You give back what you give away.

Excuse me for this incoherent collection of ideas. They result way more common and less unreachable than I would like them to, so I feel like I should offer my apologies once more. My concern on this point is the result of an ever present need to feel unique and obscure. Either that or this is utter nonsense. I’m not that special, and I won’t pretend to be.

One thing of many that I’ve learned on the last year is that the concept of individualism is absolutely overrated, more so when it comes to pain. True, we’re different from each other and we all have a story to tell. But we’re also full of shit. We all lie, we all deceive, we all pretend. We call ourselves common; we call ourselves different. We all believe we are that one little black sheep - that little dot full of life and an inner world so rich and unreachable. Still a sheep though, in a prairie full of white sheep just like ourselves, who looking in the mirror also classify themselves as The Black One. We’re all the same.

We all feel pain. We’re all wounded somehow, even those who consider themselves happy. What is so special about it, other than the fact that it’s ours? We’re not the only ones to have wounds and scars. We’re not the only ones to ever get scarred by loss, heartbreaks, disappointment or regrets. I guess they all have a distinctive quality, because even white sheep are different from each other. But pain is everywhere and in the same shape. Pain is something everyone understands of. Then why do we all feel like no one can see the extent and depth of ours?

We also look up to that little moment when we swallow our pain to reduce someone else’s. We all do it at one point. We like to call ourselves victims, martyrs, heroes. And you know what? We’re only victims of our own stupidity and the fact that we all crave recognition. Is it worth the trouble then? We’re all moved by our own selfish motives. When we care about someone, don’t we need them to feel the same way? Giving is never all that selfless.

We all believe we’re that friend you can call at 3am just because you’re bored or crying. But the only reason few of us are is because the rest of us can’t be bothered to call. We all choose to believe we’re special. We like feeling alone every once in a while; not being told that our pain has been felt before and it’s well known and understood. We need to feel misunderstood, because it’s easier than actually coping. Funny thing is, we often understand the way everyone feels or should feel given a situation. Then why do we still have that early-teens notion that no one can understand us, that we’re all alone? Why do we choose to feel that way?

Why do we feel the need to guard ourselves so much? It’s just an unnecessary effort. People can see through our bullshit anyway. It’s like our pain is sacred and must be guarded and preserved. Here’s a novel idea: Why don’t we try to cure it instead? Why do we feel the need to hide it, when it’s so common? Does it even make any difference if it’s out in the open? Do we really need to fake happiness? Happiness is far less common than we’d like to believe. It depends little on our circumstances, since there’s no such thing as never feeling pain.

That being said, the world is a wonderful place.

That cold that’s installed in your bones and creeps in to the most unreachable spots - emotionally, physically, intellectually. It’s not only figurative language - the room is warm and I’m freezing. Shivering. I could fool myself and give it no cause. But I can’t let the outside world fool me into thinking it’s unnatural. It comes from inside. By no means I’m trying to imply that I think that it defines my personality. I truly feel it’s the other way around. It’s what I perceive, coming from all directions. Not enough time to invest, not enough motivation to try and find it. Turn around to look at me; make it go away. Listen and prove it; do more than the minimum. I’m not asking more than I’m willing to give. Trying is doing, but doing is not always trying. Not feeling it anywhere.

By not telling you that I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything feels like I’m withholding an important piece of information from you. It makes me feel extremely guilty. And at this moment, this is the only thing that truly, permanently hurts about feeling like I do.

Other than that… I wonder where all the pain went. And why. I don’t feel it as often as I used to. I know it all started when I got that anxiety attack, when I realized that things had gone too far. I still feel jealous, and hurt, and my pride is broken. But does it even matter? I don’t even feel the urge to write about you anymore.

It just… stopped hurting. And I like it. I’m not suffering anymore. I still feel it every now and then - jealousy, anxiety, paranoia, longing. All of it. Not for long, and not often. It’s all in its right place and measure. It feels rational and real.

Maybe I just stopped giving a fuck because it was killing me.
(I’m glad I did.)

But I feel like I should tell you, if I truly want to leave it all behind. But at the moment, and concerning you, there are far more important things. What would I earn by telling you? Part of you maybe aches to know, but in the long run, you’d really hate it. I like things the way they are, for the first time ever. Thank you very much.

Contradictory feelings suck. Also, and not that unrelated, distance is a motherfucking bitch as well.

The voices inside my head are some kind of comfort zone. I’ve realized that I was doing a poor job on trying to shut them out. But they’re quiet now. They’re just whispering to themselves. They’ve done their job.

But I hear what I’ve been longing to hear all this time. And I realize that it’s a sound that’s been drowned by so many others that were steadily deafening my mind and impairing my judgment. I was so used to closely listening to them that whatever else screamed lies and was shut out.

