The thing with me now is that I’m not blaming other people for my misery and for the problems that I have corrupting me. I am here, and I am the one to blame. I put this on myself, and only I can pull myself out. Everyday is a struggle to neutralize my extremist emotions, and when I say it’s a struggle, it’s a fucking struggle. All I can do is cruise through this and keep going. I’m gonna keep going and doing something until I reach that euphoria that this struggle has been keeping me from.
It takes a really long time to become happy. Then I tell myself that happiness is a direction and not a destination. And that makes things better. That makes things bearable. I promised myself that this pain of emptiness will go away and I’ll be on my way of happiness again. But I also promised myself that as temporary as this pain is, the happiness coming afterwards is also going to be temporary.
I have a project I need to do for myself.
I need to learn how to get out of my past, leave it all behind.
Tomorrow I’m going to start writing letters to my past (or more specifically to the people that used to be in my life). That reblog I had with an envelope that said words we never should have left unsaid sparked this whole thing up. I realized that when friendship fizzles, there’s never any closure. I need that closure. I need it badly to let everything go and to learn how to make amends with what I’m left with. I will slowly go about this whole project and mail/message/e-mail/whatever the letters to the people in my past. I will find a way to get my unvocalized words to them all. Maybe they won’t reply, maybe they won’t care, maybe they’ll burn it, maybe they’ll talk to me again and we’ll start over, but either way—whatever happens—I need this for myself.
I’m not saying you’re going to leave me soon, but can you please make sure that when you do, whoever you left me for is worth it and is much, much better than me?
Aye guess what though? Things change, and people change. That’s the one constant thing in the world: change. Change in things, change in humans. It’s all natural. I’ve really come to accept that. It feels light to know that even if things and people around me change, I’ll still be here. I really will. I do miss the old people in my life, but I can honestly attest to the fact that I am grateful that I am blessed with new people in my life. I am being honest when I say that I still think about the old times, think about hitting up the people in my past and hanging out, but I never do. Why? Because people change. People move on.
But really, I’m just feeling damn nostalgic right now.
“After the young family passed me at the Bridge, I balled my empty hand into a fist and snuck it slowly into the pockets of my jacket. The fingers on my other hand were busy fiddling with the cigarette stick that was still, up to now, unlit. What am I doing? I was so close to the rusty ledge of the bridge, I was getting really excited.
The almost empty lighter was now in between my middle and ring fingers. I pulled the sleeves of my hoodie down past my balled up fists. It was winter; January, in fact. And in San Francisco, January was colder than December or November. My nostrils started to flare from the chilly wind, and I could feel my mouth turn a little bluer as the seconds ticked by. I blew a breath out, and a cloud of cold mist lingered around my face.
I was barely a third into the Bridge when an old man whiffed past me and pat my back. “Darling, do you realize that is bad for you?” I twisted my head a little to look at him. He had a coat on, the kind of coat that you see them wear in movies and not really in real life, black, businessman pants, and a neatly polished shoes on. He pointed to my lighter and the cigarette stick in between my fingers.”
Time heals.
Its exerting hands of forgiveness
reaches
for our empty pockets
full of hatred
and love,
and anger,
gathers all
the emotional strings
and slowly melts them away,
pulling and tugging
and continuously swaying
through the wind
until we’re left
with scarlet, vile blood,
the only thing left
from our flailing misery
and we take it
into our palms
half-heartedly
and watch it
dry itself
in the shining rays of the sun
until it turns maroon burnt
and we can finally
scrape the war wound
off our beat up knee.
We are fixed,
and we can walk again.
Thought of the day.
I don’t believe I’m capable of being married. I mean, what really are the criteria of being marry-able? Whatever they are, I am not able. I was passed down the paternal gene of being unable for a monogamous, honest relationship, and then I was passed down maternal martyrism. But when I do decide I have found the match that the base gods have concluded me to, I wont yell at my husband, I will tuck my children to bed every night even when they ask me not to, I wont blame my husband for every petty mistake I have made, I will punish my children for misconstruing the idea and meaning of consequences for undeniably idiotic actions, I will open conversations about my past, I will make sure that my children know that their mother and father loved each other so much that they had to get married and their marriage is not a seal of convinience. I will stand up for my beliefs and if thought to have been stepped over by my husband, I will make sure he hears every little snide, absurd, and most importantly sarcastic remark I plan on making. I will sit on my husband’s lap in the morning while sipping my coffee or tea or whatever drink I prefer to wake me up in the future, swipe my hand on his, and cradle his jaws in between my tiny palms and kiss his tonsils and nape and make sure he knows I will forever love him. I will laugh at his jokes, as damned cliche as that sounds to the ear, despite it being an awful statement about paternalism and hierarchy. I will laugh, regardless. A laugh, a true one, reminds us that we are appreciated and loved and safe, that is what my husband will be feeling. I will tell him, or comment, on where I like to be touched and ask him constantly where he’d like to be kissed. Give and take. I wont ever go to sleep mad at him, and I’d like to think vice versa. If there is a problem made so easily in the day, why not find a solution so easily within the same day? If it is a problem that can not be fixed within the day, it must be something bigger than a small petty argument about who forgot who in the parking lot of a big convinient store that forever reminds me of the Philippines. I will climb in bed every night content and will kiss my husband the most passionate kiss I will give in my life, I will watch television shows that he hates to warm me up to a good night’s sleep without the illusion of going to sleep for the dreams that are better than my reality because nothing could beat my future’s reality. Most importantly I wont ever have to explain to my children how much I love their father or how much their father loves me. The act of explanation is the need to convince. I wont ever have to convince my children of love. They will just know. Despite my passionate devotion to words and its meaning, I will forever believe that actions speak louder than words. And if, in any chance, my husband becomes unfaithful, he and I wouldn’t be married in the first place.
Thoughts of motivation.
Life goes on, my little ice pebble. Life goes the fuck on whether you like it or not. You do you, and they can do whoever the fuck they want to. You move on. You keep trudging, become a nice little lady, get your shit together, be happy. Be so fucking happy that when they finally see you, they shit their pants just by looking at how happy you are.
I’m gonna do me. I’m gonna be so happy that everyone vomits on the next person just because they see how happy I am.
I’m in a good place and I’m better. Good vibes!
Grades don’t define intelligence, and age doesn’t define maturity.
Grades define persistence, and age defines wisdom.
I’m so glad we don’t go to the same school. It would be so difficult seeing you around and not being able to talk to you like before. But I know that if we did go to the same school, things wouldn’t be like this.
I am crying. There is no one in the room with me and I am crying. I am bawling because I think I want to die because I think it’s easier than just pretending and dealing with the non-existent bullshit that my life tries to spoon feed me. I don’t want to die. I really don’t. But I think it’s easier and I think sometimes it’s better. I always find myself having these thoughts, but I’m scared because I’m scared of pain—I very persistent but I am intolerant to pain, it breaks me. Then I always find myself apologizing because I have these feelings of dying and quitting. I want to be a quitter because it’s easier. I want to take the easiest way out, without the pain or the feeling that this is happening to me.
I am going to re-read The Perks of Being A Wallflower. I read it last school year when I needed someone listen most, when I didn’t really know what was going on and I was in need of something in my life. I’m going to read it again because now, I don’t need anything—I have mostly everything figured out for myself and I’m doing okay, I’m doing better. I want to see if there’s a difference with the consistent bond that I felt with Charlie (in the book) last time I read it. I want to know if he is still my best friend now that I’m different. I want to prove to myself that even if people change, friendships don’t have to.
