Monday, February 16, 2015

If I knew.

If you knew that that time you said goodbye to someone and agreed to not see each other anymore is really the last time, would you still have gone on with the hard headed decision to go live what you think is a better, fuller life without him? Or would you have tried to make things work? Would you have appreciated his fucked up, weed-craving soul more? Would you have loved the familiar pat-turned-knuckle on your head?

I wouldn't know, really. Maybe if I didn't choose to walk away life would've been different. I wouldn't be where I am now, with who I am. This is life. It's filled with inconsistencies, mysteries, doubts, what-ifs. I don't regret being at this point of my life right now. I've been asked if I'm truly happy, and the answer is yes, yes I am.

All I know is not leaving would mean me being stuck there, in a cycle of depression and self-harm amidst people who is just like me. I've been there for years, ever since I got to know them, and as much as there were moments that I loved, I knew that those moments are few and far between. I was in denial. They were the only friends that I ever truly had, who I think really understood me for the person that I am. I think a big part of me never wanted to let go because walking away means putting down everything that I have, starting anew, and I wasn't prepared for it.

Then one day I just realized it. They were sleeping, and I was awake. I've been awake for so many nights, looking at all these people, thinking to myself how we got to where we are. And I knew. I couldn't do this anymore. These few years I've spent thinking that no matter what I've these people to fall back into, and instead, I've been falling into a dark abyss none of them wanted me to leave from. As ironic as it may sound, I felt a beckoning to leave, to not do this anymore.

And that's what it took. I left. Walked away. And with me no longer around, they left too. And with that, the memories that we had. The times we spent together talking like there's no tomorrow. The times where I cried and they were pissed off that I'm allowing other people the power of making me cry. The times where we went on secret road trips to places that even now I'm yearning to go, over and over again. The sunsets and sunrises that we spent staring at, bottles of beers in our hands, wishing that these days would last longer.

I miss them, I really do. But sometimes people just grow in different directions, and there's no way these branches of road could weave back into one without causing much disruptions.

Your mum reads my blog.

Sunday, February 15, 2015


I've been having nightmares. Lots and lots of them. Sometimes I remember them, so detailed, so clearly that I could remember every person, every word, every action, every feeling that I felt in the dream. Sometimes I wake up in cold sweats, breaths heavy, heart racing, and yet the only thing that I could remember is the faint memory of being afraid.

I don't know... maybe I'm just stressed out from work, and that stress is translated into my dreams. Sometimes I dream about messing up at work, doing the wrong things, getting scolded. I guess that's just me stressing myself out too much just cause I want to be perfect.

Or maybe I'm just being paranoid. I dream of my boyfriend leaving me, I dreamed about my friend and I arguing, I dreamed about my ex, I dreamed about so many people, acquaintances, strangers... Sometimes they aren't nightmares, but it feels so real that it's just impossible for my mind to grasp the full meaning of the dream.

And then sometimes the dreams are just plain horrible. Ghosts, monsters, dying, getting hurt. It's funny how on days like these where I'm getting happier, more content, but my mind seems to hate it and torture me in my dreams because my consciousness wouldn't let it overpower me during the day.

Because I'm having all these nightmares, I get tired even throughout the day. It's as if I can never get enough sleep. I wake up feeling just a bit refreshed. Hahaha. I feel so old now. Unlike the me that I was a year ago. Oh well. It's a part of growing up, I guess.

Your mum reads my blog.

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Two months in.

It's now the second week of February. And here I am, typing.

It's like a rut, this whole blogging thing. I abandon my blog for months, and I no longer know where to start. Do I talk about what have happened during the past months that I went AWOL? Though I'm pretty sure no one really cares to know. Or do I just start all over, start writing, noting down thoughts, experiences?

When I first started writing, it was a way to spend my time. I won't lie, I'd hoped to be a famous blogger, paid to write advertorials while doing what I love and inspire people around me at the same time. And then this blog turned into a personal diary, one that not a lot of people read anymore, but those who mattered to me still read it and they were able to understand me even better through my writing than my words.

Well, eventually that personal diary turned into an ammunition of some sort. People, criticizing my life, the way I live it, the darkness in me, the light I try to shine on everyone else. Accusations of being fake popped up, from my ex, from my university mates, from acquaintances... I never said that I'm perfect; heck, I know I'm not. And I am the things that I write; I won't deny it. But does that justify the blatant criticism, the smirk, the pretense of understanding me?

I've had bouts of silence throughout my blogging years. Silence because somehow, me trying to inspire people backfired and ended up with people judging me. Even so, I've also had people come up to me and ask if I'm okay, and for that, I'm truly grateful. I've had people email me, telling me that I helped them, that my writing elevated the pain, and because of that, I continued writing.

Toxic thoughts, irrational views, senseless rants, I sometimes feel like this is what it turning to be all about, you know? And I loved it. I loved writing toxic, irrational, senseless stuffs. Heck, this post is turning out to be one.

I can't deny it though, there's always an itch to write. I'd wake up in the middle of the night with this yearning to write, but, the truth is, nowadays a pen and paper seems to be easier to reach than a laptop and typing. Maybe, just maybe I'd go back to trying to revive this blog. Now that I'm no longer in that self-loathing phrase, maybe the uninspired side in my writing is changing.

Until I write again.

Your mum reads my blog.
Or does she?