I haven’t written in a long while, and it feels a bit novel to be back here. I’m here mostly to rant, and maybe attempt to let off some steam.
See, I only really ever write when I feel an excess of emotion. I don’t remember when it was I last like this, but I know it’s been a while. Two years ago is a safe bet.
I’ve somehow recently gotten this suffocating feeling. They say it’d feel better if I told someone, but I don’t feel like there’s anyone I can really talk to about it either. I’ve tried explaining it to myself, but even I know I don’t make any sense. I’ve attempted to tell loved ones, but I don’t say the right words and mostly we’ll end up fighting.
Sometimes I wonder if everybody else’s life would be better if I didn’t have to be in it. Other times, I like to blame everyone else for how I feel. I can’t put to words exactly how I feel, but if I were to nominate one word close enough it would be confused.
I’ve pushed people away, and there’s always a limit to how much people can stand before they start to realize how disheartening I can be at times. I don’t really know if any of you will read this, but I want you to know I am sorry. Truly, I am.
I’m sorry all I ever do is make things worse.
That’s all for tonight, I should probably work on my paper.
It’s a word from my vernacular. I guess you could say the root word is mingaw and even that doesn’t have an exact translation in English, but quiet is close enough.
There isn’t any easy way to describe it. It’s sort of the way you feel when it’s been some time since you last saw someone and you suddenly realize you’re looking for their presence. Most translations say it’s “I miss you.” It doesn’t mean you miss that person entirely, though. It isn’t happy or sad, it’s neutral. It’s just that moment you give in to the fact that they’re not with you anymore. Simple.
Gimingaw ko nimo. It’s been quiet since you left.
I barely know what I’m ranting about at the moment either.
I 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.
My 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?
Today, 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.”
I 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.