Most of the time I feel like there is something inherently wrong with me. I give in to self-doubt and anxiety and the nausea of the very thought of life. It is not that life is specially hard, it’s just the idea of it, the tasks expected from you and the way you are supposed to behave and the very notion of existing. Existence pains me. I am not even depressed anymore, at least not clinically. I do not wish to ever return to that state after having endured it for half a decade. It’s just that I am always completely lost. I have forgotten how to live like a competent human being, or at least society’s notion of competency. I keep looking for ways to modify my own head to fly by each day unscathed and productive. I do a lot of thinking about things, of never knowing when the chaos will end or if I would ever be able to grasp the notion of life on earth at all. I do not feel human. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid of my own thoughts.

Knowledge is such a dangerous thing. The more I seem to know about the world, the more I try to understand its people, the more dangerous I become.

I am both weary and wary.

I am afraid of myself.

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there are nobody to save us. we are already ghosts here, bearing the weight of memories, regrets, lost hopes and dreams. all the heroes have killed themselves, are killing themselves or have already been killed. the age before death is now a broken film reel — memories, across these hollow sockets, flickering; the bittersweetness of names still linger on rotten tongue, past laughters pelt onto trodden skulls like rain. the doom and gloom of happy days — the blind faith, bounded youth and the world, a war-field in disguise — flood these long spoiled lungs.

and we have all been fools, thinking war was the good against the evil, the light and the dark, the rights and the wrongs; if only reality is that simple.

the real battle begins as evil corrupts evil, light burns light, rights and wrongs forming allies to murder part of themselves instead of each other. that is the war — the fight without soldiers, men nor women — the children, devastatingly alone with no one to turn to, grapple for the wrong kind of attention, because any is better than none at all.

to define war is an offer of alias to the demons in us.

deaths have never been the worst of it; war is about hopes dreams and futures long shrivelled under blood and gore, trodden and rotten beyond the marrow of our bones.

the moment we declare war, we have already lost.

Absence is our form of normalcy.

The absence of people that are supposed to stay, the absence of warmth that should have been arms, the vacancy of hearts, the unmade conversations falling onto deaf ears. Routines, murmurs, nods. How do we fill the spaces between spaces?

By stashing in whatever we can — with urgency — to occupy, to blind an eye from what is truly missing. To it exists a sad beauty in which no one can quite pinpoint.

We are the shadow of normalcy — mortality, a plague that follows every man. These things wait at every turn, too close, too comfortable, for even our own skins.

Youth is not the problem, neither is experience.

The disturbing thing about normalcy is its ambiguity. We never seem to have the right opinion on it. It is always there that, once removed, the space that should have been becomes a big gawping hole, always drawing the wrong sort of attention. It is almost concrete, carrying its own weight like a living breathing thing, always wanted when it should be feared.

Normalcy is being sad for so long that you confuse it with being okay. It is eternal happiness short-lived. It is feeling better and feeling worse, it is the social metre of your worth (which in no way is equivalent to your actual worth).

The sort of normalcy I fear is a homeless, hopeless, pointless sort; a starvation that makes growing up a many dotted chaos than a straight line, the kind of headiness that disregards societal concept of time, life, beauty, despair and loss.

Because you cannot lose what you never had — cannot know hopelessness when you never tasted hope, cannot bother with time when it never mattered, nor understand the point of it all when you didn’t have one to begin with. And that’s the beauty (as well as the ugly) of life, I think. This isolation; when ‘better’ had always been unimaginable, life is bearable for the less fortunate, makes it worth living, somehow, turns the ugly beautiful; normalcy spinning itself on its head.

So, yes, life is bearable, not too sad, not too lonely, thus pointless for you to feel sorry in our place; I am okay, I am alive, and maybe that isn’t enough for me, but it shouldn’t matter to you.

lost child of gloom and gold
holds invincibility.
dark child who snuffs out fate
shall suffer eternity.
mind child of things unseen
swallows past harmony.
— part child oldest of all restores what laws divide.

young love shrivels to tomb
by doom affection owns.
hanging child haunts on under
lay bare over death’s bones.
— wretched soul above below to weep its dying tiber.
— every child broken by trial must borne its own murder.

Hello, my name is Boo, and I plan to save humanity from itself.

