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.

Perspective

I think the great thing about long trips on the way home is that you get to see so many things—you witness how different lives transpire around you, what other people’s everydays seem like, and how everyone go about living their lives.

And sometimes you just realize how good you already have it.

How completely fortunate you had life, with pangs of guilt striking you from all directions. You get a wider view of life and you can only be grateful of how blessed you are.

Unlike when you’re just meters away from your place. It’s a lot different in a smaller world. I always had short trips on my way to my boarding house, so I hardly witness anything. The only cool thing I’m always fortunate to do is gaze up at the dim sky while walking, looking for the moon, wondering about the same inconsequential things.

Like how it’d be like walking with you on the same road, side by side, talking about what transpired through the day.

Like how it’d be like listening as you go about grumbling over every wrong thing going on in your life.

Like how it’d be like to laugh with you at the same old jokes, at the same trivial instances, for the same lame reasons.

Like how it’d be like knowing you’re gazing up at the same sky, thinking about these things too.

I know, I know. You’re probably the voice at the back of my mind telling me how disgusting I sound right now.

But that doesn’t make it less true—especially when you’re a sentimental being used to your reclusive world. When you’re alone, and when you’re hardly reminded of how good you already have it, you’re a lot more disposed into thinking about how wrong you’re having it.

Walking is something I really like doing, because it’s always a good opportunity to mull over and reflect on myself and my attitude towards life. But the small world I’m trapped in forces me contemplate about what I don’t have, what I can’t have, what I should have said, what I should have done, what I could have been, what I shouldn’t have been, and the list goes on.

I keep on looking for loopholes that I forget to be happy and grateful with how things are going for me right now.

Why is it so easy for us to find reasons to think we have it all wrong when we have it all too well?

Trapped would come off as a negative way of looking at it, but sometimes that’s how I feel inside this four cornered room. Ironically though, I somehow feel some sort of peacefulness dominating my entirety. But instead of pondering on how to better my life, how to maintain a good disposition, how to make good use of my fortunes, I can’t help but slip into the dark side of my life. I hate people. I think of the various inconsequential things that people say and do and criticize them. I think about the people who open up to me and their problems, and wonder why I act like the receptacle that I am right now.

People opening up to me was not something I was never used to. But lately I’ve been thinking about how this whole advising thing is working for me. To understand these people and to give them the most appropriate advice, I try to put myself on their shoes. Take their feelings all in. Let their negativities sink in me. And tadah—I understand.

And that’s the problem. I always understand.

To quote from Ernest Hemingway’s Winner Takes Nothing:

I understand. That’s the trouble. I understand. I’ll understand all the time. All day and all night. Especially all night. I’ll understand. You don’t have to worry about that.

Somehow this puts me under a lot of pressure, stress and coercion. I UNDERSTAND. I needed to. And even without the necessity, I always end up understanding. I gather up a mountainous load of things to reconsider and reflect on, and sometimes I either end up being consumed by their emotions, or being numbed. Because I understand. I understand. I understand.

Listening and understanding became my always. And somehow it required me being empty. So no biases. No prejudice.

I wanted to fix broken people. Broken hearts. Broken self esteems. But they said you cannot save people, you can only love them. But I didn’t have the latter to offer, so I tried to save them anyway.

I didn’t know why I wanted to do that. Why I was so passionate to help people about things I completely have nothing to do about. I never thought of it as altruism because I don’t conceive of myself that way. Gross. And then I thought, maybe it has something to do with my pain, with my own wretched soul, with my own dreadful existence.

And then at one point it hit me.

I thought trying to fix broken people can heal my brokenness

… but I ended up breaking myself further.

The realization crept up on me while I was walking the dark, silent roads in my university, and tears started dripping down my cheeks.

What a ridiculous train of thought. How could I have thought of things this way? How the hell did it boil down to this utter moronity?

I looked around me and thought, maybe it’s this four cornered room. Maybe my world is too small. Maybe I’m not seeing enough people and enough things. I keep on looking at how wrong I have it when I have it all too well.

Understanding, brokenness… Good way to sum it all up, self.

I should probably just get the fuck up.

Price

After a long time, I finally had some time to get back to my old self. I feel like a child again. It’s pretty sad that this happy feeling doesn’t last, and I’m usually stuck at that point in my life where I’m simply just motivated to do a lot of things, and I don’t make a lot of effort to inch forward.

Phew. I don’t know. Movies, a little practice on photoshop, checking out animes, playing with our dogs, learning new songs with my guitar, nonstop attempt on singing and shit. That’s all I do. And none of these things were in my initial to-do-list this vacation. I wanted to be productive. I wanted to hone my graphic making skills. I wanted to learn a lil bit of videography. I wanted so much of the things that would pamper my ego, and that would at least make me feel less inferior to him. Because I’m feeling so small, so small now… Like I was a-good-for-nothing idiot. I thought I’ve made it in here because I was doing just great in life. I studied in the highest university. I worked hard. I didn’t have vices. I put off things that would hinder me from being successful. I wrote off my own dreams to concentrate on my course. I didn’t go to a lot of parties. I shut out a lot of people. I did almost anything to uplift the image and honor I’ve established ever since I was a kid. The kind of honor my sisters couldn’t give Mom, because I thought they were useless and worthless.

And now I’m beginning to think I chose the wrong path. I’m the lone person here that isn’t happy. Honor and excellence. I thought I was doing everything right. I wanted it more than anyone. And yet I’m here. Drowning. Suffocated by own decision of isolation. I was there already—I felt the advantage of being different. Or more accurately, in my perspective back then, being distinct.

I guess that was my reward for being alone. Or putting it another way, I guess being alone was the price.

And I’m not happy. I’m no longer happy.

Yet I feel like no one can hurt me anymore. Because I have nobody. I don’t have anyone I love left.

It had to be you

I’m on the verge of flunking this subject, yet I still found time to toss that aside and think of you.

I think about everything I’ve been through, and the things that led to you.

And then it hit me.

Did I ever mean anything to you?

I’ve thought about it—reasons. All possible detrimental reasons to stop this—to stop feeling like this, to stop making a fool out of myself. I’ve thought about every ridiculous thing to convince myself to just give it up. But it amounted to nothing. Wala eh. I’m still hoping. I’m still hoping everything you did in the past actually meant something, that it’s not just me reading too much into them, that overanalyzing them wasn’t a waste. And that you’re just as scared as I am. And that we are a lot alike. And that I cross your mind every now and then. And that sometimes you wonder about me. And that you’re thinking about these things too. And that sometimes you miss me like I miss you.

And that you love me like I love you.

Say something

Taking great measures to destroy every ounce of hope taking form within me; every thought and possibility that this—that—was meant to mean something.

Because I remember what screwed things up for me in the past months; what screwed me up in the past years of my life.

Assumptions. False hopes.

They were what created bitches and assholes. They were what ruined friendships. They were everything detrimental. And if you let yourself get caught up by the pitfalls you become what you hated.

And you’ll become what I hated.

I’m not going to look deeper into these. I’m not going to think they meant anything. I’m not going to wistfully wait for the uncertain. I’m not going to hope for the unknown. I’m not going to think I’m special. I’m not going to second-guess your actions. I’m not going to analyze what you have to say.

I’m not going to remember anything.

—-

unless you say something