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.

Backdoor

I’m running away again.
Running away again.
Running away again.
Running away again.

All I ever do is run
All I ever do is escape

I’m masking over my cowardice with arrogance

My fear of loneliness with sternness

My fear of happiness with coldness

I’m getting more and more pathetic each day

Look what it’s done to me

Experiencing happiness
Experiencing great company
Experiencing actual appreciation from people
Experiencing life outside my zone

It dulled me
It rendered me weak and vulnerable
I’ve become dependent on people
And now I’m barely standing on my feet

Barely familiar with the little world I used to live in

I’m becoming lonely again
It’s becoming bad again
My rationality’s becoming clouded
I’m choosing the wrong decisions again

I wanted the peaceful life
I wanted quiet
But my arrogant and aggressive personality
Will never give me that peace

I was fated to become a dictator hated by everyone
A dictator feared rather than loved
A dictator alone and lonely

Quietly, the darkness starts to envelop
Slowly, I retreated back to my shell

Here shall be safe
You’re alone but you’re safe
You’re lonely but you’re safe
No one will love you
But no one will hurt you either

Here is safe

Grey in the rainbow

Indifference is a scary thing.

It fucks you up on the inside out, and without a clue, it starts taking everything away from you.

I was grateful about being indifferent to what others have to say about me. It was some kind of freedom, something I’ve always wished I could be. But I didn’t think it’s going to extend its effects to other things.

I’m becoming indifferent to my studies, my grades, and sometimes even to my friends. I am breathing and existing, but I’m not sure those words were synonymous to living. I go on with life with not much of anything getting done, and I stop halfway with realizations alone.

I don’t know. I’m an inch away from getting totally disinterested about everything. The results of the elections do not bother me at all. I don’t have strong emotions for or against anyone. I watch everyone get worked up about their lives, and I rest content with the normality of my breathing pattern, or the rate with which my heart beat.

I didn’t care about anything, but I guess I was believable enough to make everyone think I give a shit. I’m lifelessly walking a crowded road of colorful people, a colorful sea of humans laughing, grieving, and protesting. I was grey, and they were full of colors. Full of emotions. I watched them callously, wondered about the hollowness expanding within me, and walked away. That’s what I do. At least that’s what I’ve been doing the moment I realized I could simply walk away from all these. I was tired of humans. I was tired of getting angry. Of being happy. Of ricocheting between being happy and pretending to be. I was tired of my sadness, tired of distinguishing which is real and isn’t. I was tired of the crazy dynamic life had. I was tired, period.

I always thought I was brave, not fearless. There was a difference.

But now I’m beginning to think I am the latter. I couldn’t feel anything. Not sadness. Not happiness. Not fear. I don’t have the kind of will I thought I used to have, suppose that I did have it.

This stupid self-analysis is starting to exhaust me as well.

I’m tired.

I’m tired.

Dissonance

My depression hasn’t been around for a while now, but when it comes it sure does a lot of damaging to my brain.

How odd. How odd it is to feel everything and nothing at the same time. I don’t understand how sadness can come out of nothing, nor how people can feel exactly opposite things simultaneously. The only thing I know is that this kept happening to me. And I’m always left feeling unable to distinguish what’s real from what isn’t.

I’m always conflicted about how I should deal with things when shit suddenly decides to blow up. Voices, there are too many voices inside my head. The emotional and the logical one. The quiet and the talkative. The friendly and the snob. Happy and lonely. Each of them siding on two opposing entities; bluntly put, between who I am, and who I wanted people to think I was.

I’m always torn between protecting the peaceful life I have, and speaking up to rectify the bullshit being paraded right across my face––-I see things, I understand, and I keep quiet about them–-–as much as I want this to be the case, the urge to do the latter becomes stronger whenever I realize people see the same stupidity but choose to keep quiet. I cannot not do anything.

I can’t. It’s stifling. I can’t just shut up even if it is the better option.

And that’s some serious problem.

I am unable to enjoy the “peaceful” life because I keep getting into trouble. I keep getting hated, being made fun of for saying what everyone couldn’t. I keep thinking about the damage I made and how people will try to get back at me. I think about, just every thing.

I am in dire need of a peaceful life but this deadly urge to correct the bullshit every time just makes it a glaring impossibility.

There will always be this vexing disharmony between what I want and what I do.

A feeling long forgotten, trapped in a memory

Note: The names are changed. (Still undone)

Last night, when Sarah and I were reflecting about our lives, a realization hit me.

It was 2am. We were talking about a lot of things. We were pondering on every stupid thing we did and were about to do, when we started discussing the consequences of confessions.

Yep, confessions.

She had planned to confess to Peter the following week. Her feelings have become toxic to her. She overthinks and overanalyzes everything nonstop, and it’s becoming destructive. She never tires of creating conclusions based on far-fetched assumptions and incomplete information, despite realizing it’s to her own detriment. She needed answers. And she bothers Beth and I a lot. Way, way, lot.

But the thing is, what we have were merely conjectures like her own. We don’t know Peter the way she does. And Peter alone has the answers she’s looking for. Does he feel the same? He probably has a clue, right? Why is he awkward? Why did he ignore me that day? He thinks I’m being stupid, right? Maybe he doesn’t even care? But why won’t he talk to me? God, you go add to the sequence. It’s the same stupid questions you’ve probably thought of or came across yourself. I’m guessing it’s driving her insane because her feelings felt too foreign, and it’s overwhelming her.

