I always wondered where pain goes. Does it disappear, or does it go somewhere else? Maybe we forget about the pain because it no longer hurts as much. Maybe it sits inside of our bodies and waits for time to change it into something else—something like experience, something like purpose. I think that is what pain is; it grows into something more meaningful. Meaningful in a way that, the pain we accumulate over the years will all make sense to us one day. We use pain to overcome anything.
I am a human and I have a voice. I am just too scared to use it. I rather figure out a way to make my thoughts look prettier on paper, even if I smudge the ink between the lines and nothing makes sense in the end.
There is a part of me that still believes that dreaming is the only right thing to do. Instead of dwelling in my dreams at night, I dream during the day. Sometimes, I forget how to live because I see my dreams as far more beautiful than the life I am leading. I will tell you something. It is easy enough to dream. All we have to do is put memories and lost hopes together. The difficult part of dreaming is to believe. I am stuck, just like you. We are too afraid of failure, so we play a game of imagination. We let our minds create a different fate for us—a different reality. I know how it is to live your life like a dream. I know how painful it is to see everything in front of you fall apart. I know what it feels like to lose hope. And despite all that I know, I never get tired of dreaming. Although it may seem like dreams and realities are always parallel, there is a chance that they will meet conceptually in infinity.
I am watching the world around me instead of living inside it—I only exist. Maybe I am growing distant with the world and with myself. It is like there is an extra layer of atmosphere separating me from the world and no matter how I try to get back with everyone, I always prefer to go back and be on my own. I do not know who I am with others, or who I am when I am just by myself. I think I am just waiting for someone to grab my hand and pull me out of these layers of sadness.
I do not think I am happy, at least I do not feel like I am. I could be wrong, though. After all, I never take an inventory of how I feel in any given day. I am too caught up in the process of living—I have to eat, get dressed, sleep, get up early to avoid traffic jams, work, and have some time to myself reading books and listening to good classical music. Maybe happiness is not supposed to be something grand, like how people make it out to be. Perhaps it is just something that makes you feel content with life, even if it is only for a second or two. But then I ask myself, is that it?
I asked you, “Do you still love him”, and when you didn’t look at me, I found my answer. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you that question. How can anyone stop loving someone that they have been in love with? I don’t think the days, months or years that we spend with the person we love means as much as the little fire that builds up in our hearts whenever we see or hear about them. I still think about you, even if you don’t spend a minute to think about me. One day, I will move on but I can’t imagine not loving you anymore. I feel like if I ever fall in love again, I’ll just be crossing out your name on a list of people I’ve loved instead of erasing you.
He didn’t quite understand the world he lived in. He thought it was a terrible place and as a human, it was like living in a dark dream for many years. There was only a certain time during the day where he felt like he wasn’t suffocating and that was when he was reading books, all kinds of books. He found comfort and happiness in between hundreds of inked pages, and more often than not, he imagined himself as the main character in each story he read. He thought it was a mistake to be born a human. He had rather much preferred to exist as characters in books or exist as an inanimate object—something that doesn’t have a clue in the world, something that doesn’t have a mind. Every time something unfortunate happened to him, he would recall the time his friend said to him: “People are born with something at the core of their existence.” He didn’t quite understand what his friend meant and he wished many times that she was alive to explain it more elaborately. She passed away all too suddenly and when she was no longer a part of the world, he wished she took him with her. When he thought about her, he would feel a stab of loneliness starting at the center of his chest. He had no idea know what to do with it, but allow it to spread through his entire body. For a time, he believed loneliness was the backdrop of his existence. However, the more his life was falling apart, he began to believe loneliness was just in disguise as bitterness, and what was truly flowing through his veins was tragedy.
Some people have bad mornings. Some people are sick of the slow years. Some people are just too angry, too sad, too bored, or completely and utterly exhausted with the world and everything in it— you and I laughed at the idea, but I think deep inside, we were praying for an end.
Occasionally, or rather very occasionally, let’s say at around this time of the day, I feel panic-stricken and drowned in this awful emotion—loneliness, I swear it could probably kill me one day. I do not know what it is. I surround myself with people every day and I enjoy being with them, but somehow my effort to remain calm and normal fades. I think what I need now from someone is, “I need to see you” or “Hey, can we talk for a bit, or for while?” That sounds pleasant. That sounds like a temporary cure. Maybe it is my fault I am like this. I let go of people too easily.
I have always thought of happiness as a sort of side-effect, or something that does not come naturally. I do not believe it to be something that can flow easily in a person’s veins with no effort like blood. I am not a naturally happy person, so I do not have to pretend. I wallow in my sadness, but at some point during the day, I accept sadness as a part of life. I am not sure if this is the right thing to do, but I will not aim for happiness anymore. I will just work on changing the way I see things.