I’m back. For some reason I felt like I had to come here and let something out. Unsure of what to say, I’m willing to write something anyway, although, again, I have no idea what I’ll end up writing. Here goes nothing.

Honestly the past few weeks have gone fairly well. I’m … stable— in general. Some days I get random waves of sadness; feelings of worthlessness and misery, and I feel like all I want is someone to tell me that they truly understand what I’m going through without having to give me the “it’ll be okay” bullshit. I do have friends whom I trust to tell me so, but I just cannot allow myself to complain to them whenever this hits me. I can’t handle being a burden. It kills me.

Another thing that bothers me about myself is the fact that I’m such a paradox. I’d want so desperately to go up to someone and start a conversation with them but at the same time I’d be talking myself out of it, somewhat convinced that I’m better off where I am, although we all know I’m not.

I don’t know. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know how to make something better out of myself. I don’t know what to do next. And I’ve never been more afraid of myself.

This is all I can manage to write at the moment. I won’t even bother proofread, so please excuse any mistakes or vagueness. I do feel slightly  better now that I’ve written this down. I guess I’ll just call this a night.

Until next time, don’t be me. Yes, this is the best advice I could come up with right now. Keep blogging and have a good day/ night.



“Do you know why the moon is so lonely?”
“Because she used to have a lover. His name was Kuekuatsu and they lived in the spirit world together. And every night, they would wander the skies together. But, one of the other spirits was jealous. Trickster wanted the Moon for himself. So he told Kuekuatsu that the Moon had asked for flowers; he told him to come to our world and pick her some wild roses. But Kuekuatsu didn’t know that once you leave the spirit world, you can never go back. And every night, he looks up in the sky and sees the Moon and howls her name. But… he can never touch her again.”
— X-Men Origins: Wolverine

Shrouded with Uncertainty


Time had been going by slowly, maybe slower than it had ever gone. Given her odd anticipation for finding out how things were going to unfold for her, that was not so pleasant. She’d been brooding over her future for days now, and while that obviously wasn’t enough time for things to properly shape up, she could not wait any longer. She couldn’t possibly assess her ability of going on alone in such a short period of time. She was notoriously impatient, a trait that didn’t exactly do her much help most of the time. Like most things, she knew it would take time, but she refused to admit it. Even so, she knew she could not keep herself composed enough for things to happen on their own.

While she did want to test out her theory, she often questioned her choice. Did she really want to isolate herself to find out if that would improve her performance? Was she ready for that? Her loneliness was already killing her; she could only imagine what it would be like to force herself further into this lonesome bubble.

During that time she had also had another task to fulfill and that was preparing herself for a new, unfamiliar way of life. Graduating high school, she wanted to step into college as someone else, someone better; more mature, more patient, and more capable of relying on herself. Her school friends were going to be busy adjusting to their new lives, too, and they’d have less time to help her deal with her problems — not that she frequently turned to them for such help. She’d preferred keeping her problems to herself, but sometimes she needed to hear advice come from someone else’s mouth.

She did however, spill herself out to him. He wasn’t a school friend, but that wasn’t the only thing that set him apart. He knew exactly what to say and how to say it; it was as if he had been there the whole time lurking in the parts of her mind she never wanted exposed. Those were the parts she often denied were there, and he took those out and lay them flat ahead on the table for her to stare at and acknowledge.

He too was a paradox; he was capable of giving out explicit description as to what was wrong and why, but he answered her questions vaguely. She liked mystery but hated having to deal with it herself. In that sense he presented a challenge for her, tossing around clues for her to assemble in order to uncover his intentions. It drove her insane, but the outcomes were worth it.

Following out her plan, however, would mean having to walk away from the challenge; it meant no more self analyses and declared advice. She’d have to do that on her own, but she knew she couldn’t. She never had it in her to be that person despite wanting to so badly. She’d always wanted to experience the satisfaction of knowing she’d helped pull someone out of distress and frustration. Then again, maybe this was her chance; she could go on with her plan, isolate herself and put herself to test, try to extract the compassion she had buried deep inside and use it to aid others. It sounded a bit selfish to her; she wasn’t quite sure if she could handle doing such a thing. The idea seemed to fall on both perspectives; on one hand it was a noble task aiming to help those around her, on the other it was a mere attempt to satisfy her ego by gaining satisfaction from helping others. Which one was it really? Was it kind of both? That she had no answer for, but she wasn’t willing to take the risk.



She was a lonely soul; so used to being alone that she learned to do it in a room filled with people who meant nothing to her and probably never will, but despite her solitude being overwhelmingly exhausting at times, it brought upon a kind of assurance; the assurance that she was alone enough to spare herself another disappointment.

The past few years had been quite eventful; not in the sense that it was in any way interesting or longed-for, but rather in the sense that she’d experienced frustration in too many ways in a relatively short period of time. She’d seen a lot of what people can be and how they can always manage to find ways to prove to her that one should never expect too much out of them, but she was stubborn, the way she always had been as a child. Now legally an adult, she still childishly refuses even the most seemingly simple things when she doesn’t want them, and she refused to take that as a fact. Still she hoped that her newfound friends would not let her down even though in her heart she was preparing for that final blow. And yet she trusted no one, not even herself, and had solid evidence that she never can. What a paradox she was…

There was, however, something that she did believe, and that was that everything happened for a reason with no hint of coincidence. She taught herself that even the toughest of experiences that supposedly knocked her out were there to teach her how to get up next time. She also believed that there are people assigned to make these kinds of experiences happen; those she’d met a lot with. There are also the people assigned to remind her of the former; those were hard to find, but she’d found one not more than two years ago, and so far he’s been performing his task marvelously.