And that’s how I know that maybe this little voice wasn’t telling lies. It’s been there for so long, and I was hearing it all the time, I just refused to pay attention. My comfort zone is gone, and this is confusing and enlightening. I refuse to believe everything I used to.

My heartbeat is strong and uneven. No way of ignoring it. I feel it in all my body, faster as I inhale, slower as I exhale, as if taking a break, as if taking instructions. It won’t take the instruction to stop. My heart has to keep beating and reminding me that I’m alive, and I want it to keep it down for a second so I can make sense of it all. Because I can hear it drowning everything else, and I hate it.

I love how when I say that I “have” RSA -Respiratory Sinus Arrhythmia- everyone freaks the fuck out when it’s actually common and even beneficial. It seriously makes me laugh saying “yeah that’s my weird medical condition” and having everyone go “does it kill or something?” …it’s fucking hilarious. I kinda wish it did atm.

And it was only “diagnosed” because when I used to get those killer headaches my mom freaked the fuck out. That was my sister’s main complaint when we didn’t know she had cancer. So I was taken to way too many doctors to see what the fuck it was. “Just to make sure they’re just tension headaches,” and I still wonder who were they trying to reassure. I always knew.

I think my aversion to pills comes from seeing her live off them since she was what, 13? 14? not like she had any other fucking option. But from the moment she was complaining of those headaches and no one knows what the hell it was and she was trying so many different pills without nothing helping. And her complaining that nothing helped. And then just having her see go through a fucking drugstore every day or something. Idk. I hate pills. I’m a healthy human being and whatever the fuck is wrong with me, I can take it.

Well just right now I’m dizzy and hungry and sleep deprived and I refuse to go to bed. Not even out of fear this time. Can I delay the dawn just by making the night longer? I don’t want to see another day. If I don’t sleep it’s just an endless day. The minutes are worth less and everything takes another shape. If I don’t sleep, I stay distracted by making an effort of staying awake. If I don’t sleep I won’t be tempted to stay there, and to pretend I can never wake up, and my eyes open. I have to be aware of my heartbeat. I have to be aware of life.

I always think of him in dual terms. I’ve been trying to name them, the friend and the crush, the one who’s there for me and the one who’s broken my heart countless times. I’ve tried to give them a clear definition because this didn’t seem quite right.

Something about the anxiety attack, him showing interest in other girls (even though I’ve known this since day one) and me showing a slight interest in someone else (even if it was Cuba Libre speaking and I’d rather not talk about that) broke the curse. I’m free.

And I realized what was going on.
I am (was) in love with the idea of him.
But I love him.

Not anymore. the curse was lifted indeed. The longing for him is completely gone. I don’t even sleep with a stuffed animal anymore (or haven’t for the past week) because I don’t need to feel there’s someone with me. It’s actually helped me to keep my mind quiet. And I really don’t feel like I need to be with you. Sure, I’ve lost my comfort zone. And I miss it, and I cry, but it’s better this way. I don’t know. It’s not the same anymore.

‘I betrayed you,’ she said baldly.

‘I betrayed you,’ he said.

She gave him another quick look of dislike.

‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘they threaten you with something something you can’t stand up to, can’t even think about. And then you say, “Don’t do it to me, do it to somebody else, do it to so-and-so.” And perhaps you might pretend, afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it to make them stop and didn’t really mean it. But that isn’t true. At the time when it happens you do mean it. You think there’s no other way of saving yourself, and you’re quite ready to save yourself that way. You WANT it to happen to the other person. You don’t give a damn what they suffer. All you care about is yourself.’

‘All you care about is yourself,’ he echoed.

‘And after that, you don’t feel the same towards the other person any longer.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘you don’t feel the same.’

I actually thought it was a lie. That this couldn’t happen. That you couldn’t truly hate someone so much for just a tiny instant that it could change the way you see them forever. I did mean it. No, I don’t see him the same way. He does have so much potential it’s even unfair. I guess I learned that potential doesn’t equal reality. Reality is that my fixation on this potential is what’s been doing us all this damage. He’s not any of those things. He could be, but he’s not.

But I do love him. Him, who he is, flaws and all. I’ve never been blind to who he is, even if it sounds contradictory. I remember talking to my English teacher a couple of months ago, and him being all “but you seem to be so rational about this” and it was both a truth and a lie. I see him the way he is yet I’m obsessed with the idea of him. I see who he is yet I don’t. Yet another thing I thought impossible, perfectly proven and in my mind; Oh doublethink, how I love thee~

Seemingly unrelated, but I have one particular memory of this girl that won’t leave me alone. We were doing the exact same thing. Locked eyes, smiled shyly and with certain complicity, quickly looked away. At the very same time. It was kinda cute, actually, and it left me with the impression that she might be nice, sweet and someone I’d like to be friends with. Dying.

