The Rotten System

I don’t understand how people can muster the guts to ruin other people’s lives. Yes, we are all born selfish. Yes, we live in world where we are taught to put ourselves first instead of others. But where do we draw the line?

We all have flaws. If you tell me that not once in your life did you ever did something you regret, I’d tell you to go to hell because fuck you for lying.

How many people should we hurt, how many families should we take apart, how many lives should we break before we can say that we’ve had our fill.

I am not so much into politics because just thinking about it gives me a headache but this is going way too far. You’ve brought the whole town to ruins, what more can you ask for? Don’t give me your political bullshit because I’ve grown up with them and trust me, I know every side of the story. Your ways and intentions are dirtier than the septic tank behind your house that you built with the people’s money. 

If people did something wrong, find evidence in the most legal and proper way because you have the responsibility to set an example to the people you are governing. I know they are not the most innocent, but they do not deserve all those hurtful sadistic words from people who have easily forgotten who helped them in times of trouble. I was not surprised to find out that you have stoop so low as to frame other people for the things you clearly did, but I’m disappointed just as well.

Fuck you for doing this to my family. Fuck you for ruining a reputation that took a lifetime to build. And fuck you for destroying a young boy’s chance to a normal life just because you can’t let go of the seat you have dirtied aeons ago.

Monthly Hormonal Rants

Dear Life,

What is wrong with you? Do you really have nothing better to do than cook up problems and challenges for everyone? Are you enjoying watching people suffer and hate the world because you are so cruel to create stories of despair out of their lives just because you think it’d be a bestseller? I know you’d never take up the responsibility of giving shits after shits to a person until he or she can’t take anymore. You’d have that excuse that you’re simply giving them the freedom to choose, and unfortunately, they chose the wrong option. So it’s their fault if their life is shitty and hopeless. Everyone said you’re beautiful and perhaps that made you kinda vain. You always want to be a topic of everyone’s conversations and you even cook up some trashy story about how people should look for their purpose when you gave them the gift of existence. I know optimistic and radical people would think that I’m just whining. Well, maybe I am. But so what? I just want you to know that this, this story you’ve written about the world so far? Too tragic to even be considered for publishing, I’m telling you. How can you watch every one of your people die every day just because some people are led to believe that the purpose of the gift you’ve given them is to spread terror to the world? How fucked up is your twist? I know antagonists are important in a story but your antagonists are people too and do you really want them to continue believing that they are simply doing your bidding and that it’s normal? How many of them do you think have sleepless nights thinking about all those people they killed? How twisted did you make their minds to become for them to be able to look at a person in the eye while they pulled the trigger?

Altschmerz all over AGAIN

If everytime you hear the harsh sound of your alarm in the morning, you feel your heart quicken as your brain snap out of its blissful trance from last night’s dream and begin to think of plausible excuses as to why you cannot make it work, but you groan inside as you stood up and make your way to the bathroom anyway, is it a good enough excuse to leave a job that seems secure and enough to pay the bills?

If you go through the day while daydreaming about another place every single second, if it is not happiness or fullfilment you feel every after the day ends, instead you feel rather relief or emptiness, would it be considered brave for running away from something that makes you catatonic?

If everytime you imagine another year of doing the same things, having endless unpredictable days, your legs weaken, your eyes start to fill up with tears, and you feel your anxiety growing inside you, again,  are you being mature if  you believe in your heart that a hazy future is better than the endless cycle days?

I am asking because I have no idea when the right time to let your feelings rule over reason is. I am asking because I do not trust that my brain is mature enough to come up with a practical solution to heart that has already forgotten what it beats for. I am asking because the future looks scarier than they’ve ever been before.

Excerpt from my future diary on my first heartbreak

​I am tired of second guessing how much I exist in your life because that is one thing you never made clear. When we’re together or talk on the phone, everything is just so confusing. You keep telling me how you appreciate me and thank me for all those dark times when I became your light, but apparently, you never cared enough to think of me first, to dig deeper into my soul and know about the demons I sword-fight with everyday and the things that make up the cracks in my  darkness for the light to seep in. You keep telling me I know you too well but I’m not even sure if I can say the same thing about you.

I’m tired of being an afterthought all my life. Now there is someone who’s willing to put me first but damn me because I keep choosing you. I keep choosing you even when I know I will always be your other option. I keep choosing you even after how many times you’ve made clear that I’m never gonna be a priority in your life. I keep choosing you even after how many times I’ve taught myself to let you go. I just keep choosing you and fuck me, because I can’t even force myself not to..

In the Moment Outburst

Sometimes I wake up with a question, ‘What have I been doing in my life?’ And everytime, I’m always at a loss for words at how hazy and endless the road I am taking have become. I was so sure that there was a point in my life that I know, that I am confident to where I want my life to be headed. Surely, I was not this scared, this hopeless and lethargic before. But suddenly everything seems to be black and white. Every mistakes seem to erase all the good that I have done. I don’t know where I belong and I definitely have no idea where I want to belong. I just know I want to belong somewhere

Lately, I have been losing my focus at work, wondering everytime I make a report or snip some shapes or mix some paints if this is what I want to be doing for the rest of my life. Wondering what I was thinking or what I was feeling when I signed up for this. 

I am not a good singer, nor a dancer. My walk has always been crooked, my fashion always a little outdated. I don’t want to be the center of attention. I am never good with numbers and it has long been established that a writing career is not a viable option. To add salt to the wound, I just found out that I am not good in teams. So, what? Where?

Where can I find sanctuary to a heart that have never learned to be sure?

Letter from the desperate to the confused.

Dearest Brain,

I just want to tell you that mornings are created for us to work together. Forcing me to stay open while you’re in there running on pure nothingness in the middle of the night when I badly need to rest is not the best example of us working together. 

If you are a night owl, then work through the dreams, not on repeating thoughts. You’ve given me more than my worth of eyebags because of your overthinking! Mind you, just because you do all the thinking doesn’t mean you’re the only one who gets tired. Just to remind you, I do all the looking and the seeing and that’s not some measly task you want to convince yourself to be. I mean, look at me, I can barely even the stars already. Now, where in the devil’s name are you going to find metaphors for you yet-to-be appreciated pieces of work. And by the way, nose has been complaining about being stuffy when the clock strikes three at dawn. Blaming me for bawling when it was you who let long forgotten memories escape through me in liquid form.

Look, I’m not complaining. This is me trying to be patient on the nights when you had to go astral project your way out of your overcrowdedness. Just, don’t bring us with you, okay. I’ve been hurting for three damn days now everytime the sun hits my irises just because you refuse to shut down like all the other normal brains do. 

This is me, explaining why I squint everytime Mouth tries to form herself into a curve of a smile because my eyelids have been strained for too much blinking and staring at all the blank walls and too dark ceilings. If I have been given a voice box (which Throat refuses to lend me, by the way, what a selfish brat, as if she’s been using them as much), I have long been screeching for all the sleepless nights you tortured me into.

Get your acts together, Brain. Just because you’re woking too much, doesn’t mean your being useful at all. 

Your sleep deprived frenemy,

Eyes