Tuesday, 3/8/22

“I’m a liar. I once told you multiple things I stood by and held a different angle, one that laughed bitterly at the previous stance. I took solace in never returning to the past, yet I’ve actively ventured for it. I say I conquered my sadness while falling back into the pits. And I once said I had settled in my depression and let it simmer. All of it was a lie. Truth is, I didn’t intend to deceive and unrip entanglements of who I deeply was and the fog I am now. I simply never understood the uncertain patterns that is my existence — the peaks of picturing a tomorrow, glaring up at the clear, blue sky and smiling to the gasping nothingness of consistently walking backwards.

My digestion has been weak for a couple of days; jetlag as I assume feels this way, too.”

For what felt like a lifetime, I wrapped-up the idea of when my writing became complicated. More so, unpeeling and reliving the painful plot points of my life to try to unlock a fragment of who I was — a mystery that didn’t need much solving. Though I haven’t got the slightest clue on my teenage mindset, and my inner actions that caused an unbalanced destruction, I’ve realized that rewinding and wasting away on long forgotten thoughts isn’t what calls me. A few others may disagree but, in my line of work, where looking back became a natural addiction, more of the adventure lies forward.

I never thought I would say that. The persistent vow; an exhale of freedom and fear, and a strange pinch of hope. I’m not quite there yet; still fogging out the dreary and sand. I remember a time where life was too slow to love. How existence was a clock I wanted to spin back into oblivion. I lost myself in colors and dreams. And at points, I would exclaim in a second of joy — a sudden laughter I found in a film or video. And right after that small echo escaped from within, I would punch myself to remember how broken things are. ‘How could I smile?’ I would bully myself because my life didn’t impact a happy moment, and the way things will remain this way… So, I wrote about it. The continuous pain that bought me to this exact way of living. It became redundant as my emotions never broke into another hour. It did help when I was writing to give credit. I would express my anger towards people who either hurt me or hurt the world I was in — I would write out my sadness, heartache, lists of last thoughts if I felt everything and wanted nothing. All these notes I’ve either ripped to shreds or lost by my nomadic hopping. A part of me is glad I lost those pages, but the other half wishes to read them one last time. Seeing the progression of then and now.

I’m starting to feel the withdraw from that darkness. It’s an odd insight — like when the sky hits dawn on a rainy night, you don’t see the sun or its heavy rays, but you do see light. Nothing shines on you, but you can feel the warmth coming. And it’s possible I won’t feel or see the sun for a long time, and whether it would last forever. The trick about being the way I am is that all my emotions right at this second are never concrete.

The last depressive episode was the closest I want to go to hell. The peak of my loss, crisis, the worthlessness and the universal importance. All of that pinned to my mind. Some of it still is, but not all of it. And that makes me feel a little okay…