It’s not that I dislike her for her influence on my personal life (that’s only the urge to rip someone apart, not the dislike per se.) It’s not like the girl said “oh okay I don’t like Kayi so let’s make her life impossible.” I can’t be too hurt for all the pain she caused him, can I? Because this is one of those cases where truth is more than exposed. The first time was her fault, any other thing she could have done, he is to blame for letting her. No mercy. Same here, right? First time, his fault. Any other, mine. Nothing else to say. Things can only change for the best.

I’ve had a moment of lucidity. Again, nothing too new since the words have been trying to come out for long, but I just realized that you’re not better than me. What an epiphany, maybe attached to the fact that I don’t like you (which was an epiphany by itself.)

Last time it hurt having to look up in a way to someone I despise. So this time around it was easy to convince myself you were perfect. The feeling of neglect just hurt less. Or worthy, to say the least. I’m not taking that away from you. Being fair, even if it’s not my place to give away sentences, I’d say that you are worthy. But not more than I am. Out of your many amazing traits, there’s not one I don’t possess in some level. I can be everything I want to be, and I’m pretty much on my way. The way I see it, there’s nothing so wrong with me that can’t be repaired. There’s always room to improve, and the fact that I’m not stationary in that sense whispers words that might be hard to perceive. They make me proud nonetheless.


So, well, it’s not that. As in, it’s not me. And deep down, you -a different you- know that even better than I do. I’m sorry I’m not fucked up enough for you to find me interesting. I’m sorry I’m not enough of what you condemn, so you don’t have a reason to think about me more than necessary. I’m sorry I’m not smart/pretty/funny/unique enough for you to find me intimidatingly admirable. I’m sorry I’m just an average person with okay brain capacity and okay looks and the same aspirations everyone else has. I can do lots of stuff, but I can’t do them well. I laugh a little too scandalously and I cry a little too easily. I feel weird and silly, and so does everyone else. I have a generally low self-esteem, but I’m normal. Which means, never enough to shine in any way. Never enough for my expectations, and definitely never enough for yours.

So I just wish no one said a word when I say that I’m not enough. I know what I’m talking about. But… Eh, I worded my thoughts rather poorly. I said that I’m sorry when I’m most definitely not. I might hate myself sometimes, and it might be draining, but I’d rather stay the way I am. I’m not changing to meet your self-offending expectations.

I’ve always had a fascination with the moon. I looked out from my window and I saw her, close to the horizon. She was smiling, all bright white teeth. It always makes me happy, yet I always wonder what makes her smile. Why would the moon smile? I feel like she looks at us humans, and finds a reason to dedicate us a sincere smile. Why?

She could be just lonely. She smiles to see if someone smiles back. A secret? I always smile back. I’m lonely too. Not the conventional kind of lonely. It’s hard to explain. I’m standing alone in front of a mirror, and it’s time for me to get used to my reflection. It’s a road I have to walk alone. Some can understand me, love me, support me, and I know they do. But I’m alone in this. And you know, it gets lonely. I just want it to be over. I’ve been alone long enough. I can’t say I’ve found myself, but I’m definitely several steps closer. On my own.

She might just be happy with what it sees, but it seems unlikely. The moon is known to have an influence on the sea. It sees its reflection there. Maybe she loves the sea. Her reflection smiles back, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s all she needs. Maybe the sea makes her happy, but I think she’s just going through the very same thing I am. Maybe she’s trying to find herself, find reassurance. She just needs to know that she shines. Her reflection reminds her of her presence. She does stand alone though, so she doesn’t need to return to a more crowded path. But she needs to find herself too.

I think I’ve also stood alone since I can remember. I was always the weird kid liked by very few. I never hid too much, but I never showed too much either (and doesn’t the moon have a known, bright side and a dark, hidden side?) There’s no place for me. I’ve never had road, I’m just making one now. But don’t we all make our own road as we walk? This is not an original idea (Antonio Machado says it better than no one else ever will) but it’s one I’m coming around to understand just now. Why should I wait for a guide, when I’m obviously walking on my own? I’m getting there, slowly, sometimes painfully. No one else will walk in my shoes, why would someone else guide them? That makes no sense. We all need help every once in a while, and I’m not one to wait around to be saved. But I’ve been looking everywhere for a guide. Maybe not a helping hand, just an already paved road.

