve probably thought of or came across yourself. I’m guessing it’s driving her insane because her feelings felt too foreign, and it’s overwhelming her.

Beth and I advised her to confess already because that’s the only step she has to move forward. Her world has stopped. She couldn’t study, she couldn’t do anything because he fills up her mind. (Oh, how familiar. Overly at that) She would argue that it’s too early, that she’s not even sure about how she feels yet, and Peter might think she’s ridiculous. Trust me. There’s no talking her out of this. It’s gotten exhausting, actually. Calming and consoling her can get pretty tiring. We always had to rationalize things for her, as if everything always has to make sense. Every tiny detail about that night when she developed feelings for him, I got completely covered. We’ve basically dissected every word uttered and every movement made then. I can seriously write a novel about that one night, basically a shit ton of overanalysis of gestures and semantics, and details distorted due to heavy overthinking. I don’t even know why I carry this burden. Humans call this friendship.

Anyway, while on our beds, we were contemplating about the implications of whatever response he’d give her. The other day, she told me that Peter might accept her feelings thinking that she’d be a “waste”. She’s got a point—of course, under the assumption that Peter never got a confession before. After a couple more exchanges, I concluded that whether he returns her feelings or not, she’s damned either way. She’s still going to dissect whichever response he gives her. Although she could be right about the ‘waste’ part.

Because it’s how it is for most people, right?

When you find out someone out there sees you the same way you see someone you like, it makes us happy. It is elating and fulfilling. You’d think you were doing something right. You were doing something beautiful. It makes us even more happy when that person gathers up the courage to confess, because not everyone has the guts to do that.

But sometimes, how we respond to those feelings can render us selfish. We liked it. We liked the thought of someone being invested in us. We liked the thought of being important, of being the center of someone’s universe. Some of them even put us on a pedestal. And sometimes, though indirectly, or unintentionally, we end up giving them false hopes. We make them wait. We take advantage of their vulnerability.

They are left hanging, suspended on the unknown—just so we don’t lose them. We knew it was selfish. We knew. But we don’t want to lose them.

Or more accurately, we don’t want to lose the beauty, the importance, or the wonderful things they attribute to us. We don’t want to lose that feeling of being special. It’s understandable.

We circled around that topic when my confession to George crossed my mind. To be honest, I have moved on and forward — suffice it to say that since that day, I have become better. But I’m not happy for him. In fact, sometimes I want him to regret not choosing me. All that for my ego, though. It’s not because I still have emotional investments.

And then I realized that whenever I think of him, or talk about him, all I remember was everything he was after the bad things occurred. That night, it dawned me that after the confession, I barely remembered the reasons why I liked him. I barely remembered the good things about him, or the memorable things he did and we did together.

Like how, randomly, he would text me just to tell me that the moon that night is stunningly beautiful. He knew how much I loved the moon. He knew how much invested I was in the stars.

Or when he was dismissed in class and instead of going straight to the tambayan, he would sit with me on the bridge strangely carrying a washtub. He would pester me, and I’d be just happy talking to him.

Or when he’d withdraw and ask me to tag along, and then we’ll walk around the oval debating on the philosophy of confessing. Little things. We talked about life a lot. We talked about a lot of things. We talked about everything, and it felt like a lifetime would not be enough to talk about the things we could. You do not meet a lot of people who you could naturally and intellectually share your sentiments about the world with. Just like what Celine said in Before Sunset, when we’re young we think we’d connect with many people—later in life we’d realize it only happens a few times.

And we could ruin it, you know. Misconnect. 

I guess he was someone I really connected with. And misconnected.

 

I forgot.

I forgot how and what I actually felt for him after the confession.

Now, my feelings are raining on me.

Now, it dawned on me that I actually, immensely, profoundly, really liked him. For everything he was. For everything he had been.

But everything he did and everything he was after the confession blindsided me into thinking that he was simply a puzzle I preoccupied myself with because I was bored. That I did not like him—I was bored, I was just bored. And that I mistakenly—or subconsciously—chose to de-bore myself with a mere douche, a conceited jerk who’s completely naive of his own egotism and narcissism.

He was a douche.
But he was a douche along other things.

He was the person I liked, the person I admired, the person who made me happy. He was the person who once made every waking moment meaningful.

And the same was with everyone I decided to remove in my life. They were toxic along other things.

That night, I slept with tears wetting my pillow.
I slept wondering what it is that I have forgotten, what it is that memory has resurrected.

It was a feeling long forgotten, trapped in a memory buried deep in my insides, imprisoned, meant to be locked up for goodness knows how long.

Whatever it is, however, the fact remains that George is just a memory now, a small memory now relegated to the past. And it shall stay there.