It had been days to weeks since I last tapped on my keyboards of which the mere sound of it had sent away the vibrance of my feeling, smoothly transcending towards the virtual world. Yet, I couldn’t help but ask myself why- why the necessity of letting my usual autobiography writing or that of the another novel I was writing on. Thus, I couldn’t help but go back, for the first time, to my old writings and compositions. Randomly reading through, I was stunned mainly questioning who that person was. I don’t feel lost but it was an odd feeling to see how vulnerable I was through my writings.

Meanwhile, before I ended up on a tirade, grazing my old works and reminiscing the pains of how and why they were constructed; the question of why I hadn’t been writing remained to motivate me. I’m surprised that I wasn’t stressed over it, or be bothered greatly like I usually do yet pondering over it- perhaps because a good deal was substituted for the time I should’ve spent writing.

Over that gap, I had been serenading another love, which I have had after years and years since my last sincere one. I had been writing poetry for her but I feared the sharpness of words and the notorious deceit that arms it. Perhaps it was my careful ideology that justifies it or merely the understanding that people can be vulnerable mentally or emotionally as they are physically.  Still, I plan to soon post some or all of those poetry to remind me of what had keep me off on my other works.

However, my most memorable one was that short vacation I had with a friend. She invited me over theirs for the weekend, which I readily agreed to but I had not hoped that within that short time, I learned just enough to know that I was headed to a good tract on my life. Never had I been so certain of what comes or what should I do next. Remembering back then, I only started writing because I fall into the despair of loneliness and depression. It somehow healed me back and gauging from my previous writing ( vocabulary included ), the change was evident.

I thought I would be retiring from my profession as soon as I got home from abroad but it did not happen, neither is the publication of my first novel ( which I chose anyway not to ) nor put into action the perfect death plan I had been drafting in my head, months before I came back. Things were never so certain back then, but for all it’s worth, I managed to pull myself back to point zero where I could delete everything and be offered a second chance to renew another life.

Before I went to that vacation, I already had something in mind which I plan to do. My friend was surprised about my decision to go back abroad and save up for my Masters. It was only a hasty decision, spurt of idea perhaps, which I usually have, Still, I was uncertain of it way back then ’till that vacation made me realize how so should I pursue it.

Looking back then, I though I’d be a novelist or a poet but maybe I’d end up being a guidance counselor or a professor and writing would only be a skill I will use to teach and document something I see as relevant to be passed on to other people. I know I would never earn a dime through writing but I still persist to do so. Farming had taught me humble beginnings and a sustainable life and my profession taught me that the most uncured ailment was that of which we don’t see, better is a physical pain for it has a medicine than a heartbreak which can be left perpetually bleeding.

( I will post something about that vacation on my other blog : http://www.dozeup.worspress.com. You may check it out there if you’re interested )

 

It was a long day yesterday, sounds not that much, especially for one who only take long walks the entire day and languidly spends her time thinking. Yet, mental exhaustion is quite debilitating though rather obliviously. Exerting effort on an ambiguous monologue, concluding is the least attained objective and due to my desires interference, the challenge is quite real.

For months, I’ve set small simple goals- quite achievable supposed to be but my main aim is to change both my career and course of life. Yet, with much calculation- I found it hard to do so, especially that not only do I desire a simpler lifestyle- far from what is expected from me but also, the pains of trying to differ from everybody I know is something that pulls me back everytime. It took me a long and hard time trying to convince myself that there are things which works out irregardless of some struggles. One of them is writing despite all adversities.

I tried in vague attempt to find another job ( locally ) but perhaps It wasn’t for me hence here I am again, deducing reasons why I need to go back to that place and do something I wasn’t into. In an honest perspective- how could I as a nurse be dedicated to my job when all that interests me are words of which and knowledge? Being a nurse takes up a lot of energy- patience, emotional stability, highly demanding work, sometimes people or say patients and staffs you work with aren’t that conducive either. Last year, on my previous job, I definitely aged way faster all for the sake of founding a financial stability for my daughter. I do not see her as a burden- no, despite the fact that until these times, the aftermath of how she came to life had always hunted me. The pressure of sending her to college while I establish something on my own is really a hardwork, not to mention the sacrifices trying to earn all that money.

Yet, in retrospect, the adversities I have to go through- taught me more lessons I needed to learn. It is as everybody called it- reality- after all. Yet in my case, though in physical forms, I was like a cold corpse dwelling with the rest, with my words- I live. One way or another, one can only create his or her own world in where life can be built around.

