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

Blind side

December 31, 2015
5:45am (drafted post)

About five days ago, Dad came over. He visited us after Christmas to see baby Coleen.

I was glad. I liked talking to Dad once in a while, but I honestly don’t like if he sticks around too long. We talked about many things when he offered to drop Mich and I off in Santolan. But it didn’t actually turn out well. I don’t know. It’s either because I’m too feisty, or his point didn’t come across to me properly. Nonetheless, I don’t like people telling me shit I already know. I don’t like people devaluing my hard work just because theirs didn’t amount to something worthwhile. I don’t like people imposing me their belief system.

I don’t like people preaching around like a damn saint just because they’re claiming to have found their salvation.

It disgusts me.

Dad and I somehow got into an argument because he keeps insisting his opinion, and when I point that out he disclaims it. He started blabbering about this thing between using your heart and brain. Somewhere around the lines “you’ll end up really sad if you only always use your brain”. Don’t know. Numerous clichéd lines you probably know.

It came off as an offense. It felt like he’s trying to tell me that I’m all just about brains, no heart. Jeezus. I don’t even know where he’s getting all the crap he’s saying. He doesn’t know anything about me, about any of us siblings. He’s just a person who happened to have ‘our dad’ label.

And it pisses me off.

That exchange didn’t seem enough when he stayed around for another day in the house, even inviting my young cousin Harris for a drink. He began preaching about some random thing again about courage, and I jokingly corrected his pronunciation. They all laughed, and Ate Ten pointed out, “Taga-UP yan! Haha”, which I didn’t exactly liked. Then Dad started blabbering again about this story about his friend who happened to be from UP as well. He told us about how this certain friend’s intelligence went to his head, and when they had a fight he remembered reciting a couple of supposedly staggering lines to get him through his senses. He kept pointing out that his friend’s being from UP wouldn’t have been possible without his help. And that his intelligence is complete naught if he ain’t street smart, to which Dad accredits himself.

Thing is, it’s the same stupid sequence. He starts blathering on about things he could glorify himself with, and puts down other people for relying on their brains. I didn’t understand. It ticked me off. In fact, Dad is smart. Mom had stories about him in high school when he’d ace exams without studying. And I could tell he is because he has a wide set of vocabulary. And he speaks well.

Is it insecurity, Dad?

That night, I know Dad realized he pissed me off. Because I kind of exploded when he continued his bullshit story. Almost shouting, I exclaimed how I should have just fuck it over with my damn studies if they’re just gonna give me a lot of crap for supposedly being “intelligent”. What the fuck do you want? Weren’t you all the one who wanted me to become who I am now? Weren’t you, lolo, and lola the ones who pressed me into doing all these fuckery now? You all made me think I needed to be somebody when I grow up, and the only way to that is to become who I am now. And now that I am who I am now, you’re giving me that crap? Bullshit.

What I told him wasn’t much, in fact it was short, because I said that in a slightly blind rage. But it was long enough to make him realize he crossed the line.

I vented out on twitter, wondered how pathetic insecure people are, because they’d try to put you down for everything you are, because everything you are is everything they’re not. I know it was mean of me to think of Dad that way, but he really hurt my pride. He didn’t have the right to be proud of me.

Two days after, Dad was back here again. When he arrived, I asked him why he was here, in my attempt to be rude. I know, how immature. Anyway, Ate told me he left his charger so he dropped by. Then I left to meet Dhea in UP Town Center.

A few minutes after arriving back, I found myself fooling around my siblings over Mich’s ridiculously bleached hair. And then Ate Ten mentioned that Dad would probably reprimand Mich if he sees her tonight. Surprised, I asked her if Dad’s staying in. She confirmed it, saying it’s just for the day. I’m guessing Dad went out to hang out with his friends so as to not waste his trip here (he lives in Pampanga, with my grandparents). And then I went acting annoyed. Ate Ten brought up the day when I burst out in front of Dad, told me Dad talked to her that night, saying he was surprised and saddened by how I reacted. To make the story short, I ended up arguing with my sister and her boyfriend about it, both of them insisting that I got it wrong. And Dad was sad. I know Dad is insecure, because I know despite his brains, he didn’t have a good life. He was a drug addict. Grandpa put him into rehab thrice, and was banished many times. I know life fucked him over, but that doesn’t give him the license to behave like that. I can’t help but be angry with him, even for reasons that didn’t involve those certain exchanges. It’s just like me. When this kind of things happen, flashbacks would haunt me. Specifically the bad ones. They always seem relevant when something’s fucking up in my life. I then remembered the days when I was a kid, barely familiar with the world. I was five then, and from school I arrived to a sight of Mom crying quietly in the living room, her neck bleeding; my younger sister screaming and crying apparently locked down in one of our rooms. And then I was seven. I woke up to the sound of two women crying and pleading. Slightly opening the door, I could see Dad throwing punches at mom, who’s apparently trying to cover and protect my then 16-year old eldest sister, who went home at 11pm to Dad’s rage. There were many. I witnessed a lot of things – awful, sad, tragic – when I was young. And almost all of them were times when I’d just stand there quietly, crying because I can’t do anything. My childhood wasn’t particularly happy, but it wasn’t exactly miserable either. To be fair, there are good memories with Dad. We were happy once. There were a lot of pictures of us looking really happy and content. I don’t know. Drugs fucked him up. And it broke our family.

And then Ate and Karl told me that it must be really difficult for Dad to deal with those insecurities because he knew he wasn’t able to fulfill his role as a father to us, and maybe it’s eating at him. And perhaps, whenever he gets together with his friends, they ask about us and he couldn’t say anything because he doesn’t really know anything. Maybe he didn’t expect us, especially Mom, to get through everything despite him abandoning us. Maybe he was drowning in regret, and this was the least he could do.

How much of it do I don’t understand, really?

Somehow, after that, my anger faded. And I’m writing this. Because I’m sad.

I’m sad for a lot of reasons. And I’m still trying to figure them out.

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.