I wake up at four in the morning with a heavy feeling. I stayed on my bed for a minute staring at the ceiling, hoping for its eventual collapse.

But the truth is, it is I who crumble, from the inside, slowly—as if dying, suffocating—but I remain calm and collected as I continue to fix my eyes in the darkness, embracing the unknown. The worst part is always the getting up, the gravity of dragging a body whose purpose died not too long ago. And then those little steps taken blindly as you walk out the room. What are broken bones compared to a broken, broken heart?

Writing about you had always hurt, even until now—fingertips sore yet still fumbling for words. But I will write, especially when it hurts the most at four in the morning. That’s the thing, writing about you never relieves the pain. It resurrects it.

But at least that way I would feel alive.


You were happiness

[Pinned post]

Prompt: I am trying to think of all the times when words didn’t work, and all the times I used pain to remind myself that I am still alive

Every day pass like it didn’t pass. Every day I’m tired. Every day felt restless. Everyday I think of you, and with each day that goes unnoticed, every inch of my existence becomes more agonizing than the previous.

I’m becoming more hollow and empty. So empty I had to inflict my own pain to verify that I’m still alive. I’m practically screwing my life up. I overthink and overanalyze everything. I feel like my inability to confront my problems further aggravated my flawed system of self-consolation. I liked swimming in my idiosyncrasies. I was addicted to my own pain. Eventually it developed to this strange disposition to crying. And more often than not, I find comfort in self-flagellation.

Yet, and yet—the more acute my pain is, the number I get. It dawned on me that maybe I was the one who created this void inside me. It’s odd—I self-inflict because I wanted to feel something; yet I’m becoming numb because I kept hurting myself. I don’t know. It went both ways. It was an endless cycle of numbing and infliction. I numb myself to forget pain. I become numb. Number. And number. Then cry because I can’t feel anything. And when I can’t feel anything, I inflict my own pain. It was a series of irony and contradiction. I was a paradox.

Whenever I become too happy, I sedate myself with thoughts of anxiety and apprehension. I didn’t like being happy—or at least being too happy. I was attached to my pain. I hated it, but it kept me company for too long I appreciated it. It knew me more than anything. I was myself with it. I grew so comfortable with it that happiness makes me uneasy. Happiness is nice, but oftentimes it scares me. It likes to make promises. It brings me to another world, of butterflies and fantasies. It brings me to places of bright and wonder. It acquaints me with hopefulness and buoyancy. But it doesn’t stay for long. It leaves.

It always leaves.

I didn’t like it. I didn’t like being left—hanging suspended; lost, nowhere to go.

The discomfort it gave me sends me running back to pain. Because in pain, I found comfort. There was a degree of constancy. Happiness was inconsistent and spontaneous.

You were happiness.

Do you understand how fragile you’ve made me?

Every day I die because I could feel me fading and you don’t take notice.
Every day I die wishing you would initiate something and you weren’t trying.
Every day I die because you don’t know how much your indifference hurt me.
Every day I die knowing I’m the only one dying.

How come I’m always the one dying?
Why am I always the fool?
Why am I always the one in bed crying?



You were there and at the same time you’re not.
You were looking at me and you’re not.
You were talking to me and you’re not.

Am I reflected in your eyes?