Words are inadequate but they’re all I have

I haven’t blogged for a while now. Almost all of my recent posts were written in a poetic structure. I kind of missed writing in a story-telling format.

Anyway, this is a good sign, perhaps? I only knew how to write about sad things—and I don’t write anymore.

I have all sorts of things I could write about. I had drafts in my notes, but they weren’t sensible enough to get posted. I also have a lot of prompts. At postmidnight, the universe is unrelentless in giving me something to ponder on. As much as I want to write them down, my thoughts are a mess; and every time I open my laptop, the urge to type it out goes away. I don’t know what’s it exactly about. Laziness? Or mere fickleness?

Or maybe the realization that words aren’t ever enough to concretize my thoughts. It’s either words were lacking, or my vocabulary isn’t wide enough to put these thoughts down into words. They remained scattered, and when I struggle to organize them, their sense begin to diminish. Always is a time when I view things in retrospect, in preponderance, only to leave myself questioning the essence of it all, of my life — and words, sadly are too inadequate to embody them. But they’re all I have.

I don’t know. This must be something people call writer anxiety.

But you weren’t there

Somehow when everything starts to crumble, there are always those who remain, those who stay whatever happens. That’s what I thought. That’s how I thought it (eventually) would be. Because that’s how it worked out for a lot of people, right?

But somehow, somewhat,

I ended up alone.

And I didn’t understand why. It didn’t make sense.

I was drowning. And everyone around me is breathing.

It was a silent, suffocating way to die.

No one reached a hand out. Everyone was there. But no one was there.

You understood me better than anyone.

You were the one person I thought would collect me up as I shatter into thousand fragments.

But you weren’t there.

You weren’t there for me.

Lost will

I have nowhere, no one, nobody to talk to. I am left alone in ruin and suicidal thoughts begin resonating in my head. It has come to a point where I would think of stabbing myself with the fork I’m eating with, or simply stepping in front of a rushing vehicle. Nothing made sense. Not even this life. I was drowning in hatred. For the people who had always made me feel inadequate, those I ran to but refused to listen, and everyone I thought would see the insanity through all the jokes and laughter. I was drowning in hopelessness, anxiety, and tears. I don’t want this anymore. I want it to end.

Please, let this end.

See… this is… what I’ve always hated about being happy. There was always a price. Now, now everything is falling apart. I’ve lost any will to live. But I held onto the stoic principle. It will keep me alive, I know. Because if I kill myself now I know I will regret it. I have learned to love life.

I’m dying and nobody notices.

I’m dying and nobody takes notice.

I’m dying and nobody cares to notice.

I want to live but I’m dying to die

We are a blank, a void, a nothing

So this is what it’s like. It’s ridiculous to think that it was that easy to let things go. I was delusional.

Weeks have passed since that day. A lot has happened, yet I don’t seem to care as much. In fact, I hardly recall the details. Did any of it even matter?

Days went by and fragmented episodes of that day kept reappearing in my head. Sometimes it hurt, oftentimes it doesn’t. I thought it was because what I felt was mere curiosity. I held pride in having the ability to see through people, to read them easily––and I can’t read him. It bugged me for god knows how long. I thought I liked him then, and it was more than enough to rip my sanity off.

My mornings proceeded like how it normally did, same with the nights. I was getting numb again, and it bothered and calmed me at the same time. It made me think that perhaps, after all, there was nothing beyond that curiosity. Merely, he was a riddle I couldn’t solve. Merely, I was a child that couldn’t get over the missing puzzle piece. Merely, I was attracted to an unfamiliar toy; I was attracted to disasters I haven’t seen; to that rare instance of discovering something that hardly entered my peripheral.

I concluded that maybe, I mistook my obsession with unsolved mysteries for love. There was nothing beyond what you allowed on the surface. I was bored, and I simply needed a story I could tell someone someday, to put into reality the illusions I often created in my head, through you.

There was nothing in you and in me.

We are a blank, a void, a nothing.

I enjoyed the company of pain so much that a slight sting for every minuscule time you hurt me gets romanticized. I was in love with my idea of pain––pain from your supposed indifference, from the lack of requital, from reaching out to something that is impossible to hold onto.

You were merely a mystery, simply a means to an end. Yet you were happiness.
You became anxiety and dependence, yet you were happiness.

I went through everyday thinking I did just as fine as I figured I’d be, but then there you were again, standing sheepishly looking sideways, shyly asking to be played with again. But who wants to play with a useless, old toy? Who wants to re-solve a finished puzzle? Time allowed me to realize that I’m too old for these things, and as much as I want to play I’m not going to enjoy them the same way I used to. At least not anymore.

Was I mad? Was I indifferent? Did I hate you? Do I hate you? I don’t know. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel anything. But I was bored. And I was tired of being numb.

And you resurrected the pain. I recoiled, curled up, and basked in its warmth, as I replayed the agony I felt.

Self-destruction

It’s not that I’m easy to read; it’s that I wanted to be read.

And it could get pretty difficult sometimes, given my dysfunctional disposition.

I got a year older a few days ago, and I don’t really know if I indeed am changing, or just becoming more of who I really am. To be honest, I’m becoming more conflicted with my relationships with other people than otherwise. I used to be clear about who I want to be with and who I trust. I cherish everyone who tolerates my noise and quirkiness.

But now I feel like I don’t know anyone anymore.

I’m having a good time with interesting and fascinating strangers. Not occasionally, but on a regular basis.

Nothing can be more twisted than that, I reckon. I was happy––too happy. It’s a foreign thing to me. It’s not normal.

I always knew that this aversion, reluctance, and confusion stem from my constant fear of happiness. I’ve long thought about it. I was programmed to turn this feeling into some twisted thing or phobia. I’ve had my fair share of disasters following euphoric events—I’m always afraid that every time I get happy, the next day pays for it. Happiness it seemed always had a price. They only let you be this happy if they’re preparing to take something from you.

I know this fear has ruined and is ruining every genuine opportunity to savour these rare times, but I can’t blame myself. This world is cruel.

Am I happy? Yeah, for a little while. For many little whiles.

And I’m not sad.
I’m okay.

And I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Hold onto this

When you’re in love,
the utter brevity of things suffices

Like this

Like the soft smile you gave me unwillingly,
or the short-lived clasping of our hands
before a judgmental crowd.

The slight disappointment on your face
when I said I have to go,
or the silence that came after it.

The post-midnight chill––
the force that pulls me back to you––
and those blind steps which took me
farther and farther away from you.

Or that heart-wrenching pain
when I looked back
and saw your eyes welling in tears.

But tonight,
I drown you in superfluous nonsense,
in ambiguity, in verbosity,
in hopes to evade the true
and only purpose of this.

For once,
I’ll embrace the power and beauty
of silence, of calmness,
and lock you in a warm
and tight hug.

This fighting isn’t getting us anywhere.
You can’t cry forever, curse me forever.

But, let me assure you this

When you’ve exhausted
everything you have––your dreams,
the weight you carried on your shoulders––

I will open your clenched fists
and hold your hands much tighter.

And when everything starts to crumble,
starts to lose its significance,

take refuge in my arms.

They may be slender,
but I will never let you go.