“ you’re bojack horseman, there’s no cure for that. “

ever since i was young, i had this voice burried deep in my head that echoes.

“ you were doomed since you exist, there’s no changing in that. “

“ you were born this way, that’s the curse you have to live with. “

sometimes i deny it and think, everyone was born a clean slate — a blank canvas. but how was it clean when my fate has been written in the stars?

when there’re no changing, that the series of event that happens in my life will forever taint me. of who i am, who i will be, how i will be.

i’m terrified it remained stagnant. i’m terrified it will never change. sometimes i thought it gets better then i’m burried down again.

an example,

i had someone who read me through my writings. someone who painted me a certain way and assume my whole being by my writings.

thing is, i think i was born made to be a writer. i don’t write to publish, to earn commercial, but simply to intellectualize my feelings.

i was never taught how to speak about my emotions, when i cried i was told it’s too much and shamed upon. so i resorted in writing. i always write and write even before i know how to write properly — i was 8 when i start writing.

it is my solace, my space, and how i ease my mind.

of course, the muse will be everchanging. it could be a certain person i’m figuring out my feelings for at that certain time, it could be my life, myself in general, my father, or anything. anything that i felt too much in my heart, i write.

i love writing, it tidies up the room in my head. that’s why i’m good at grief, i’m used to grieving. the key is only acceptance, and it’s easy after writing.

and people don’t understand sometimes people that were my muse, only stayed as a character of my writing in that piece. my opinion and perspective could change about them, but that person in my writing is absolute and concrete and can’t be changed by time — they stay as the ghost of my piece. the real person doesn’t need to be affiliated with my muse i wrote about.

but something terrified me, people start to connect the dots to my writings and start to form a certain idea of me from my writing. i don’t even understand myself when my heart is pouring, i write whatever is in my head to ease it up. not even that, i write things i think are beautiful, that inspires me and put a new perspective in me.

thing is, i am not the papers i write. i’m also, an everchanging person.

it scared me, i remain stagnant because of my writing. it makes me feel like a character from a book — suddenly i am no human, just a character that can’t be changed from how my author wrote me.

at that time, i desperately sob and try to explain. i am not my writing. i am not my writing. please, look at me. i’m breathing, my veins are pulsating.

but the thing is, i am. it was and still a part of me i carry. i just think i’m an abstract, there’s so much to get to know about me rather than making an absolute image of me.

it makes me afraid of writing, i deleted my writings from 2014 that i still keep ahold. that, makes me lost myself. because at the end of the day, it was me. i hated that part of me.

for the first time i wished i am a clean slate— blank canvas. because i don’t like being perceived. but that’s not that, every single occurances in the 23 years of me being alive shape me who i am and my thoughts and my ideas.

and i promised after that, of two things.

one, to not erase what has been written under my name.

two, to keep on writing. because i still have alot of space, alot of room, i’m still growing, and it’s alright.

when i watched bojack horseman (cite: S2E1), as his mother said this line:

“ I don’t wanna fight you, BoJack. I just wanted to tell you I know. I know you wanna be happy, but you won’t be, and — -I’m sorry — It’s not just you, you know. Your father and I, we — Well, you come by it honestly, the ugliness inside you. You were born broken, that’s your birthright. And now you can fill your life with projects, your books, and your movies and your little girlfriends, but it won’t make you whole. You’re BoJack Horseman. There’s no cure for that. “

i had to stare at the window for ten minutes.

you were born broken, that’s your birthright? he just stayed silent, but i felt like it reels him back to when he was a kid. mom, if that’s the truth then what should i do now? tell me. am i truly doomed? can’t it be changed? can’t you do something?

what is left in my life if i’m just the ruins and ashes after my parents? what if i got nothing more to live for?

what if they’re right, what if i can’t change for the better now? what if i’m just a shit-show that play pretend i changed for the better, all nice and kind and full of compassion & tenderness but deep down i’m just a ruined man with a hole in their chest?

what if i am after all the weapon that kills me? what if i can’t defend myself anymore? what if i am truly doomed ever since i was born?

where should i go, now? tell me, mother. what house can give me shelter, blanket me from the world that points their fingers at me? what can i do to repay the sins of mine and my father’s and my ancestors’? tell me how, so i can start working.

maybe because i always felt like an imposter in this life, i always turn my back to people who loves me because none of the love felt authentic enough.

i want a love that’s not unconditional, i want a love someone willingly chose to love me without me working so hard to be the person that deserves it.

maybe, in this lifetime. i won’t truly understand what it meant to be loved and love someone.

i don’t even know how it feels to be human.

i don’t know how it feels to be known.