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

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.