that’s the tragic thing about humans, you see
no matter how much you’ve done for them
they will only remember you
for that one wrong thing
you’ve ever done


Freefall, freedom

It just really is nice to think about killing yourself sometimes. It’s nice to think what people might have to say when you’re gone. It’s nice to think that you won’t have to deal with any of these anymore.

I don’t know if it’s getting worse, but I only get this kind of attacks past midnight. But they’re happening as early as 6pm now. I contemplate about dying. I contemplate about disappearing all of a sudden. I contemplate about cutting the rope, about giving up that tree branch that kept me from falling off the cliff.

It’s nice. I get a distinct kind of ecstasy from thinking about suicide. Because then I won’t have to think. Then I won’t have to feel. Then I won’t have to see how things end. How things change from better to worse.

I don’t want to have to deal with anything. I want to sleep. And I don’t want to deal with whatever the next morning has to offer.

I’m tired.

Pointless. Boring. Stupid. Repetitive. The same lessons learned. The same lessons unlearned. The same lessons relearned. The same lessons but the world does not change. It still tries to destroy you. It teaches you new things only to test new ways to torture you.

I don’t want any of these anymore
I don’t want to need to be understood
I don’t want to need to understand anyone

I don’t want to think
I don’t want to feel

Remove my chains
Let me fall off the cliff

That’s where this is going anyway
One day, I’m going to have to kill myself
So just kill me now

Just let me die

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.

New document

You became so desperate for acceptance you tried to be acceptable

Said things you don’t usually say
Said things you did not mean
Followed conventions, stifled your inner voice

You became what you hated
This isn’t you at all

Rebuild again
Recreate yourself
Strip this version away
And replace it with someone new

I will not find validation for my existence from people
I don’t want to have to feel significant via social media
I don’t want to care whether or not I’m lagging behind all of them

I want my peace
I’ll create another me

Replace, replace, replace

White abyss

A day unnoticed. Again. Every day passes unnoticed.

Sadness, unreasonable sadness. I am enveloped within a childish kind of sadness. I am weak, oversensitive, and hyperaware of everything. I crumble at every failure made. I curl up at every mistake committed. I always try to get myself back up by reminding me that happy people focus on what they have.

But the gap, the void, the space, the hollowness, they’re glaring at me yet again. I am okay. I am okay to an extent that can be called happy, but depression peeked over my shoulders feeling left out.

Why do I feel lost again
Why am I so obsessed with being sad

I always manage to get my life together and somehow, I always manage to flip it a day after. I am already contented. I am satisfied with how things are working out. It wasn’t perfect –-– there are many areas for improvement, but I no longer feel that bad about being like this.

I do not know how it’s called. How this is called.

An imagery. A garden where everything and everyone is elated. Colors everywhere; Humor ran around while Serenity rest content seated on the grasses, feeling the cool breeze. Happiness, of course, was the most prominent feeling in the garden. It radiated cheerfulness as bright as the sun. But, looking disquieted, he stood at a corner gazing at the direction where Sadness hid–––as if an older sibling concerned about the insecure and ignored little brother. And, as if stricken with guilt, he stepped out of the garden––-now leaving me seated at the center of this white abyss, across Sadness.

It skipped and hummed while it drew shadows, satisfied that he finally had the garden’s attention. The garden which he now bleached colorless. Both Humor and Serenity have gone out of sight–––but came Sarcasm and Emptiness to keep us company. Emptiness is peaceful like Serenity, he whispered, and that Sarcasm can replace Humor’s entertainment. It smiled, as if to assure me;

and though a faint one,

I responded likewise

with eyes cast down.

Thinking how disappointing it was

to have let it become selfish