He was like water; essential to survival yet potentially fatal, especially to those who never learned how to swim. He changed with the circumstances. Solid when times got tough to stand with those who needed him, like a lake in arctic temperature serving as reliable ground for people to tread. Deceptive when things called for it to show people just how much they took him for granted, like the mirage of a pond in a stifling hot desert. And smooth when that was what he needed to be to provide peace to the troubled, like the waters of a stream flowing across the mountain for drained hikers to rest in. Everything she needed, he could be, but she was sure never to abuse that lest she consumes the last drop too soon, although she knew he was an ever-flowing river, and he’d always find a way to feed himself when he began to dry out.

She couldn’t swim, so she had a fear of being too close to him. Whenever she felt too heavy she pulled away, but she couldn’t stay away for too long. Eventually she’d come back; she needed him more than she knew, but she never quite knew how much he needed her. What was she to him? He liked sunsets; he drew power and inspiration from them, and often he turned them to surreal works of art. He had an eye for beauty. She often wonders if she was ever the object of one of his art projects, if he could take her subtleness and turn it into something special. Heck, she knew he could, but did he want to?

That was second to the fact that she already owed him too much. She never could pay him back. She could only try to. He hated that; it sounded almost repulsive to him, or at least that’s how he made it sound. Nevertheless, she’d made it an obligation. Somehow she’d find a way. That’s what she kept telling herself. As hard a task as it was, she did not see herself giving up. She refused to let his intolerance for gratitude get in her way. “I will thank you if I please,” she’d say, “and I do please, so thank you” then she’d try to brush off whatever he said to shut her up. She’d gotten used to it by now, given the countless number of times she had to thank him for pulling her out of whatever internal struggle she was having.

There were a few things that she could never get the hang of; one of them was de-stressing herself. Her overactive mind did little to help, taking everything and thinking it through excessively. She often tried to visualize herself all on her own, and naturally ‘the habit’ would kick in. A thousand scenarios into it, she’d be ready to admit it was a bad idea, but that never really took the thought away. Which scenario was the most probable, she had no way of telling. It could be anything, maybe something different from everything she’d pondered. Maybe better, maybe worse. Was she ready? Would it be better for her, perhaps a way to boost her self confidence and teach her that she is all she’ll ever need to make her way out in life? Right now it was a blur; the answer seemed to be lost in that grey spot between certainty and utter dismay. All she had to do was wait for the fog to clear up so she can read it out loud.


It is during the roughest times that one’s optimism becomes his only way of fighting back. A single aspect of life is never enough; without darkness we cannot appreciate light. Without hardships we cannot celebrate triumphs. The key to happiness relies on one’s perception of his surroundings. It is only when we learn to see the beauty in every detail of every element that we become at peace with ourselves, and that is the essence of happiness.


Spontaneous Reflections

Lately I’ve been having some trouble writing. For some reason I can’t seem to focus all of my thoughts on one thing. At times I get a nagging feeling that I need to write; I need to get something out. I hold the thought, reminding myself of it now and then until I’m at the right place and there’s nothing else to bother me while I lay my thoughts down, but as soon as I grab a pencil or boot up my computer my mind goes blank. Just now I’ve spent two whole hours at my desk, computer on and ready, all by myself, no distractions, no worries, no attachments, just me and my scattered thoughts. I’m writing this off the top of my head; I won’t risk trying to dig any deeper so I don’t end up somewhere else.

I had an entirely different subject to write about. I’ve been polishing it up in my mind for days, and now it’s gone. Lost somewhere inside of me, tangled up in my fears and anxieties, my passions and dreams. How terrifying is it that you spend every  second of your entire life in your own company, yet you are the most ignorant about yourself? You could be aware of the fact that there’s much more to you than you—or anyone else—know and still not be able to get a glimpse of what it could possibly be. I reckon that’s where my thoughts go when I don’t hold on to them properly or cannot put enough time and energy to sort them out. What if that’s why I’ve lost them? Could it be that because I am unable to devote the necessary time to myself, I reluctantly give up on myself? I mean, I am my thoughts, and if I can’t handle myself, i.e. my thoughts, do they just abandon me to where I have no access? My own self?

I wonder if there’s some way I could get to explore those places. How much better would it feel to know that you can go back to where everything you’ve ever given up about yourself lies? But at the same time, how dangerous could that be?

Is there a reason we have such limited knowledge and control over who we are? If everyone could instantly go back and forth between who they are and who they once were, the world would be in total chaos. Our tendency to abuse  ourselves psychologically through our extraordinary God-given capabilities could ruin us and our surrounding. It could put anything to an end. Maybe that’s why we’re not allowed to know what we have buried within us, if such a thing even exists, that is.

I don’t know who or what influenced this. I don’t even know why I’m even writing it on my blog for everyone to see. I said I was going to be writing things off the top of my head and here it is. How it transitioned to all this, I have no idea. I’m partly glad it came out like this. Two hours ago I was on the verge of losing my mind. At least now I know something’s still there, although I never even knew I had this in me the whole time.

I won’t go back and proofread it, mainly because I want to keep this spontaneous effect that it’s got. I’ll run it through the automatic proofreader for spelling and grammar errors if there are any, but I won’t change a word of its content.

It’s been quite liberating writing all of this, even though it might not make sense to anyone but myself. I don’t regret publishing this; I won’t regret being myself.