The fault in (my) words

My life lately basically moved in between sleeping, eating, reading, and watching animes. Not that I have a problem with it, but it sure does require some getting re-used to. My senior life in college was practically the opposite of that—I couldn’t stay put in a room, a quiet one at that, and I constantly seek to hang out with my friends and orgmates, or with anyone for that matter.

I’ve become dependent on the company of people, haven’t I?

Well, it seemed like it. Funnily enough, no one believes me anymore whenever I claim to be introverted. Almost everyone thought otherwise. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s a bad thing. Maybe both. Why am I confining the thing in the first place?

But for a moment, I wondered if it was actually the case now. I began hanging out with people I barely knew. I began craving new faces, new voices, new people in my life. The small circle I used to bind myself in began expanding—but, it was a change I’ve acknowledged and realized a long time ago. For some reason the fact overwhelms me again. A matter of restrospection, could it be? It’s only from a restrospective view of things do we realize the full weight of the changes that occurred in and to us, and in everything and everyone around us, after all.

But, I couldn’t distinguish the me now from who I’ve always thought I was. Is this the person I have always been? Or the person I always wanted to be and have finally become?

Did I lose myself, or simply found it?

And yet I wonder if the answer to those even mattered.

I wonder if this thought engagement should be taken as a positive thing, because I only write when I’m lonely. I never learned how to write about happy things, because majority of the words in my vocabulary are associated either with sadness or hatred.

Initially, I wanted to write about Sarah.
I wanted to write about how she doesn’t understand how important she’s become to me, and I will never mean to hurt her.

But I was never good at appreciating people and things.
Or at least, I was never good at expressing appreciation.

I don’t know the right way to keep people, the right way to keep friends, the right way to keep people I hold dear.

Because I always end up destroying everything I love.

You’ve grown on me. I’ve become severely attached to you. You’ve become too important. I was convinced I wasn’t born like everyone who were born in pairs, who needed to find the other pair to be complete, but you came. You came and I thought maybe I needed something, something like ‘the other half’. But these are things I don’t casually tell people, not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how. I was straightforward, but I’m not good with words; I had a knack for confrontations and debates, but I don’t know how to communicate appreciation and gratefulness. I can only communicate sadness.

I don’t know how to properly patch things up without making it worse, without saying things that will only fuel the fire.

How do you make someone understand something you don’t understand yourself?

How do you evade the fallacy and ridicule that comes along with justifying a supposedly wrongdoing?

Is there a better way to put it? A better way to make it understandable and comprehensible?

That the people we loved the most are the ones we were most cruel to?
It doesn’t need logic, does it?

I’m sad.
I’m lost.

I’ve been self-destructing and self-loathing since that day and I’m beginning to lose my mind. I began hating social media. I immersed myself into other things, anime mostly, to steer my thoughts away.

And little by little, I’m beginning to seal the void I thought you were made to fill in.

Little by little, I’m starting to get re-used to this.

Feeling like this.

Feeling nothing.

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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.

You were happiness

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Prompt: I am trying to think of all the times when words didn’t work, and all the times I used pain to remind myself that I am still alive

Every day pass like it didn’t pass. Every day I’m tired. Every day felt restless. Everyday I think of you, and with each day that goes unnoticed, every inch of my existence becomes more agonizing than the previous.

I’m becoming more hollow and empty. So empty I had to inflict my own pain to verify that I’m still alive. I’m practically screwing my life up. I overthink and overanalyze everything. I feel like my inability to confront my problems further aggravated my flawed system of self-consolation. I liked swimming in my idiosyncrasies. I was addicted to my own pain. Eventually it developed to this strange disposition to crying. And more often than not, I find comfort in self-flagellation.

Yet, and yet—the more acute my pain is, the number I get. It dawned on me that maybe I was the one who created this void inside me. It’s odd—I self-inflict because I wanted to feel something; yet I’m becoming numb because I kept hurting myself. I don’t know. It went both ways. It was an endless cycle of numbing and infliction. I numb myself to forget pain. I become numb. Number. And number. Then cry because I can’t feel anything. And when I can’t feel anything, I inflict my own pain. It was a series of irony and contradiction. I was a paradox.

Whenever I become too happy, I sedate myself with thoughts of anxiety and apprehension. I didn’t like being happy—or at least being too happy. I was attached to my pain. I hated it, but it kept me company for too long I appreciated it. It knew me more than anything. I was myself with it. I grew so comfortable with it that happiness makes me uneasy. Happiness is nice, but oftentimes it scares me. It likes to make promises. It brings me to another world, of butterflies and fantasies. It brings me to places of bright and wonder. It acquaints me with hopefulness and buoyancy. But it doesn’t stay for long. It leaves.

