care

Scene I “Fucked up”

It starts with the little things

You grow up

You realize this

You realize that

And the mirage of love

The one that does not exist

You realize it’s a fucked up place

Scene II “We’ve all been there”

We all somehow managed to survive

But did we really?

“dead inside”

“dead inside”

It’s a world of zombies

They’ve made a mockery out of it

For everyone who felt too much before

For everyone who’s just afraid to hurt

But it’s okay, it’s fine

We’ll collect trauma like trophies

All just to put up a good show

I guess, misery is the new trend

Scene III Vulnerability and validation

Nobody talks

But nobody stops talking

It’s all noise

But it still wrong to let it out

The emotional build up

That’s eating away at  

(what was previously called)

the human heart

A sign of weakness

Unless it’s in verses or strokes of paints

Then it comes back to trends again

You know,

The need for validation

For the art that my tears create

Nobody cares

Who am I to judge?

I don’t either.

Why I write

I stopped writing diaries a few years ago. People can know me too much that way. My friends thought it was a fun activity, so they exchanged their diaries. I, on the other hand, made a fake one to showcase them the ‘feelings’ they expected me to have. I found it infuriating to let my guards down in front of a bunch of middle school girls who actually didn’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. Ironically, those were my only bunch of friends. I had my other best friend who saw my diary but the fact itself that she was going to read it wouldn’t let me pen down my exact thoughts.

Then why? Why do I have this desperate urge to share things, especially the things I write?

A year later or so, I burned them, my diaries, both of them.

For some reason, it was the most satisfying thing I had ever done.

I don’t want to let anyone know me, anyone. Ironically, internally, I beg for people to know me, then love me. I have learned to love myself because I need to survive, because I have no other choice, because although some parts broken, some parts desperate, I’m still somewhat beautiful inside. Or maybe that’s what I’ve mastered pretending. Who knows? It’s a survival instinct that never goes away.

I realised that penning my feelings down was, in fact, addictive. Sadly, nicotine never had the upper hand, words always did.

Poetry is and always was just doodling for me, mindless playing with words like I do with designs that come to my head. Creative? Yes, but most of it never made me feel anything. Starting with random words that don’t stop until they give way to a piece of establishment that people call literature.

Articles, ah yes, those are my paintings. True to the bone, so real that they’re sometimes hard to share. Ironically, again, I often find myself pressing send. Right now I’m just playing with words, right now I’m being as real as I can possibly be. I don’t know which, well, maybe I do but you won’t ever find out.

Sad part about writing is you learn to hide behind the ink. Nobody will ever find out who I truly am or what I truly feel until and unless they read what I write. But it’s not that simple because, just like the fake diaries, you’ll often find pieces that I’ve kept as illusions or as “showcases” to deceive  people away from my true self. Things people expect me to feel versus the things I actually feel. How to differentiate? You don’t. You won’t.

But, secretly, I want you to.

I am chaotic, aren’t I? You won’t agree because you already know that everyone already is, in their own different ways.

I’m writing this right now because, since recently, I’ve been afraid. Afraid of penning down my real thoughts. All I’ve been doing is writing up illusions to deceive and conquer hearts of the readers who try to understand my lullaby. I’m just messing around with people who actually want to listen, people who actually want to help.

I’m tired of this.

So tired.

I wrote this, because I need to be real.

I haven’t been real to myself in a long time.