Hi there, it's been a while - well, a year.
It's 5:09am as I'm typing this (yup, pulling a all-nighter as usual). I've been catching up on TV shows, movies, and things I missed out along the way of this year. And I decided to take a break, stretch out my spine, haha, and try to write a new blog post.
I started this blog as a stream of consciousness, and I've still been writing - don't worry. In a mix of stray post-it's, random pages, and on my phone. I'm trying to collect my thoughts together as much as I can, I hope it's working.
A lot has happened this year.
2018... has been... a lot.
Busy.
I've stalled on a lot of things, I've taken breaks. And before I knew it, here I am, a year has passed. How did it happen just like that?
I think I'm afraid of writing in some ways. Letting it all out, knowing that my thoughts are somewhat concrete, and exist in the world outside of my body. It's a love that I fight everyday when I wake up and before I go to sleep.
There's pages and pages of unfinished poems, sentences that have no periods, and phrases that are untethered. And I tell myself, this is going to something - something full - whole - and it's own life. A piece of myself that can stand on it's own, or at least learning how to walk on its own before I can let it go. I save pieces for this and that, and I end up in a bigger mess in of myself.
I dream that there would be little bundles of papers, sewn together, by the spine of a book that - is me. I'd selfishly pour myself into something, every ounce of care and pain I have, thinking that it'll bring me some satisfaction. Some feeling that it's okay, and that I exist in the world.
It's weird writing sometimes.
I look back and I can still feel the heaviness despite how much time has passed. I still feel the weights on my shoulders, the cloud that looms around, and the bits and pieces of what I've tried forgetting. The words I've written remind me of where I was, and where I am. Things have changed, and some haven't. I get nostalgic of the words I've used, and the emotion it carries; the life I had back then.
It gives me a perspective that I hold onto, yet, feel conflicted if I could ever let go.
I'd let out a few tears for her, the girl I used to know - and know now.
There's things I don't think I can forgive and forget. It's a tug-of-war game that's gone on forever, and I feel like I don't know a time where I wasn't holding on for my dear life.
Maybe I'm being dramatic.
I've shared some stories with friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers. I've taken my time for that. And I've also kept to myself. Solitude has always been there for me. I hear that there's stepping stones as I wandered around blindly, I lost my footing at times, but I'm on my hands and knees now.
It's been hard to breathe this year.
Things pile up on each other, and I find myself scrambling to balance another plate on my head. I have little to no time to process things, and when I can finally catch my breath, all the plates come tumbling down after my strategic method of keeping myself together. (This is quite ironic, because I loved building towers out of cards when I was a kid - and I wouldn't give up until I had a pyramid - no matter how many times it fell over).
I can feel myself building the tower of cards these days, being teased dangerously by the wind to knock me over. So much has built up and I just sit there not knowing where to start. Like when you pull a string from your sweater, and it continues to undo the whole thread. Whatever direction I gravitate towards, I'm spiraling further into something else.
(Lots of metaphors haha).
Anyways, what I'm trying to say is - I need to do things on my own more these days.
It's been draining, and I need to slow down by a million.
I need to escape. Leave.
Go somewhere far away and completely new.
I need to look at new things with my own eye balls.
Drop what I know.
Breathe new air.
--
This was my stream of consciousness.
6:02am.
12/29/18.
