— a nonfiction by potpourris.
A cry.
A cry for help. Try it, for once.
There’s just something about tonight.
It’s cliché to talk about the air but every inhale felt excruciatingly painful — piercing through every alveoli and crushing it from the inside out. On average, people have about 480 million alveoli in their lungs that expands to welcome oxygen home. But somehow, my breathing tonight felt rather funny, as if every breath I take is a sin.
Then there’s all these jumbled thoughts. The what-ifs subjugates becoming champions of the night. I swear as if each realization that came barging in through the front door isn’t bad enough already, my mind chose to wander to the most absurd places and drags my soul with it to wither. It felt as if I was screaming for help but everything that makes up who I am exists within a void, for I am stuck in limbo.
Nothing seems to make sense. Everything seems to be my fault. My own doing got me here, whether it be the before or after. I’ve lost control of my ship; my hands are on the wheel simply they are tied there, my headings were all scrambled for I couldn’t read the stars, and I am… nothing.
I am nothing but the product of loneliness and unreciprocated love. I hate it. I hate what I’ve become. The worst part of it is that I’m not yet done. Like that shitty ship metaphor that I used earlier, I’m all beat up but I can’t seem to nestle to any shore. Somehow inside my sick and demented loaf of brain box I kept thinking “you know, if you keep on going, you might make it to another lighthouse whose warmth you’ll eventually love.”
I don’t want a lighthouse.
I want a home.
I want to come home.
I thought you were it.
You and your tender soul. Your warm eyes, your mysterious disposition that I could never get enough on. Your twisted jokes and your avoidance in things that makes you uncomfortable, including myself.
I could’ve loved you forever. To the point where you’d start to question, “If love could felt this warm, why didn’t I start sooner?”
I could’ve loved you until time ceased its existence to make up for the ones we lost trying to chase what was ideal for us. I could’ve been ideal for you, if only you’d give me the chance. I could’ve been your biggest cheerleader, your broadest shoulders to cry on, your best ever sex, and your very first kiss.
I could’ve been everything, and I could happen all at once. Best part of all?
I could’ve been,
and I always have been,
the person who truly sees you
in all of your forms
in all shades of the navy blue that you love so much
in your state of uneasiness
when conversations spiraled against your comfort sphere.
When someone asked what your favourite colour was, I held every impulse to answer. I knew the shade better, for they just so happens to be mine as well.
When were went out to a restaurant, and you were so fidgety because your meal was the last to arrive, I called out every movement that you’d do. I laughed about it with our friends even. I know you’d encourage us to eat first without waiting for you, and eventually you’ll start to get all panicky and you’ll come up to the waiter. You’ve held every urge not to because you were trying to be decent and understanding to the fact that the service is a bit slow because they’re on a full house.
Still, you can’t escape the fact that you don’t want anyone waiting for you. You don’t want anyone to be dependent on you. You can’t live with the pressure of other people’s expectations, when you don’t even consider yourself worthy to answer to their opinions on mundane matters simply because you deem your current self is not even close to their standards because you’re not doing as much. Or earning as much. Or living as much.
The truth hurts. And scary.
But you chose to chase your imaginary fixation because you’re afraid to admit that you deserve to be seen to the point where you’re afraid to admit that someone is seeing you for what you are. Not who you want to be, not even the scumbag that you were, but the you in this present moment. The you, who’s currently floating so still in the uncertainty of not knowing where you want to go but desperately trying to fit in.
I see you.
But to admit that means you have to give up on her — the thing you claim to be your first love but in reality, she’s a mere obsession of your fear and the product of your unanswered curiosity because you had no balls to actually make a decent conversation.
I see you.
And this is a cry for help in writing; in my own suffocating confession for I’ve spent the night crying in my Sujūd screaming to God — aching. I told him how my heart hurts as it bleeds, and that this very discomforting night I realize what He’s been trying to tell me all along.
That you won’t ever see me
the way I’ve always seen you.
