My hands are frozen over the keyboard, this seems to happen so often lately, because I'm not so sure if I have something worth saying, or if something actually is worth saying at all. I wish I can have coffee right now, but because its 3AM and I woke up mid sleep, to the sound of rain outside my window, I don't think its a good idea to drink and reflect upon everything silently; even though its the most I want to do right this moment, but I have things to do tomorrow, places to be, I have to be a different person when the sun hits the sky, and follow the cycle of living beings. So no to coffee, I'll do without.
I guess I want to bare myself in this one, writing had always been the only way for me to express how I feel, and yet not quite that. If you read the pieces I write here, everything paints a story because in a way they are, I borrow pain from other people, from a friend's hopeless cries, to a film I've watched, to a stranger's sad looking face, it's all borrowed, it never really belonged to me. I'm a collection of stories; half of them aren't even real, the other half is rented for a bit of indulgence for purely selfish reasons.
I treat people in my life like characters, I don't want to use the past tense here, because I'm not so sure if I'm out of that habit yet, everyone I've ever befriended, everyone I've ever went out with, everyone I've ever gave my time to, was serving a purpose for a grand picture, I see everyone standing next to an open door, any minute they will leave, if its something I'll say to make them leave faster, if it's a decision they'll make because they've finally realised that they can't get as close to me as they wish to, whatever the reason might be, the door is always there, and its always open.
I don't hurt people, I don't think I intentionally do, of course how original is that, we all just kind-of hurt each other without really knowing, don't we? But I don't think I do, I push them away, more times than I can remember, I've pushed them away, not by saying anything, no, by disappearing into thin air, I can one day be here, the next I don't. Just like that. People empty me, and I always needed to get away to refill.
I don't cry anymore, I don't remember the last time I did, I used to think that I cry over things that happen to me, but looking back, I realise how I cry over things that don't, but somehow managed to convince myself that they have something to do with me. I thought I cried over the boy who broke my heart, but I realised how my heart was doing just fine, and I only wanted to feel the pain of him not being around, boys never effected me in the way I read about in books, or heard in the stories of other folk, and I'm not so certain of that completely because perhaps they did once before, but my soul was still empty, I crave more than attention, love or lust, I desire something I know I can't obtain and I'm not even sure what it is. If I cry again, it would be over this.
I want my mother to be happy, she sacrificed so much, and got very little in return, I won't get into it here, because there are things that are not meant to be shared, even in a public blog like this one. I want her to be happy because in a way, I know how impossible it is for her to be, sadness is now correlated with whatever little joy she might feel, knowing that she's broken over things I can not mend or replace, makes me angry. I pray she finds happiness whatever it may be, if its in my brother graduating university, if its in my marriage, if its in the coming of her newly grandchild, all of which are in the future. I hope the future has happiness in store for her, I keep praying it will cross her.
Sometimes we find ourselves buzzing for things, a lot of people find their fix, and know where to go to find it, I'm not like these people. I have to step outside of myself to experience something, I never really experience, perhaps I only watch other people watching me experiencing it. I don't think I know myself well, or maybe I know myself too well that I've figured out the perfect way not to be, a void is always here, I can fill it up, with religion, with companionship, with music, with books and so on, but sooner -always so- than later, I find it empty again. I think I'm one of the people who can never be satisfied, and I worry as I say that, because I truly believe that life is wonderful, evermore so, and I can't seem to enjoy it in the way I want to. I think too much, I know, one of the habits I can't seem to let go.
I'm a happy person, I find that I'm maybe more content than happy, more content in the comfort of slow pace than much else, and aren't the happiest people always the saddest ones? Perhaps I don't know myself well enough, I could never be one state of mind at one given moment, that confuses me, it terrifies me that I can't be. I read here and there about human characters, I wanted to major in psychology in college but a series of unfortunate events hindered that from happening, I've always been fascinated with the abnormal, the human mind and why it does what it does, the personalities of one person and how contradicting a person's words and actions can be. I like to observe more than I like to talk. Sometimes I talk for hours without ever shutting up because I can't wait to share my observations with someone. Other times I just like to sit in silence with someone else and just look at each other, sip a bit of coffee, sigh more than we breathe and hide smiles at the corners of our lips. This is comfort to me.
