Confessions

I have been procrastinating my posts recently. I write considerably less, but not because I feel much less, but because I've been excusing myself from writing. I started off wanting to pen down my emotions for fear of losing whatever semblance of sanity in myself, and to record the many musings that might have been fleeting but made absolute sense at the point of their manifestation. To write lesser means that some thoughts of mine were lost in clouds of hazy uncertainty, and probably will never be restored to the time they were conjured. But like I mentioned, I never stop feeling, and perhaps it's an eccentric nature of mine, but I seem to live every other moment thinking about something else if I am not already affixed on whatever is in front of me. I just enter into a zone where thoughts wandered and feelings were true, almost to a point where you could feel the sensation of things and events coming into realisation.

Someone who used to read this asked me how long I took to write a post. It was a difficult question to answer, actually. Truth is, I've almost never published a post without proof-reading it. In real terms, it means that I've never allowed my posts to be published with errors. I could have gone back and forth at a sentence for ten times, or more, to try to make sense of it all. I don't know why I do that. Perhaps it's to make sure whoever is reading this can make sense of what I say, but it really doesn't matter, because this was never meant for much reading anyway. It is more like snapshots of different periods of my life and what sort of insanity and idiosyncrasies I've felt at some point.

It seems weird that I am still reading your blog, because I see you right from the start. I see you fall in love, out of it, move on, grow strong, accept a belief, and learn to love again. It's not like I've deliberately tried to follow your footsteps, but I have to admit that I'm somehow periodically drawn to your life. There is a mesmerising attraction to it; or maybe it's just that not many people can vividly capture their life moments in words like you can, or encapsulate feelings in writing in a graceful yet comprehensive manner like you do. Or perhaps, simply, you are the only one I know who lasted this long in the endeavour of keeping a diary. It's almost uncanny how I think about the same things as what you express, a sense of deja vu. Despite everything that has changed, I feel like there is much certainty in what I feel, but you might have moved faster than I ever could. It's funny how we used to joke about being siblings, but never really doubted it.

This might be longer than usual because certain things have been stuck with me for quite a period of time now, and it seems only fair to release them here when I still remember them. Recently I've learned to come to terms with my flaws, after suppressing them for as long as I can imagine. It's never easy to admit your flaws, but I take it that acknowledging them is the first step to overcoming them, and hence I choose to take this stride. Amongst other morbid habits that may not be exhaustive, I identified a few that permeated my daily existence. Firstly, I learned that I'm very much an introvert; not in extremity, but indubitably one. I purport happiness because I felt that it was unfair for people to feel otherwise. But I know I'm not happy, and that means lying to myself. Right now I can't really figure what makes me happy, or what will, and that is potentially the reason I sometimes feel incredibly lost yet rooted. Secondly, I learned that I do have certain issues with controlling my emotions. To be someone who feels endlessly is not entirely bad, but it definitely means that I express my emotions stronger than a normal person would; and this applies to both spectrum of the feeling-o-meter. I say this because a frustration that happened last Friday almost tore me apart, and it reinforces my notion that I feel, and therefore act, too much. I could, or might, have burst out of a tidal wave of annoyance that ensued a rather heated argument. I should say it took me too long to convince you and I lost it. I felt terrible after that. Absolutely horrible. I would've apologise profusely if I could, but it would only make things awkward. A while back someone told me I had anger management issues, and I didn't accept it. In retrospect, I probably did, but was too blind to see it, or too afraid to admit it. Lastly (figuratively), my lack of motivation often takes over me in full swarm and I allow myself to indulge more than I should. I used to pride myself over self-discipline - being able to do things without reminders or supervision - but lately, I don't see that in myself any more. All I see is a dispirited man who can't get his shit together for something he knows is important to him, and surprisingly feeling no guilt on it.

At this point in time I'm just letting my thoughts flow. I usually try to write with coherence but I don't think I'd be overly concerned about that now.

My life has been boring, but I yearn not for drama.
My mind has been wandering, seeking for nostalgia.
Feel the rain fall on your skin,
draining away the feelings within.
Hate the sun when it shines too bright,
but love the rain when it patters so light.
Dream of when it was all too easy,
and sleep in like it was always this cosy.
Inhale the senses so intricate;
feel your body so delicate.
What will all this be with meaning?
Or is this monster not for saving?
Tell me that you can be honest
and stare into my eyes in earnest.
Can you see what I see?