To feel comfort under her own skin. Sick and tired of the guilt and shame that seeps through every bone and vein. That burning sensation of dissatisfaction - the bones will never be pointy enough. When will she be good enough; or perhaps, when will she be happy with how ‘not good enough I am’. As teenagers, we wailed and wallowed, desperately yearning for physical freedom. As adults, we are confronted with the limitations of life, as it presents us with a further, more impenetrable barrier of psychological freedom. When will we be set free, as free as the vibrant, autumn leaves, the seagulls… When can we stop being critical? Can’t everything just be appreciated in its most imperfect form…?
Sway body, sway. The beat perpetuates. The imprisoned mind. The wandering soul.
I miss you.
who are you?
muesli, berries, haunting silence of the night.
the restless mind, scrambled eggs, no, thoughts.
then came the garbage man, leaf man, Asian man from the grocery shop.
sit-ups, squats, early birds.
commuters; children, crispness of their laughs.
sunlight, vibrant petals, they will wither!
the morning news, breakfast?
devour, human nature.
on goes the mask.
never judge the book by its cover.
never be deceived by the smile on her face.
Sometimes admitting your own weaknesses is the strongest thing you can do. The tears, the anguish, the disappointments - they speak for the innate passion buried inside us, the expectations we set for ourselves; and reveals how much we really care, regardless of how hard we try to hide it.
She surprises herself sometimes. Instead of reaching for the half empty bourbon, she took a deep breathe. Perhaps it was to the credit a loved one who knew her better than she did, you’ve gotta stop trying to numb yourself… they are all temporary solutions. Indeed, sometimes, perhaps too often, she covered her scars with bandaids, and naively believed that time would heal all wounds. That would have been the case if she didn’t constantly carve new scars over the old wounds.
Anyhow, today was different. The sweet autumn air whispered a soft, caressing sense of comforting assurance. She collected her thoughts, gathered her soldiers and prepared herself for the turmoil which awaits for its attack. She summoned all the luring demons; and with strength of which she did not know she had, she declared war.
Drapetomania - an overwhelming urge to run away.
To escape that overwhelming feeling which engulfs and suffocates the air I breathe. One moment, it feels like perhaps everything will just be okay. At the blink of an eye, I realise that was merely wishful thinking, and the terrors dawn upon me.
Hello, estranged readers, I can count you all with one hand.
Did you catch the smothering heat of the summer sun?
Did you bathe under the summer night skies?
Did you kiss, did you lust, did you fall in love, with that boy you’ll never meet again?
Did you laugh, did you weep, or did the passing months just silently slip by?
Regardless, I send you all greetings and well wishes from my newly established haven. At least that was what I hoped it to be. Me and wishful thinking… Sometimes, I don’t understand why people perceive me as a dreadful pessimist; if only they knew of my idiotic dreams.
We can all feel it in the air. Winter is ominously lingering around the corner. After all, all that wishful thinking is perhaps about to cease. As the warmth of the afternoon sun is about to be replaced by withering leaves, I curiously wonder what this upcoming winter has in store - exacerbation of that (all too often) loneliness, the haunting hopelessness that shrouds the never-ending days; or perhaps that unexplainable rush of adrenaline as the roaring wind penetrates the skin and bones.
The disease anxiously anticipates its next high, as the morning dews melts slower day after day.
The girl anxiously awaits for the next storm, nibbling those fingernails till she sees blood.
The August wind roared with angst.
She loathed the reflection in the glass window. Tangled hair, patchy skin, puffed eyes, the toll of neverending long nights. Sniffing the musky, soiled sleeve ends of her oversized jumper, she cringed unbearingly. Sitting down, her thighs appeared bulkier ever.
Her warm, brown hair was tied back into a low, loose ponytail. Her smile was comforting, genuine, as far as I could tell. I liked her at first sight, we could be friends perhaps. Her voice was quite grounded, and rendered a grounded sense of security. She asked a lot of questions, some I answered with a shaky voice. I clasped my hands tight, feeling the heat of the room, my cheeks burning. I forgot how messed up my life was, how fucked up my head is. Her questions were like sharp daggers, each refreshing my sorest pain with absolute precision. At moments, I felt uncomfortably inadequate. I was never severely abused, nobody ever died, am I ‘good enough’ to deserve this much attention from a stranger?
Raw thoughts. I hate confrontation. Moreover, I cannot bear the thought of attachment – that gnawing sense of longing for someone’s soundingly comforting words. Why do we always need another person tell us that we are going to be okay. Maybe some of us are just not meant to live “okay”.
I’ve questioned my inability to put words on paper in the last few months, every time I sat staring at the flashing cursor, pressing the backspace, wincing at the inadequacy of my words. It reaches a point when words and phrases reach their limits, and one’s pain is too excruciating to be rendered with pen and paper. How do you describe the omniscient weather, the suppressing clouds, the deserted alleyways that holds countless untold tales, the secrets of the strangers wandering the night streets, the thoughts that could not possibly be circling the minds of an eighteen year old. How does one explain the open wounds, the stained knives, the forgotten souls, the broken promises, the dashing scars that time will not fade.
Why am I struggling to let go?