Beth and I advised her to confess already because that’s the only step she has to move forward. Her world has stopped. She couldn’t study, she couldn’t do anything because he fills up her mind. (Oh, how familiar. Overly at that) She would argue that it’s too early, that she’s not even sure about how she feels yet, and Peter might think she’s ridiculous. Trust me. There’s no talking her out of this. It’s gotten exhausting, actually. Calming and consoling her can get pretty tiring. We always had to rationalize things for her, as if everything always has to make sense. Every tiny detail about that night when she developed feelings for him, I got completely covered. We’ve basically dissected every word uttered and every movement made then. I can seriously write a novel about that one night, basically a shit ton of overanalysis of gestures and semantics, and details distorted due to heavy overthinking. I don’t even know why I carry this burden. Humans call this friendship.

Anyway, while on our beds, we were contemplating about the implications of whatever response he’d give her. The other day, she told me that Peter might accept her feelings thinking that she’d be a “waste”. She’s got a point—of course, under the assumption that Peter never got a confession before. After a couple more exchanges, I concluded that whether he returns her feelings or not, she’s damned either way. She’s still going to dissect whichever response he gives her. Although she could be right about the ‘waste’ part.

Because it’s how it is for most people, right?

When you find out someone out there sees you the same way you see someone you like, it makes us happy. It is elating and fulfilling. You’d think you were doing something right. You were doing something beautiful. It makes us even more happy when that person gathers up the courage to confess, because not everyone has the guts to do that.

But sometimes, how we respond to those feelings can render us selfish. We liked it. We liked the thought of someone being invested in us. We liked the thought of being important, of being the center of someone’s universe. Some of them even put us on a pedestal. And sometimes, though indirectly, or unintentionally, we end up giving them false hopes. We make them wait. We take advantage of their vulnerability.

They are left hanging, suspended on the unknown—just so we don’t lose them. We knew it was selfish. We knew. But we don’t want to lose them.

Or more accurately, we don’t want to lose the beauty, the importance, or the wonderful things they attribute to us. We don’t want to lose that feeling of being special. It’s understandable.

We circled around that topic when my confession to George crossed my mind. To be honest, I have moved on and forward — suffice it to say that since that day, I have become better. But I’m not happy for him. In fact, sometimes I want him to regret not choosing me. All that for my ego, though. It’s not because I still have emotional investments.

And then I realized that whenever I think of him, or talk about him, all I remember was everything he was after the bad things occurred. That night, it dawned me that after the confession, I barely remembered the reasons why I liked him. I barely remembered the good things about him, or the memorable things he did and we did together.

Like how, randomly, he would text me just to tell me that the moon that night is stunningly beautiful. He knew how much I loved the moon. He knew how much invested I was in the stars.

Or when he was dismissed in class and instead of going straight to the tambayan, he would sit with me on the bridge strangely carrying a washtub. He would pester me, and I’d be just happy talking to him.

Or when he’d withdraw and ask me to tag along, and then we’ll walk around the oval debating on the philosophy of confessing. Little things. We talked about life a lot. We talked about a lot of things. We talked about everything, and it felt like a lifetime would not be enough to talk about the things we could. You do not meet a lot of people who you could naturally and intellectually share your sentiments about the world with. Just like what Celine said in Before Sunset, when we’re young we think we’d connect with many people—later in life we’d realize it only happens a few times.

And we could ruin it, you know. Misconnect. 

I guess he was someone I really connected with. And misconnected.

 

I forgot.

I forgot how and what I actually felt for him after the confession.

Now, my feelings are raining on me.

Now, it dawned on me that I actually, immensely, profoundly, really liked him. For everything he was. For everything he had been.

But everything he did and everything he was after the confession blindsided me into thinking that he was simply a puzzle I preoccupied myself with because I was bored. That I did not like him—I was bored, I was just bored. And that I mistakenly—or subconsciously—chose to de-bore myself with a mere douche, a conceited jerk who’s completely naive of his own egotism and narcissism.

He was a douche.
But he was a douche along other things.

He was the person I liked, the person I admired, the person who made me happy. He was the person who once made every waking moment meaningful.

And the same was with everyone I decided to remove in my life. They were toxic along other things.

That night, I slept with tears wetting my pillow.
I slept wondering what it is that I have forgotten, what it is that memory has resurrected.

It was a feeling long forgotten, trapped in a memory buried deep in my insides, imprisoned, meant to be locked up for goodness knows how long.

Whatever it is, however, the fact remains that George is just a memory now, a small memory now relegated to the past. And it shall stay there.

Asunder

How do you put your dripping tears down into words?
How do you sing a melody without lyrics?

How do you type the bloody nothingness streaming out of your guts?

How?

How?

How do you describe a pain that’s undescribable? That is unspeakable? That leaves you gasping for air? That tears you asunder and leaves you crumbling back into an abyssal limbo?

I don’t know, but I just did that, didn’t I?

I don’t even know what I’m typing
What I’m writing
What I’m thinking

The only thing reverberating in my head now is that I want to escape my mind

My mind is crumbling

Help me

Help