On Long Distance

It’s hard and there will be so many times you feel like it’s tiring. You will think about all the instances you’d want them to be right next to you so you can at least have his presence calm you when your life gets trying and get sad because you can’t have that. You will feel like you’re demanding too much of his time. You will feel like if you weren’t in his life, they’d probably be better off not worrying about you from all the way wherever-you-are. You will cry because you don’t know what’s going on. You will doubt things—the things he says, how things are, sometimes even whether or not you can still stand hurting.
Then you stop crying. You remember all the promises you’ve made each other and how giving up isn’t an option. You hold on to every memory—the way his eyelashes puts his eyes in shadow when he looks at you, the way he smiles when one side pulls up his cheek a little higher, how his muscles tense up and relax under your touch. Every word they say on a phone call you will replay over and over in your head until you’ve memorized even the way they accidentally breathed into the microphone. Every little item they left last you were together—that shirt that still has his smell on it, the little drawing he did when he was bored, and the words he scrawled into one of your journals—will have a special place in your room so you can find them even the dark when you need some way to remind you he is in your life and that you definitely not just dream everything up. You’ll hold on to each other’s voices and even to the sound of them falling asleep—you hold on to these things because, well, you can’t technically hold on to each other’s person. You will schedule when you should talk because you’re both busy people and still break your own rules every now and then because you can’t stand too long without his voice. You will smile because you’ll think of how things would be when you finally get to be in each other’s presence.

It’s hard, honestly. It takes a bit of toughening up to try to make things work, but it’s all worth it. :)

Postscript: I’m pretty certain this certain someone in my life won’t read this until a while. If you are reading this, though, hi. :) Hahahaha.

Not Even Brave Enough For WordPress

I don’t know what to tell you anymore. I don’t know what to say when you tell me about your day. I have to think about what it is I’m supposed to contribute to the conversation as opposed to before when everything just flowed freely between you and I.

I don’t think you’ll get to read this until I tell you about this post’s existence, so I will put whatever it is I can’t tell you here. In the future, when I muster enough courage to tell you I feel this way—hopefully felt by then—I’ll use this post as a reminder.

 

Where’s the light when you need it?

11374787_381699272038086_811673019_nI don’t get what’s happening—I feel like a blur. I’m no longer part of anything, more so really, I no longer want to be part of anything. I think I’m losing myself, or at least the sense of myself. It’s like I’ve lost purpose.

Sad thing is, I can’t be angry. This isn’t anyone’s fault, it’snot even mine.

What do your emotions compensate for in the absence of anger? Is it pain? Is it really? Or is it just that—an absence? Isn’t that all the more frightening than pain—losing the ability to feel?

It is so surreal—didn’t realize it felt this enlivening to die on the inside. I didn’t realize I could die
and yet still stand to breathe—to pretend to live.

What is it about—this whole thing? What is it about?

I know I remember saying that the human race was put here only to fit the purpose of existing. I remember telling myself I could deal with that—but I don’t want to just exist. I want to live.

And it is so depressing realizing that all I will ever come to have to call a legacy was the fact that I existed. That isn’t much. Oblivion, my friend.

What is the point? I give up being the happy person. I’ll be what my baser self tells me to be. I’m done being on the emotional and moral high ground. I’m done being a better person for other people. I want to be left alone to be what we were all supposed to be—mediocre.

When the Silence Hurts Your Ears

11355803_876318205791767_1893546454_nMy blade runs through the length of a shark’s left side, the tip very slightly grazing at the sandpaper-like skin, blood runs down the white of the shark’s skin from a cut blood vessel. It’s dark outside and the bright fluorescent lights are hurting my eyes, the smell of blood and sea is in the air, the sound of metal against metal is heard as my scalpel touches the operating surface—I’m tired.

I chose my degree because I always wanted to be a doctor—how cool they looked in the white coats and with the ever-present stethoscope. Everything was planned out, all of it, in my head. So why do I sometimes catch myself questioning this degree?

I’ve told someone once of how sometimes your ears will hurt from silence—how your senses will reel from the sudden absence of stimuli. Like how you sometimes hear a ringing in your ears even when there’s no sound at all. It’s kind of like that, this feeling. It’s like there’s a really high-pitched ringing in the back of my head. I don’t know why. I’m looking for what’s missing but I can’t seem to find it.

How do you fix yourself when you don’t even know what’s wrong?

It’s an Ocean and I Can’t Swim

10175374_1380389565622390_1102264118_nToday, I got a sticky note from my old math teacher telling me that I’m still stuck living my high school life and that I should move forward and let go if I wanted to get better. I was smiling when I read it because he was standing there, but it hurt because it was too true.

I didn’t really want to leave high school, or at least the memory of it. You could get away with a lot more shit in high school—excuses were fine and being bad at something didn’t mean the end of the universe. But in college, where your success in life is dependent on how good a record you have, everything just feels so on the edge. And sir, if you ever get to read this, I want you to know that even if it doesn’t seem like it, my whispered apologies are sincere, and I appreciate it when you make an effort to do the favors I ask of you even when I’ve never really mouthed out the words, “Thank You.”

Cloud Ballet

11249420_1006586096058277_793758314_nI do not know whether the color in this part of Tacloban was always this vivid or if I may just have not cared too much before. Surprising how much detail goes by unnoticed until a familiar scene is placed before you after a while without it. I don’t think I ever cared much for how the clouds could leave shadows on a far away hill face–how you could watch them dance over the land, how the edges of the shadows seemed blurry because of the way they were cast over the trees. It was sort of a calming ballet amidst the noise.