Comfort.

Flaming June, by Fredrick Lord Leighton

Have I given in to the idea that what I am experiencing today is comfortable and sustaining? Is the gray cloud of doom really come any minute now that I convince myself to cherish these last few months of rapture? Have I really become lazy because I pity myself too much that I give enough room to have fun and enjoy? Is this what I really want?

My consciousness is fully aware of the fact that drastic changes in my life are about to come but has some fucking plane or phase or any fucking dimension in my mind made the decision to deny it despite the thousands and thousands of angry self reminders I scream inside my head?

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This fucking blog is supposed to be ideally something that aims to uplift but I have made a fool out of myself to commit to such a goal by not really facing myself in the first place. Have I taken big of a bite that I am choking now, trying to chug everything down my throat?

 

I am being crippled by the thoughts in my head that I cannot do important yet easy, minimal tasks. I don’t know what exactly has gone over me and it is not so cool.

 

Seemingly…

At 32 years of age, Beyonce has confronted the bonds from her controlled past by metaphorically smashing her trophies, the sacrifices she had to do, the experiences she missed out, and the heartbreaks she had to endure to achieve her status, realizing that there are more important things in life like love, friendship, and positive influence.

Here I am at 22 years of age, anchored in the state of topsy turvy, not knowing how my current decisions will enlighten the dark perceptions of my future, filled with hesitations and uncertainties, surrounded by people who do not seem to care what I am capable of. I am trapped in a cycle of wounded-ness, bound by the guarantee of pretense and unwanted accomplishment, defined by mundane rewards and disguised rewards. I look at myself and see someone who is not genuinely happy despite the seemingly gentle and innocent demeanor.

I was raised and taught to be perfect and good, not experiencing what is real, what is current, what is needed. My wounds were either taken care of and mellowed or condemned to the fires of hell, and I was not taught to be tolerant and resolute. I was taught that the world was scary. My head was lain in the comforts of a bubble wrap, a protective layer that can be popped with brute force. No one really noticed the ache and pains of someone who was not loved for who he is but for who he seemed to be.

I have a lot to say but it is going to become tiring and whiny. I just want to stop. After how many more breakdowns should I suffer just to be at peace with myself.

I am yearning for the time that I could grab my Past at its balls and make its ill effects on me go away. I am yearning for the day that I can finally say that I did it on my own and not be told on what to do and what to become. I don’t want to live like this anymore.

I don’t want to see someone’s kindness and submissiveness be abused by someone who’s fooled to want to become better by stepping on another person. I don’t want to see potentials wasted, rotten and forgotten just because it is deemed non-traditional. I don’t want to enslave myself by working on something that does not give me personal value, somewhere I am seen as just a piece of tool or machine that continuously operates on fuel. I don’t want to be something that exists just as someone’s achievement, I want to achieve things on my own.

I am bothered by the things of my past and the things that I currently experience and it is unbearable to see everything crumbling down.

I need help. I don’t want to shun myself out of fear of physical, verbal, and emotional violence anymore. I thought I saw a fortress, a way out but it is as euphoric as it is ephemeral, and now I have to plunge into this hell hole for the rest of my forthcoming days.

These pestering thoughts just keep on nourishing my brain with poison. All hope and ideal are not yet lost, they are waning, yes, but it is still grasping for oxygen to burn alive.

I’d rather burn alive with passion than limp and charred.

I want to welcome and hush all my pains because no one around me sees it. Instead of becoming stronger, I let my pain define me. But what’s worse is no one sees me as what I am, only what is seemingly there: meek, mild, disinterested, aloof, from afar and hard to crack. Let some action (like Beyonce’s from above .gif photo) strike me and scatter me into pieces so I can finally let the world see me.