It always leaves.

I didn’t like it. I didn’t like being left—hanging suspended; lost, nowhere to go.

The discomfort it gave me sends me running back to pain. Because in pain, I found comfort. There was a degree of constancy. Happiness was inconsistent and spontaneous.

You were happiness.

Do you understand how fragile you’ve made me?

Every day I die because I could feel me fading and you don’t take notice.
Every day I die wishing you would initiate something and you weren’t trying.
Every day I die because you don’t know how much your indifference hurt me.
Every day I die knowing I’m the only one dying.

How come I’m always the one dying?
Why am I always the fool?
Why am I always the one in bed crying?

Why?

Why?

You were there and at the same time you’re not.
You were looking at me and you’re not.
You were talking to me and you’re not.

Am I reflected in your eyes?

Childish hope, childish fear

Tired.
Tired and restless.

I don’t really have much to do because it’s holy week, but I’m tired. I’m mentally tired, and I feel weak physically.

I’ve been moving around the house upon getting up, cooking and doing whatever there is that’s needed to do. I’m alone. Everybody were out somewhere, and i’ll have to spend the night by myself. Not that I’m not used it. I mean, that’s basically an everyday thing to me.

Anyway, I couldn’t function with messy surroundings so I started with cleaning. Then I organized my closet, washed my old shoes and sneakers, prepared stuff that needs to be fixed so I could bring them tomorrow to the mall. I didn’t have to do any of these if I brought my guitar back with me. But well, can’t be helped. My sister couldn’t pick me up, and I don’t want to commute with two heavy baggages.  I did these things anyway so I could feel productive. I don’t like doing nothing. It’s only recently but I always have this urge to seize the day. My hands need something to do. My body needs to keep moving. I need to be busy.

And in the back of my head I know what this implicates.

A coping mechanism.

I don’t know, perhaps some sort of way to move on. God. I hate talking about it. It makes me feel weak. I feel ridiculous, pathetic, and superficial. There’s nothing profound about it. It’s just me, you know, romanticizing every little thing. When none of it were actually real.

It’s stupid to think how half of my teenage years revolved around that silly thing. I wasted my life thinking I could only be happy if it were to work out. Even if it’s just once. Thank God I grew up.

Anyway, I got lost. The purpose of this post is to address this developing feelings towards someone. But then while writing I forgot about it. This post is pointless. I know. I keep jumping from one topic to another. But that doesn’t matter to me right now. I just wanted to write. Thoughts don’t necessarily have to be coherent to make sense – besides, disorganization makes thoughts more authentic.

I’ve been having these thoughts while studying. Probably because of the music playing in the background. Also, I was thinking about you. You, and this seed of feelings that started growing in me for goodness knows when. I was determined, really determined not to leave any clue about these feelings. Partly because I know they don’t mean anything to anyone, and partly because I know where this leads.

I know where this road is going. It’s all too familiar. This is not me being cynical or pessimistic. This is me being logical and rational.

It’s exhausting. This recurring encounter is making me sick to death. You know what I hate about this? It affects every goddamn aspect of my life. I couldn’t control it. I used to be jolly, enthusiastic, and carefree whenever I go to school. My happiness used to be linear, but during the last two weeks it started fluctuating.

Because of you. You.

You fucking happened.

Or more accurately, these feelings happened.

I wanted to conceal it to myself because it’ll eventually be the same thing – letting it out and not letting it out would lead to the same end.

These feelings are going to destroy me.

I’m not even scared of that anymore.

What I’m afraid of is the aftermath. It’ll destroy the friendship along, distort the memories, and warp out important people in my life.

No, it’s not the same as that with the past. In fact, this is… shallow. But it’s beginning to fuck me up. I’m not even going to tolerate the fact that it’s small, because everything starts at the molecular level. I haven’t even recovered from the past. Not that I haven’t moved on, but you know, I feel like I’ve become unable to love the way I used to. That’s the only change that seemed strange to me. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s a bad thing.

Isn’t it awful how it is rather easier for many people to advise others to do things that they wouldn’t otherwise do themselves? I often speak of vulnerability like it’s the core essence of love. I could talk about holding back as an extremely detrimental thing and be passionate in defending it. I tell people to be always honest about how they feel because they don’t know how much that could change another person’s world. I could easily talk about love like it’s the most wonderful and beautiful thing in the world to others. But if it had to involve me, I could quickly slip onto its dark side. I have always been ambivalent about it. Not because I had a fair share of the good and bad side of it (I mean jeez I think 9/10 of it is bad), but because I’ve been holding back that small hope that maybe one day, things will change for me. It’ll be okay. It’s going to work. And I’m going to be happy.

Childish hope, really. Only children are suppose to keep hopes like that.