During the twenty years of my life, I suffered from four different mental illnesses, was handed from doctors to doctors. My life was littered with hospitals, stalkers, physical assaults, more hospitals, media play, and a couple of suicide attempts.

I used to dance and sing, having been misled to believe that to succeed in life, I’d have to beat my way into the limelight. “You’re a fast learner but you are lagging behind!” they said. “Pathetic. Focus.” That was what life was like for years. And school was (“You psycho!”) just as great…

Reality’s more tragic a story than any greek mythology, and I wish I had known that, that somebody had told me something, but instead what did I get? Disney cartoons and fairy tales with princes in shining armours.

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There is something so much bigger out there, outside these walls, these walls that bar you in, these walls that cage your world.

This can happen to anyone anywhere so the name of the town where Kenneth Grave lives is perpetually redundant.

You, Kenneth Grave, are walking away. You walk away from your friends not because you had to, but because you want to. A schoolmate you barely ever talked to except for “pass the crayons?” way back in kindergarten is dead. It’s on the news, and it’s stupid, because her body had not even been found, yet they are claiming her demise without actual proof. Sure, it may be a matter of confidentiality, but even as young as you are, you understand the world enough not to try to understand it at all. Paradoxical, maybe, but it sure as hell makes living easier. Because nothing ever makes sense anyway, especially not if it’s the humans with their staggering humanity.

If humanity is a specie, there wouldn’t even be a fossil residue. It is that dead, hypothetically speaking.

“Beautiful day isn’t it? No more Helly-Nelly.”

Michael was the one who brought up the topic over lunch, his mouth full of bacon sandwich. The redundancy of your peers is beyond tipping point. None of them thought of showing the slightest hint of their humanity, and they call themselves human?

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Question: Where does time go? Does it just… move on? Do we, humans, move on the way time does? How do humans move on? Is Death perhaps the Movement? Surely, death is only a phase we must pass through in order to Move On from Life?

We are always waiting, even if we are not conscious of it. We wait for meetings, we wait for appointments, we wait for people… and we wait for time. A time where we must do certain things, go certain places, act certain ways and say certain things. We wait for tomorrow; we wait for days that may not come. We wait for our loved ones, we wait for the Right Moments.

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A man who murdered his own heart, convinced it would give him the world; the saddest thing was that, it did.

Nothing hurts more than the helplessness that punched at his gut. Who could ever tell the difference between him of the present and him of the past? Was he a changed man? Could a man ever change or does he simply shred his own skin like a serpent and anew himself raw and sly within his new form? Half the world thinks not while the other half thinks so. Was he a different man, or was he simply who he had been but with new struggles? Being alive, or just breathing, seemed to be like so much work. One would say being born is similar to a kidnapping, then being enslaved to human trafficking. You can never rest. You can never stop. You, too, are not allowed to die ‘lest society declares an execution over your head.

“Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.”

I desperately hope there’d be another way, for I do not wish to lose my beating heart to the cruel world.

The subject I avoid to speak of is ‘love’. I always label it as an anchor that sinks a ship. It is difficult to speak of, for I am filled with dubiousness and uncertainties. I detested the idea of heartaches, hopelessness, attachments and all of love’s aftermath.

Evidently, I am full of uncertainties—anything is possible. Love is not just a commitment, love is a contract. Love: conditions that are like vines that bind you and your soul to a certain… very human being. Therefore, it is never eternal. How would you know that when a heart meets another heart—the moment the connection is made—it isn’t a star-crossed path? What if in that nanosecond, that connection is only a cosmic malfunction of two lives that are meant to be forever parallel?

Then the universe straightens out nicely again, and your heart is the only thing that is holding on.

It’s like squinting for happiness where there is none. The only solution is to know that it is not the place for happiness, that it is elsewhere, but love makes you hold onto that person anyway because of emotional attachments.

The key, I suppose, is to try to understand. All in all, do not dwell too deep, for you may not ever make it out.

Try to piece the puzzle of your heart together, meander once in a while, but always find a way back.

A heart isn’t a linear organism. It doesn’t just flicker black white black white… not left right left right, either. A heart contracts in out, up down and then… disappears. A heart that symbolizes love isn’t going to portray a love in which one falls into.

Because people do not fall in love. They can’t—love isn’t a hole, it isn’t a pit. And even if it is, it’d be one that is so endless that one could toss a coin and never hear it hit bottom.

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