I am clueless about when and what the root of my descent started; perhaps I never soared in the first place.
I often find myself chasing, no, not a dream nor chasing a person. No, chasing spirits? Yes, however, I’m not the ghoul or spooky type; I run after people. I mean that quite literally and figuratively; chasing is nothing new to me; I see chasing as being the tag in a game and running after the prize you want in your life. For an individual to attain something, they must work hard for it. To each their own strategies; in my case, I chase the elusive instruments I crave: validation, comfort, praise, and much more, as if I’m a missing piece from a puzzle that’s looking for its incomplete puzzle, trying to fit in.
In a game of tag, chasing is the main prowess needed for the so-called “it” (the person who chases and tags others). I have become the “it” a myriad of times in my life, contrary to how a lot will think that being the “it” of the game can give you the upper hand since you can run after any person you want and catch them with ease, well in my case it’s different; I am frail, the helpless and slow steps I take are visible, in every step, I face the fact that I will never be able to catch up. I can never be as fast as others, and no matter how much I want to catch up, a constant thought telling me that I am weak always dwells; the finish line always seems to get further with every step I take. I’ve heard my peers make fun of me, and even in silence, I have been made aware that they can’t like me if I’m incapable. I am delicate, and it is driving me insane.
I can’t beat them, so why not join them? Please them? This isn’t a slippery slope to manipulation; it is more like a coping mechanism I act on to receive what I ought to. When people come up to me and ask for my help, I comply; when someone needs serious or friendly advice, I give them; when a friend trips and falls, I lend them my hand. When they ask for my help, I help them; when they ask for my help, I help them; when they ask for my help, I help them; when they ask for my help, I help them; when they ask for my help, I help them When they ask for my help, I help them. When they ask for my help, I help them. When they ask for my help, I help them; I seem stuck in a perpetual cycle where I abide by their never-ending demands. I wonder if things were a bit different and said “no”? Then my silly little intent to be admired will wither away. So, I plaster a smile and nod to please them. My kindness through time has been abused and wounded; I take them “please” as the bandage to mend the chasm in my chest. It feels like I’m betraying myself, but at the same time, I enjoy the feeling of being needed and praised. It is like this bittersweet feeling where you lose a piece of yourself to gain validation. I liked every bit of it.
I started by being the master of this act I was playing and ended up being the puppet of my desires, controlled and driven by the yearning for reciprocated kindness from others. I must eke out of this soon, or the throbbing longing for admiration will swallow and chase me whole. I am patiently tarrying for a person to cut the strings bound to the limbs of my body, or am I just patiently waiting for my gentleness to wither away?
Let’s return to a time when a piece of my amiability took a turn, tainting my heart and leaving my chest gaped completely. A close friend of mine, with whom we had our ups and downs together before, who was also once an enemy in the past, and I thought my days as a despised person of hers were over. Still, the taunting and insulting messages plastered on the bright rectangular screen beg to differ; confrontation is something that I’m afraid to do, yet I did it anyway. I confronted her, and I expected at least maybe a mere explanation or a simple “sorry,” but not a single word escaped her little mouth. The unbidden action I made set a blueprint on how I should set boundaries and how I shouldn’t let anyone step upon me just because they are a “friend.”
I have been labeled as “sensitive” a plethora of times, or I am “emotional.” God forbid society to let a woman express her emotions. I don’t see it as an insult but rather a compliment. Take away my sensitivity, and then you’re taking away the essence of who I am. My compassion, my understanding, my empathy, and my appreciation all lie within. You cannot scrape the engraved benevolence of my eternal being.
I try to embrace forgiveness just as much as I avert it; forgiving is peeling the scab off my skin, unveiling the indelible stains of my sins. I am not saying I am indifferent; I’m not claiming that I’m beyond sacred, nor am I innocent; all humans are flawed, we have the decision to choose whether or not we’re going to be great exemplars for everyone, but sometimes I wish more humans include empathy in their body and start to embed it in their lives. Some people are straight-up lost, and what they are doing leaves permanent scars on someone. As much as I want to dislike them, I feel sympathy filling up and rushing through my veins.
As I embraced the solitude of my torn soul, the rattling echoes of thunder pierced through my bosom. Where can I be guileless once again? Novice and innocent, just a child sleeping and waking up to her mother’s gentle touch. I yearn for the soul I left beneath the crevices of the past. Surrendering and having to scrimmage through my rotting flesh as the brisk entity chasing my heart finally catches up to me, I feel the layer of fog thinning in my mind, the acrid odor of smoke starts to fade, and the tear ducts of my eyes starts to dry. The depths of sorrow shatter, and the radiant light that once pierced through my eyes starts to feel like a warm embrace. I’m starting to feel both my feet standing again.
To hunt or to become the prey is the circle of life; the human mind is unfathomable, which who seeks peace and which seeks misery; it’s all to you which character you are going to be in your and others’ story. You can be the figure who chases out of loath just to be deemed relevant in a chapter, or be the figure who chases out of grace and has the entire novel named out of you.
I yearn for the following people who enter my life to be filled with purity and tenderness. Souls without the intent of sucking on my skin like a blood-thirsty leech, those who leave, leaving my skin to decay. I unfolded myself with frustrated beings and tried to run away from the burden of a leech without realizing I had become one myself. I became one who was famished of her desires, blinded by her reflections, and hungry for her cravings. I admire the people, I hate the people, I am the people.