I walked on a daily path constantly in dispute with my own self. Sometimes, I do consider the existence of  a dualistic personality within me but at most- I know it was only my ego I was talking to. I laid off smoking and alcohol when I chose the pen and paper but the other me- the illusionary me is completely drown on those vices. However, it was she who keeps telling me the words I must write, of which , I don’t exactly know what they mean. The deformity of my physical being, guided by two mindset, was left on a confused state. One day I found myself blabbering something unconsciously while walking but sure I was aware of what I was talking about- only that it was obviously weird for one to talk with no one talk with while walking. At this very moment, I am perplexed on what to do. She wanted me to write and so I do but at most, my being, as others had raised me- always come in between and question my actions. The me which others had built kept on reminding me about the impossibility of things especially when my ego says and ardently encouraged me to do – that I must only write and keep on writing.

I can never be a writer nor find a writing job- that’s what the old and sober me says. Thus implying my need to find a ‘real’ job which I honestly hate anyway. For security purposes, people do that of which they hate and undoubtedly, that’s the struggle I’m always caged at. Living is futile indeed and something I cannot escape from as I utterly spent my days on sadness, loneliness, and misanthropic behavior.

A letter to myself

Tonight I’m writing you. You above all, know the reason why. The separateness of our being as distinguished by night and day had forced me to do so, despite my weary eyes and worn out body. We both know that I exist at night and my illusion had far fed you of uncertainties- but comfort at most. Reminiscing the past, when, where, and why have I existed perpetually hunts you but it is my endeavor and perpetuated aspiration to always be there. Remember those years we’ve parted, how you grope in desperation with no absolute sense of existence?

Sure it was hard, to question your value, your being, your identity and above all- your purpose. You’ve never trusted me and despite our efforts to reconcile, here we are again, stuck in the midst of nowhere filled with trepidations and perplexed with the demands of expectations. It deeply worries me that we are dwelling in the darkness much longer than before.

Do you remember when you had your child and everything was just smoothly laid out for you- the worst planned from others?  You were doing fine, but just that. Above all, you were doing great swarming on futile circles, no dreams, no aspirations- nothing. Then the knell called you from afar. You grabbed it with uncertainty but later on, the grief that slowly sank, never healed. The amount of anger and hate you daily struggle with is now slowly devouring you just like how you watched your body slowly giving up. Yet still, nobody cared. The pains of your suffering are yours alone and the attempt to cure it had lead us to the pen and paper. Irregardless of the effort and amount of courage you put into yourself, it has been left underappreciated by the people you thought should have.

The simple rule of keeping quiet, enduring the torture of loneliness, had allowed you to become severely introvert. Oblivious to others, you are as good as dead but for some reason, you kept writing as if you are alive. Nothing exists anymore other than your words that mattered most to strangers. Despite your persistence and endeavors, you will never be granted your only wish as easy at is was. Death is a cancer and now that it had taken your spirit, one day it will take your body but your soul will remain among the living. It will remain for they will lament your absence due to their selfish reasons of emotional attachment. Sadly, that was long gone from you and inclusive of others. Apathy is just the word to name your reward, for years of practice, no doubt you have mastered it.

At this present you are tasked to linger longer on life with me by your side. With hope, I wish we will never part once again, for I am yours as you are mine.

Lamentations

Paying a visit to my grandmother who was already in her nineties,  I contemplated on how I did spent my last twenty five years.  As I  quietly listens to her lamentations and seeminly unending ” death wish” , I can’t  help but ask myself the point of my existence apart from the social identity that others imprinted on me.  Being my parents daughter and later on a victime of sexul abuse,  then a mother of a bastard ( of which I still don’t  know what to do wth her), an expectedly obedient child thus I did finished a degree I both hate and dreaded. As if it wasn’t  enough that I  did grew up being constantly reminded on my responsibilities over the child while being blamed on the shame my family had to encounter because of something I as a childhad never come to understand.  It didn’t  take long before I gave up and drowned myself on smoking and alcohol,  enough to make me see how miserable I am. With uncertainty,  I did take a job to teach myself but the price I had to pay was even greater.  On my first job abroad,  I was both suffering from identity crisis and body dysmorphia and was only spared early from death when I got into readig philosophy and learning how to write.  I wasn’t  good in english,  provided that it was like my fourth language but it was enough to had kept me going.  Indeed,  things began to have a different course from there but pulling back to the present time – I don’t  know who I am before what I am as of today.  My memory is limited.  I don’t  know a lot of people. I became misanthropic, agnostic athiest, androgynous,  and undoubtedly alone most of the time.  Suicidal thoughts bother me at most but certainly, it is something I lazily don’t consider to do but running away through means of living somewhere or abroad is a promising option.

However,  watching over my aged grandmother and scrutizing her frail body,  I know that I can live in a hermitic  manner, only that there are simply so many factors that don’t  allow me to.

My only fear was surrendering to insanity but it would be the only reward I can get from all that have happened to me,  death is always the second. The least I can do to commiserate myself is to live with utmost sincerity to obtain a purposeful life but if it fails then again,  all is forgotten.