Yes, I ask myself that a lot nowadays. It’s a never-ending question, really. How do I start something that starts with me asking about how to start?
I still flicker along the night and only rise from the depths of darkened hell to wake into a brighter one because I have to. They’d think I’m dead if I didn’t. Of course, death is still a matter of perspective. I am dead. Sometimes I only was and in great moments, I will be. It’s a curious thing to think about. Death. Should it always be morbid? Does it not deserve due respect? We have too much against it when it cannot help itself. Death finds us because it needs to. It is not the same with life. Life forces itself on us at times. We yield because they will all dictate that it is a gift. What kind of gift shoves your naked self into a bitter world?
I can see you rolling your eyes. What a cynic, you might say. What a realist, I might add. Death isn’t all that you think it is. It is more than any of that. To die when your eyes are still bending particles of light, that in itself is more beautiful than life. You should not assume I like such notion. No, of course not. A realist does not enjoy knowing that life fades the moment your lungs take shape in the form of air.
I mind my death. It is not thrilling to see myself hiding from the mouths that ask if I’m alright. Of course not. Of course, I am not. Do you think me mad to forget so easily? The human condition demands everything to be felt. It insists that one has to feel dead in order to know that you are alive.
I am still alive. But I am also dead.
I wish it wasn’t so.
What was I talking about again?
I don’t know why I’m typing this right now. It seems that my promise to write at least every other day has been broken, just like a lot of promises I make.
To my mother, I miss you terribly, achingly… so much so that I became sick or I was already sick before, but I got worse? Right now I don’t know anymore. I’m sick, mom. Sick in the head, just like Mr. William’s case.
Sometimes I see nothing on the horizon and sometimes I see you, faded and far away. I want to run to you, jump into some kind of vehicle that would take the quickest to be where you are. You were never perfect. You weren’t the perfect mother or friend, but I loved you so much–love you, still– that I wish to undress from this body and leap into the abyss. There are times when I ask you the reason why you left me. Why did you leave me this early? I’m not angry and I’m certainly not in any state of hating you. I just want to understand how you think I could survive without you. You were my rock, the ledge that keeps still even when the very core of this life shakes. I could see no one who could come close to even replacing you, not even my dad.
What kind of pain is this? Why can’t it just let me be? I want to be myself again. I miss her.
Everything feels so different, so jumbled that my mind looks like a Pollock painting. I’m trying to help myself, trying to reach out to someone, anyone who’d be willing to help me because I can’t do this on my own. A lot of times, I don’t even want to do anything at all to help this sorry piece of person you’ve left behind, mom. It’s like you took me away with you and what’s left is nothing more than a heap of junk trying to show off itself as just a busted machinery. Can be repaired. Can be polished.
This prose definitely does not make sense to anyone and I’m just rambling on to whoever is curious enough to read this. Well, I’d like to say this to you then:
Hello, I’m broken.
We are a continuous pattern of disarray.
I often wonder during my daily travels between the sun and moon, what my role is in others’ lives. Where am I found in their ocean-length autobiography? Could I have been dedicated as a single chapter in my childhood friend’s life? Was I the period that marked off the end of a paragraph in one of my friend’s love affairs? Did I fit in as the space between a stranger’s sentence describing his commute on a Friday night? Could it be that I formed the title in one of the most dramatic scenes in my mother’s story? Perhaps I was swimming in the margins of my Alma mater’s history, graduating to frame the next paragraph that speaks about my generation and how much we have potential as career scrappers. Did I became the page itself in someone else’s adventure, absorbing each letter then letting those black stains be the one appreciated and noticed, but not the blemished paper? Where do I fit in, I wonder?
A better question would be: where are you in mine?
And so I begin my adventure anew in this site, full of plans that I most likely will not follow and dreams I most likely will still chase. Thank you for sticking around and I’ll try to post something new every week from now on since my schedule is wide open. Hodor!
Kitty posts. Next attraction.
How do you formulate the words that could perfectly describe the outcomes of your jumbled thoughts? How could you bring into reality the expanse of your mind? Like jotting down the grocery list of philosophies sprouting in your head because you saw philosophy from familiar faces and unknown places. Like trying to capture sceneries with the tip of your fingers, balancing the pressure in between.
How do you explain the need to express without forceful expression of the things you don’t know how to begin explaining? Do words choke us on the way out, thereby silencing the urge to press the mind further? Like paralyzing the hands holding the sword.
I am a writer and yet I do not know how to write down the simple equations of thoughts trapped within my mind.
I am afraid of grown-men.
I am sometimes afraid of my own father and how he is a grown-man. I am almost quiet whenever they speak of him… so casually. And my brain itches to tell. My mouth tries to form the words, but fear cripples my tongue and breaks the ant-size resolve I may have formed during the few moments we talk about him.
His face forms in my mind and mocks me as the secret could not leave the valleys of my teeth. My eyes dry themselves out, preferring to drown when I least expect it. My body pities me. It crumples and hugs itself until the walls climb and shut me in from those touches and sounds he made, satisfied with the frozen frame of someone young and naive.
I rock back and forth.
“Don’t tell them. They won’t understand.”
“It’s all in your head.”
“It’s nothing. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.”
Your feet becomes sluggish as you exit the ancient building you find yourself calling “some kind of home”. The light from the sun doesn’t glare and burn through your eyes since the afternoon is already settling in. You walk around and find that you’re becoming heavier and heavier. At first you thought it was because you lack the proper sleep any adult should have, but then you realize it’s your emotions weighing you down. You curse inside your head when you see someone familiar. Continue reading
I’m sorry because we fought. I’m sorry because we wasted time on things that shouldn’t have happened. I should’ve made up with you right away and tried to mend Us. We could’ve spent those times together. We could’ve done things we weren’t able to do because our pride got in the way. I could’ve been there when you needed someone. I could’ve been there when you needed to cry or be held. Continue reading
An open letter for you:
I love you A, as my real-est friend and I am also in love with you.
Maybe you will never tell me those exact words or you will never tell me anything remotely close to that, and maybe that’s okay because I still love you and will always love you despite of that. Continue reading