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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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.

On my own

I can’t help but feel useless.
Everyday I get up. Everyday I get out of my bed, only to further realize my augmenting insignificance. None of it made sense. None of these is making sense. I continue to wake up feeling more lonely each day. I wasn’t happy with myself. Neither when I was with other people. I’m not happy when I’m home. And only yesterday when I realized that I wasn’t happy with my best pals either. Although I laughed and joked around with them. Although I provided the comical vibe. I don’t even talk to Mom anymore. She wasn’t trying either. But that’s okay. Who am I to complain, I wasn’t doing anything that great for the person who gave me everything I needed and didn’t. All I did was pursue an honor that was meaningless in the long run. I poured my life to learning and education. I gambled my happiness for something I thought was eternal tranquility. I was blind. And now I don’t even have many friends. My siblings said I didn’t have friends because I am exactly like this. And heartbreaking enough, my mom says that a lot too. Haha, like you understand. I thought you were the only one who understood me. Turned out not even you.

This feels a whole lot like living to die. The thought neither pains me nor comforts me. Why do I feel like I ran away from happiness despite presumably thinking that it was right within reach? Maybe I should have just lived for the moment. What of the future, I’m not even sure if I could live up to it. Maybe I should just do what I want. What of the honor and praise, that doesn’t, after all, make me any more deserving of Mom’s love. UP blinded me. I gave the community more attention than myself. Why do I carry the burden of assuring that the unprivileged have it or will have it together soon, or someday? Why do I have to care about their well-being? Why do I have to put other people’s happiness before me? Why wasn’t I happy even after everything I did for this stupid world? Even after venturing on a significant existence? Why does it feel like none of my hardwork paid off? Why do I feel like all of my hardships were useless? Why? Why, God?

Why am I unhappy when I did everything right? Am I not entitled to become happy?

Why don’t you just let me die?

Right. Why won’t I just die.
Trying was proved senseless.
This is not living.
This is just not being dead. Physically.

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.

Homeless

I thought this vacation would do me great because I could finally freshen up and rest. Especially after last semester.

But nothing went right the past few days. The past weeks. And I’m beginning to think I’m better off away from home. I realized that seeing my siblings once in a while is a whole lot better than living with them. My life is in constant chaos. I’m emotionally fucking up, and I’m getting really, really, bad. Again. So I resort to writing. At least this calms me down a bit. Although I’m not really sure about what I’m writing.

Last night I exploded.

I cleaned the fridge before preparing my own dinner because I didn’t like what’s prepared. I was talking to mom on Skype, while reading a book, when my eldest sister stormed the room and began asking me about her retainers. And then she mentioned about the fridge and shit and hastily blamed me for her lost retainers. And began cursing at me. What the fucking hell even. I told her I checked the goddamn bags before throwing them away, because I took note of her retainers. She muttered something before slamming the door close. I can still hear her grumbling then. Mom did not hear anything. She left to get something, leaving her earphones plugged. I sent her a message and told her what happened. My eldest sister went inside the room. Fast forward. I began shouting. Uncontrollably. I lost my temper. She kept calling me derogatory terms, and I continuously shot back by repeatedly calling her a bastard. I was exploding. Literally. And that was the first time in a long time. I did not cry though. But my voice was shaking. I was shouting at her wide eyed. My two sisters interfered and they ended up fighting as well. Mom couldn’t get in between us. My sister said she wanted to beat me up. Then she started crying. I went too far. I said something considered taboo among us siblings. But I lost it. I wanted to hurt her as much as she hurt me. I put on my earphones because I didn’t want to listen to her and her stupid drama—I didn’t want to listen to that conversation with Mom. Of course she’d justify herself. Of course this is going to be one-sided, because I rarely talk about my side. I know I’d come out at fault here anyway because I made her cry, and I crossed the line. Mom knows I say the most hurtful things. I didn’t want—or need—to explain. Who’d listen? Who’d believe me? Besides I’ve basically established an image in the family—at least to Mom’s eyes—the one with an antagonistic disposition. I was too different. And it wasn’t in a good sense. At least to me. It was 5am. Mom baded goodbye, my sister shut down the laptop. I was on my bed with my book and laptop, loud music blasting my ears. I was still staring at the page where I stopped, reading the same lines over and over. I couldn’t understand anything. My two other sisters were already asleep. The eldest was headed to bed. I continued reading. I didn’t want to think of anything. I finished the book at around 7am. I switched my laptop off, which was on for no reason. I removed my earphones. I stared into the darkness. Fuck it. Everything my eldest sister said flashed back in. And it dawned on me. They didn’t like me here. In fact, they prefer me being away. It makes sense. Whenever I come back, I only have Baro to welcome me. I thought I was beginning to be less bad, beginning to like my siblings. I was happy with my family. All content and grateful.  I thought they started liking me too. And then this happened. In an instant, I went back to square one. I guess everything I believed in were merely in my head. My hatred towards them resurfaced. Lies. Everything Mom relayed to me about them began shaping into lies. I cried. Only for a while. I stayed on my bed the next morning. They were helping my cousin repaint our walls in the living room. I went out and chitchatted with my two other sisters. The eldest was out to buy paint. I went back to the room. Checked my phone, found three messages from Mom. Reprimanding me. Told me to apologize. Obviously I didn’t, and I had no plans to. Hours later, all of them were painting. I was still in the room. I went out, and turned out I was only a nuisance. I couldn’t help them, I have other plans. I needed to take a bath, but my younger sister was painting the door in the bathroom. She started acting annoyed when I asked her to step aside. My other sister too, because plainly I was being a bother, and I wasn’t even helping. I took a bath anyway. Went back to the room. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I packed my stuff, all set to head to my boarding house to stay there. Tears dripped down my cheeks. I worked my way out anyway. I didn’t say bye to anyone. When I was already headed for the gate, the second to the eldest called me and asked where I’m headed. I muttered ‘basta’ and hurried away. I went back home anyway. Fast forward. I’m on my bed, typing this in the dark, they were all in the living room. Talking to Mom. Happy.

No place like home? Yeah right.

I guess I don’t have one.