In the midst of the violent snow and relentless, cold winds, there came a strange warmth that enveloped me - it felt like my grandmother’s hands framing my face, and drew memories of her uttering, “Hindi ko iiwanan kayo.” (“I will never desert you.”)
I furtively flipped through the pages of my head while I was alone today and discovered that there’s nothing in there but shitty monologues of my loneliness; produced and contoured while I was taking showers. It’s time to plead insanity.
These past few months since my arrival back from the Philippines, I understood that liking myself was never about the actual act of consumption or the actual act of liking myself; rather, it was about doing what I could to keep the deadness alive within me. My pain does not thrive within the deadness, it prospered within the aliveness. It latched on to hope and ambition. It proliferated in love. It succeeded in passion and concern and enthusiasm. But, as I had discovered, my pain withered in apathy and detachment and indifference. I just have taken this disliking to myself and I haven’t got a clue how to get rid of it.
So always there was that moment when I prayed for wings that sailed arms outspread into the buoyant air. Where I can fly up and meet Her for that awaiting final goodbye. What I wish to feel is something impossible to describe as the sky parts like a wound to engulf me then closes just as quickly in a white scar where I entered.
Love, I can feel it in my heart Fly like the bird up the sky The vision I see in your eyes is true Days have passed gone by Nights kept telling me why The answer to the question is you.
Rarely, something just snaps inside me and I realize that I can’t keep walking around like a fucking zombie. I think of making friends with my body and mind again and apologize for months of negligence. But fuck, it’s always just a rare thought.
I obsess over French toast but haven’t had it in 3 years. I hate school but sometimes feel like there is nothing better than learning something new. When I have a guy, I am annoyingly committed. When I don’t, I am annoyingly detached. I want to get fit, but can’t even be bothered to get up for the remote control. I used to read every romance novel I could get my hands on but now I think it’s all regurgitated, fucking garbage and refuse to read one again. I hate myself in the morning but I seek the same activity the next night.
I long to be the center of attention in a crowded room, but love being alone in the middle of a Canadian nowhere. I don’t want to live to be an old woman, but I invest in the idea of having being a grandmother. I pontificate about tolerance, but I initially hate everyone I come across.
Life is so fucking banal. I don’t know what to do.
JAN 09 ‘12 (160/365) Stare. I’m about to hit the prime of my life. I have nothing but potential and possibilities ahead of me. I think I can almost grasp what all that means. All the places I’ll go. The people I will meet and love. One day, old bony and wise, I will look back on it all, remember and smile. The vastness of it all just makes me wish I didn’t have to go through school to get there. This constant feeling of entrapment; killing my own personality and subjecting my thoughts to other ‘greater’ minds of the textbook. I’m feeling that feeling. Throwing eggs at all of their faces. Turn them into human omelettes. And feed them to the rabid, giant mice. What’s nomenclature assignments and graded letters going to do to help you now?! blink.
I lay supinely on the couch, sipping the final third of my soda, and mulled over worrying thoughts and the like. Excuse me.
When I’m writing, loneliness inspires me. When I’m not writing, loneliness depresses me. Chris Ayer’s music both makes me smile and cry. I still worry about being judged for the thoughts I write down. And I’ve been wondering if I was ever going to be one of the few people in my generation who would constitute a positive impact on the world, however small. Or if I was going to be one of many, like my parents and their friends, who would tell the next young generation to make a difference, and hope they’d get around to it. I get random bouts of anxiety throughout the day about my future - things ranging from “that’s a nice possibility” to “you’d never survive that if it ever happened” to “hey, that’ll make me really happy”. I’ve never known a greater feeling than someone who appreciates my words. I don’t think I’ll date another boy who doesn’t understand the artistic process. I have an insatiable need to abstain from change. Tragically, I’m still reminiscing memories from when my grandmother was alive. I want to move forward. People confuse me. I believe words have the power to change us all. I’m very much afraid of being afraid. I don’t look down, I look up; to where the wall meets the ceiling. And there is this frustration with how I keep mostly to myself; about how people hovered around just long enough to know that it was probably too much work to remain my friend.
But look at that, my soda’s finished. I’m lonely tonight and really need someone. Bye.
