Letter to My 16 Years Old Self

So lately I've been talk much about how I am currently going trough a phase which urges me to do less writing.

I call it a phase because I used to have writing itself as a company. My friends themselves cannot win against it. Only a long moment of silence can be compared to it, still, a normal human can’t breaks the boundary of wordless; they still can’t understand a single thing out from me, unless they let me write. So they used to wait until I drowned in a pool of word, until I vanished from the realm of sound then finally be able to speak with them, indirectly, bound by wire or glasses and frequency along our wire.

For years, that is what people need to do to get through me. Until I realized no one really looking for the treasure anymore. Well, technically I’m alone in the maze I made. So I look through my own continuum to find out what’s gone wrong. In a matter of fact, I do. I changed into somebody else that my younger self would have been proud of or hate to her bone, I don’t even wish to know whichever it was.

I learned how to value others. With ‘others’ therefore I refers to ones or thousands with no blood relation. I value the common sense of talking and listening, vice versa. To comfort by forgiving, pleasing, or thanking. I might as well fell in love; for the first time with a boy in my desire, my future thinking, my complete sentence, my living-opposite-gender half. I fathom how to speak in discreet, how to keep secrets, how to gain trust, how to work on people’s problem by its background. To foretold, I socialize.

I've lost my readers. Nevertheless, at the same time I gain my listeners.

I get to talk to people about things I was afraid to share because it was out of everybody’s mind. Things that to most of people are outrageous, freak, even taboo; the exact same reason why I don’t talk to most people about things I had in mind. But lately maybe people do get older the same way as I do. So, some of them understand better than the others by experience, some others are just…. gifted, or simply willing to understand how my bare eyes reflect images of the world.

So here I am, still hanging to writing, but changing.

I admit the fact that I couldn't leave the only thing that keeps me sane for years, so hereby I think I’ll start over and tried to accept the fact that I cannot—longer—write as what I was, when I was younger, when I was free and capable to express anything the second it gasps from my mind. I cannot retaliate or react too much on some anonymous question, admiration, not even threat. The world with those are just frustrating more that its already is, so I don’t think I need one.

Even though that I met a really good friend recently, maybe in some other time she might be reading this now. There are times we had a conversation, then she admit to read my past writings so I asked what she think of me without knowing me in person and how is it I looked like behind my writings, she said:

“Goddess”

To be honest, I don’t understand what kind of goddess I am in somebody’s mind, but I didn't even need to know. Because I think it is more than enough to found out that I managed to to form something out of myself, to mirrored myself in some mortal world, to be exist in a parallel that I once cost my other self to disappear.

And so this make it clear that I am making myself no longer the Goddess anymore. I think I like being a human, to realize that I’m mortal. “You punch me, I bleed.” just like something Parker has to say when he’s no longer the superhero. I found a spark in my space, bound by the abstinence of pride and freedom—I admit. But I’m happy, there’s a whole bigger and better kindness here, if I may put a word for it.

This is a better change. Sorry, younger self.

Night night.