Have you ever wondered, as you wander in prairie of thoughts — am I any good, am I worth of anything..anything at all? It is not a 3 am thought that just pop out of nowhere because you’re drunk, suicidal or epileptic; those were usually with silver foxes, a moan and a happy face.
For a first paragraph it is quite heavy, out of place in purity of this medium, a kiss of dementor in a virgin pixie dust cup. I’m painting it black, like a burning charcoal — I want to play with in between fingers, those little fire right before my eyes, as it turn to ashes — as it burns my skin.
This entry is partially bipolar, with anxiety and heartache. I’d like to pen it down, a gloomy Saturday so I could laugh at it later today. Maybe I wouldn’t feel pathetic after this entry tomorrow morning, who knows really. I need a proof of it.
I’ve passed up tons of opportunity to be happy in all aspect of my life.
Now. Stop. There. This. Is. Not. A. Pity. Party.
Be it in education, in work, family and love.
Maybe I just don’t give a fuck, or maybe I’m just too dumb to make amazing life decisions, or fucking too dependent, vulnerable and weak to go on her own. I haven’t figured out the answer to those, you know? It’s in the back of my tear ducts and base of my tongue. It was the constant thing in my life, questions.
There was lot of should have had — too many, more than I could handle; like a sachet of pop rocks, without water and mouth close.
My Biology college friends joked that I should be on meds, anti-depressant and that was on 2007. That was the pilot episode of a series of “to the drain” netfix sans chill in my life. I have had dark thoughts of seriously killing myself. It was worse than rape or abortion, the closest was a demon child fornication in my brain — like a gremlin, they multiply and left you for dead.
I have a strongman in my life, my father — a beauty like my mother and two annoying ugly minions that I’ll stuck with for the rest of my life.
They are imperfect, they are excluded to my self-induced hatred to the world and earthlings.
I didn’t came from broken family to be this broken, but I didn’t came neither from Marck Zuckerberg’s payroll to be that content.
Excuse me for the cheesiness, but IDGAF.
The hardest battle and the most lethal are those you have had in silence, the ones that keep you up at night — an ugly vulture by your window, lurking. It was like waiting for its meal, my sadness.
They told me it will get better, that I’m fortunate but no words, no person, that can genuinely make it better.
I’m not going to expand or explain that incident, I know you are wondering by now — like “Shut the fuck up, I don’t know where you are coming from. Share it.”
I have a heart though, I’ve had it broken thrice. I barely like another human being in real life to be honest with you. I’m just naturally selfish that way, don’t hate.
So when I felt it, I just cling onto it very hard. It was equal parts tragic and fantastic. I just rolled my eyes with that line.
I’m not forgetful, and that was a good and bad side of it — it becomes part of me. It makes me smile and sad all at once, all at the same time. Again and again. Day in and day out.
I’ve always say I’m pansexual — so, shit who knows?
Somebody once asked me “what is your dream job?” I told him right away, “to be part of WWE’s creative team”. I loved it so much I really did consider applying for internship in that promotion.
..or I don’t know, a novice PR company by a novice journalist in a novice corporate world.
I don’t really know yet. The irony is fuming right under my nose as I type this portion but it will happen, maybe — no, eventually.
I need to end this, it’s getting long. So bye *silently shuts down the laptop*
PS: Wow, I actually feel better. I should do this more often. I’m going to take advantage of you now, medium.