If I actually say it. If I actually write it. It means its done. That shouldn’t be such a bad thing, because its done anyway. If I’ve started coming to the conclusion that some things are better left unknown, and unsaid. But they are known, and those words have been said.
So why is part of my heart still fighting for you?
I stand here with steady feet, at the point where land and sea meet. I have myself, and myself is complete. Alone, and I do not care, myself is enough to tolerate from here to there. Two feet, two hands, heart solitary. On two shoulders, are my own burdens to carry. I have no wish for my day to rain less, just that I might shed consciousness painlessly. Endlessly the land stretches beneath me, the sky fills my eyes perpetually. I am at peace with my being, but still need direction. Where I must go, must be a careful selection. Because one step is enough momentum to engrave my course, and from my path, I can never divorce. So I’m immovable, here at the point where land and sea meet. Too vacillant to step forward, too prideful to retreat.
Breathe. The world won’t stop at your beckoning – it twirls and turns until you become confused with the reorganization. Reboot. You’ve been kicked in the gut several times but life will still go on; you just have to move and deal with the outcome because try as you might to get even, chances are it will never remake what has been damaged. When things go awry – when things seem out of place – and you seem out of sync with your thoughts, breathe. Just breathe. We live in an eternal reality series that have no ending, only tweaked plots depending on how you want to play it, each of us reliving the same old cycle but in a different circumstance. Reboot. Everything is falling apart: your plans fail, your heart torn into a million pieces, and when the most practical solution is to just quit, breathe. Reboot. When everyone says that they want you to succeed but innately wishes you otherwise, breathe. People will judge you superficially. They can’t wait to cause hell. But just breathe.
In the end, you still go on. You’re still alive. Torn and defeated but nonetheless breathing. Show them that you’re breathing with a smirk on your face and let them have a piece of what they don’t expect. Just breathe.
i am who i am. i said what i felt. even if it was irrational. even if it was overzealously articulated out of sheer frustration. i am me.
i will not apologize for feeling what i felt (or will ever start to) or how i choose to feel it. i am not fueled by reasons. i am a machine of my emotions – its acceleration depends how happy or how angry i’ll get.
Let go. Hold on. It’s either one or the other. Choosing either one over the other. Where will I be happier.
If it’s any easier, I should be happy by now. Not this corpse trying to live by each day. Barely able to work through each day. Drained out of all the energy I once had.
It’s strange how a single person can affect you; how he can change your life. And you’re too willing to give him all that you have. But still it seems, it isn’t enough for him. I don’t know if there ever will be some enough for both of us.
He gave up. Surrendered. Walked away. Left. Giving me the answer that hurt too much.
And I said okay. Sulked a little. Cried to get by.
Then move on. Dealing with life. Taking everything. Repairing.
Then he pulls me back. Just when you’re happy. Just when you’re on the verge of forgetting. And it gets harder.
He maybe worth the fight. But I know couldn’t fight forever.
I don’t know.
…i’m drunk. can you come and get me?..
It took several bottles of liquor to give in. To even ask that of him. A few more and it was an absolute surrender. I even surprised myself on how much audacity it took to send that first message, to even admit he still is a much part of me.
And the replies somehow kissed more the sadness that I was already feeling. It was some sort of vindication that urge to drink more than I can handle. A rebellious effort to release him from my thoughts; to at least pretend that I am able to forget him.
Although I anticipated the answers, it didn’t make the pain hurt any less. It’s just sometimes, no matter how often we deny it or how often we accept it, we expect more from others because we’d be willing to do that much for them.
It wasn’t about how I was getting home, it was entirely about who I wanted to take me home. Drunk that I was. Just to see if he cared enough. Because I still cared enough even when others cared enough about me. He was the one that mattered.
I know I’ve been a liar, and I know I’ve been a fool, but I’m banking on your intellect and your infuriating calm to validate my efforts. I know what it’s like to love someone who doesn’t deserve it, ’cause they’re all you’ve got. To take down the ceilings and light the walls on fire just to see them burn, to love for the sake of feeling just a little less alone, I can’t understand your sense of shelter. I am, but a swarthy and incensed stranger living in a loud and contaminated wild. But, If we admit that human life can be ruled by reason, then all possibility of life is destroyed. I just don’t understand why people, why every fucking person is so bad to each other so fucking often. It doesn’t make sense to me. Judgment. Control. All that, the whole spectrum. Well, it just…
It is strange how often a heart can be broken before the years can make it wise.
Counting each passing moment
Only worsen the absence
Anticipating the need to love
Only free the essence of wanting
Measuring the amount being taken and given
Only leads to disastrous outcome
Is it not easier to want what you have
In exchange of desiring impossibility?
In such subtlety, could-have-been-not becomes
Just a mere fragment of the subconscious
Is it not better to label no standards
Of beauty and madness and success
Enabling the rebirth of you
Is it not fairer to realize that you alone
Tell the story of your fate,
your triumphant fate.
He’s not the same anymore. He changed. Or maybe the feeling changed. Or maybe I never knew him after all. Or I got tired of the pretensions, of his lies.? I don’t know. I’m confused if he’s still trying to play me or because I’m just his willing prey? Or am I still the doe-eyed-fairytale believer I refuse to grow out of?
I am afraid of him now. Of the feelings that were once there, those that were often disregarded. I love him. But I’m afraid to exhaust this complexity into further more than I am willing to endure. Because I’ve gone there and I hated it. And I’m still trapped there. The wounds are fresh, left open because I still don’t know how to fix them.
I guess apathy may well be the best solution to this strangeness. Just like what he’s doing. I don’t want to jump in anymore knowing I’m going to come out cold and unloved. I wish I could be as detached as he is. But that has always been our difference. Because I believed in generosity. Because this was this first time I’ve allowed to give more freely than what he deserved. Because I believed. Because that may teach me to stick to a conviction to love, to believe no matter what, to be the one to not leave. Look what that has put into. And now, it turned out it’s not easy being the person who’s left behind. I think he made sure of it, pushing me to retreat. To be that coward once more. Making the others after him the same old faces that will hurt me in the end.
But that doesn’t change the fact that I miss the girl who loved him, who believed in him. Confidently.
I’m mourning for both the strangers I once knew. But I love him still. Strangely.
I swam. Surrending to the allure of the ocean. Absconding in need to overcome. Going across its openness to explore its promise. Stroke after stroke. Very fast. Getting farther and farther.
Then the ocean’s allure lost its magical luster. It became just this familiar blank space. And I found myself not craving for its coolness or grace by how the waves danced, or that I was trying to escape. It became more about knowing what to do with my limbs. So often they had ended up around bad people, on the incorrect side of the bed, reaching into jars of sand that they never belonged in. There is a world full of oceans out there, we were only pouring ourselves into the wrong one.
“There’s the ocean,” they say, “you’ll catch a fish in no time.”
I am in the ocean. Drifting yet immobile. Staying. Stationary. Fishes raring to jump in. But none that catches my interest. Wasting time deciding whether to haul them all in or grab the paddle and leave, toss all of them out into the ocean. I am more anxious to do the latter. Because though there may be more than enough room to welcome them, it wouldn’t matter any less or any more. He still holds that place. I am so weak, slave to this hope.