I've been hurt before, by people's words more than their actions, I don't think it has to do with me being misunderstood, cause I never really tried to make myself understood anyway, it has to do with people's perceptions of me, their assumptions that suffocate me, I don't waste my time on someone who would like to assume things about me rather than ask me themselves. I don't think there's something I hate more than when people think for me. I have a mind of my own. Try and climb it. Chances are you'll find more than a few obstacles and that you'll leave once that's the case, but hey, better than you thinking for me.
Decisions were always made for me, and I kind-of just went along with them, I've talked about a major up there, and the mere reason why I didn't pursue it, is because I didn't believe in myself or my dreams enough to do it. I was shaking and people saw that as a sign of uncertainty and decided for me what I should do. I'm talking in general here because that somehow applies to more aspects of my life than just my education. I've had this way of trusting people to know what's best for me, because I always doubted myself, I always felt like I was inexperienced, a dreamer, an escapist who couldn't quite get the hang of reality, and so I allowed other people to dictate their choices on me. Looking back I realise how little say I had, and perhaps I would say I regret it, if I believed in regrets.
I love myself and I love life, but I know how tiring it is to live amongst it, how difficult it is to be myself with others. Perhaps I'm writing this for selfish reasons, perhaps I'm craving; so desperately to be understood by the eyes of someone else, so that I know I'm not crazy or depressed, so I know that the passion in me isn't actually drying, so I can mouth these very thoughts I'm having instead of writing them. I talk to the Universe (myself, cause I'm a part of it) and ask it to lead me to the road that'll fit me, even with bumps on the way, I don't mind cutting my knees, to get to where I want to be, to where I belong.
I like to look at pictures of filtered flowers and old youth, quotes of writers that I pride myself in saying that I understand what they went through to make them write such things, even though I know I couldn't possibly do. Pictures of people caught unaware, pictures of lovely meals, and cups of hot and cold coffee. I find bliss in the stillness of these shots, like the person who photographs them captured a moment clothed in serenity, so perfectly. I wish my own life was like that, a series of still photographs, that I can just recall and bring back the feeling with it. I'm nostalgic for a past that's not even mine.
Talking about the past, is probably something I saw coming. I don't like to recall my own, I've blocked many years and then a few, more times than I'd like to admit, I feel it creeping behind my back, slowly brushing my shoulders and then poking me once, whispering: have you forgotten about me? The past really doesn't define you, only you do. I know that very well, no one wants to be defined by tragedies and misfortunes, I know I don't, I think I struggle with it, cause I still hope it wasn't what it was, I think I can't accept it because I ignore it every time I'm given the chance to indulge in it. I can't come out of the other side of it, because I'm stuck in the middle. I don't think there's such a thing as closure. I don't know if I ever saw one, but anyway, life has a way of moving on, and I pretend to do the same.
The sea has a way of being calm and unobstructed, when there's no waves or storms forcefully steering it up, sometimes it's hostile and can't be still, but in both cases its always yearning, always yearning for something, I think I'm a lot like that, always yearning for which I can not have. I pray the next time I find peace in my heart, the feeling would last a lifetime. I pray the next arms I find myself falling into, wouldn't be loneliness pushing me to. I pray the next time my heart is raging and my soul is aching, my eyes would tell the truth, and my mind would spill it. I pray the next time I pray, I find God and ask forgiveness for my unexplainable ways, I pray the next time I find love, it find me untainted by desires that always kept it away, I pray all of which I seek is seeking me, so the next time I find myself here, I'm comforted in ease.
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