For the past two weeks, I thought I was doing okay. I thought I was getting better. I take a bath. I write. I’m building up my blog through social media. I eat properly. I keep learning how to do cupcakes. I’ve been doodling. I actually applied for a job that is not online. But, since March started, I feel like I took more step backwards than I did forward.
For the past two days, I just kept on sleeping. I only got up to go to the toilet or check my Twitter. I’ve only managed to eat only lunch for at least two days. I let this shit inside me win over me. Again and again. I’m sick and tired of this cycle. I keep saying to myself: live. I don’t even know what the word means.
It’s hard. It’s really hard. You want to do something but you don’t have the will to do it. But when you do nothing, you will beat yourself after. What an ass. Like, what are you doing, self???
I’ve said before that life is not a battlefield but inside me, there’s war. I was so mad that I decided to got up early today, on a Sunday, to run. I know it’d make me feel alive without hurting. In running, I’d catch my breath not because of crying. My muscles will sore from moving not because of nothing or something that I can’t even explain. But, I hate it even more.
The outside seems to eat me whole. My mother keeps saying that it’s because I’ve been at home for almost two months now (meaning: get your ass off this house and find a job lol I know she means well anw)
I didn’t think. I just ran. I didn’t think but that doesn’t mean I didn’t feel. I felt the nature and the people around me. The place by the bay was actually jampacked. I’ve realized, everyone else is trying. Who wakes up early on a Sunday to watch the sunrise and run? These people tried to live today and for the first time in a long time, I belong into something that is not sad or pathetic. At that moment, to fit in wasn’t that bad.
After i ran, i looked around and just walked and all i was thinking was everything is, indeed, a poetry. Everything has its story. The candy wrapper thrown carelessly on the road, the leaves that fell when two kids on their bikes passed by the lone tree, the water bottles left in the bay walk. The sea and the sky called me so I took a snap (featured image). I instantly thought of the caption: sunrise is gentle / water is calm / while you remain a catastrophe
You’d think that the sunrise was really pale and at peace. It wasn’t. On the other side, the sun was actually burning from behind. That is the catastrophe or maybe I am.
These are my words. I’ve realized that even though I am writing and blogging, the past contents I’ve posted were different than the ones I used to write before. Sure, there are bits and pieces of me thrown at side comments every now and then but I feel like my words are not completely there. Maybe because I’m not completely here either.
Did you notice how I don’t write poems anymore? I kind of lost my voice. I mean, I still spit a word or two from time to time:
But, I used to vomit them. I mean this, this and that. I really think they are beautiful just as much as they are sad. I went back through my old poems and man, they are all melancholic. There were so-so poems but still, it’s 8:10. I thought, “why can’t I write happy poems?”
Happiness of the past becomes a sad memory today. —Mel
I’ve realized that we want to get rid of sadness, so we write it down. It will be immortalized in words, sure, but it’s a release nonetheless. On the other hand, we want to conceal happiness—inside us. Until we are filled with it. Maybe that’s why Lang Leav said that “all sad people write”.
I really don’t want to sound depressing or miserable all the time but writing these feelings down is the only way to keep me sane. I want to write more happy and positive thoughts. I want to write things that can help you in some ways—may that be in dealing with your own demons or reminding you of things to be grateful for; that you are doing great; that it’s not always winter and you will bloom again. But I hope you don’t mind forlorn poetry every so often or some dejected post like this.
In writing can I only keep myself. In writing can I only free myself. Maybe this is what it means to bleed words.