Fuck that. I save myself. I guide myself. I find myself. I live for myself. And I don’t think I want to look back. My heart has been broken and a lesson’s been learned. I’ve come to relax and accept. I can’t say I’m strong, but I’m not as weak as I used to be. I’ve realized the difference between secrets to keep and secrets that shouldn’t be secrets. I don’t think I care less, but things affect me less. I’ve grown a tougher skin. I don’t know how, but I’m damn proud of myself.

Eh, I don’t think it matters. Long story short, the moon smiles, and I just have to smile back. I hope I’m wrong and it’s not a lonely smile. I hope it’s a happy smile. It certainly makes me embarrassingly happy.

Time heals all wounds, but how many of these distinct unities will it take? No one knows, it’s just time. Sit back, let it do its work. Questions are more than welcome - How long? Long enough. How soon? Soon enough. Is it even relevant? There’s no mathematical exactitude when it comes to inner healing. There’s not a determined value attached to every measure. They last as long as they please - The years I spent on a routine were gone in a blink, and the second I looked into his eyes was literally eternal.

Who are we to quantify our time according to its duration? It comes then leaves, it waits and then it’s gone. That’s all I know, and that’s all I care to know. It’s not about living every second as some say, because we are living as long as we’re alive. We need open eyes. We need wisdom. We need to learn to use the right measures. Seizing the day - whatever that means to each one of us.

As redundant as it seems, what matters is its importance. A second could mean to me more than your entire lifetime does to you, so to speak. Its subjectivity makes its quantification an impossible task. Age says nothing, experience says everything. But is it less accurate than speaking about seconds and centuries? Even in our collective History, the former can be crucial while the latter can be static.

Time gives an image of a ticking sound and no turning back. I think we all feel it, implacable and unforgiving. One moment, then the next, then the next, then they’re all gone to that remote place called memory, some to get lost forever… Time gives an image of minutes, hours, weeks, months, years. Calendars, journals, clocks. We’re just trying to knock down and tie up an abstract concept. We’ve had quite a skewed success. Time is time. It’s just what it is.

My feelings have never been this mixed up and confusing (and confused,) so I took the easy way out and called them love. And I’m certain that the label is perfectly fitting. As dramatic as it sounds, being in love with you is one of the hardest things I’ve had to go through. You’ve unknowingly yet willingly broken my heart, but you’ve also helped me to accept myself exactly the way I am. Sometimes I truly wish I could hate you, main reason being that you don’t love me back, never have, never will. Loving you this much without seeing anything in return feels quite lonely. I do want to hate you, but I love you too much to comply.

I’m looking out the window and I feel your ghost hugging me from behind and resting his head on my shoulder. I cover his hands with mine. He likes the view so much. At this time there are more stars in the sky than at any other. I point out the faint smell of forest that tends to make itself present when it’s rainy. He smiles and says he hadn’t noticed before. He wouldn’t normally care, but the air is fresh and it goes with the moment too well. We fall silent. It’s something he’ll always remember, even if years go by and erase every other memory. He’ll never mention it - he thinks that I’ll deem it meaningless. He’s wrong. He should know it by now.

I tell him about that dream I had. I knew I wouldn’t die when I jumped out the window. I knew I could fly. It’s of no importance, except in that dream I was almost as happy. I don’t think he can tell that on the inside I’m jumping, dancing, laughing, oh so alive. I’m calm and relaxed on the outside, and it might be because I have his arms around me. Soothing, safe, guarding me from the windy night and making me want to fall asleep right then. My head falls back a little, and my eyes are closing. I’m fully giving in.

Let me tell you, your ghost is an admirable companion. Even so, he’s too much like you. That means I’d gladly choke him to death every now and then. It’s inherently impossible for me to love someone if there’s no drama. Rainbows, roses and unicorns are too monotonous and go disregarded if there’s no contrast. He knows this, but I don’t think he understands. Drama is so stressful for him, and I think he half resents me, half loves me for laughing at it. But he puts up with it with admirable patience, and eventually he stops giving it too much importance. That’s why it feels that he’s truly your ghost and not my wild imagination; the only difference between the two of you is that he loves me.

Trust me, he’s happy with me. It might be too complex of an evidence, but he tends to run his fingers through my hair when he thinks I’m sleeping. I won’t let him do that when I’m awake. I absolutely hate my hair, but he loves how my (strangely formed) curls feel between his fingers. He loves playing with them, maybe just because they’re mine. He always insists I wear my hair down and sometimes I just wear it up so he begs me to let it down. He knows and complies, even though he’s normally too proud to beg. But in the end we’re happy, because knowing that we’re both willing to do such things if they can make the other person happy is somewhat reassuring. Little things. Always those little things. He appreciates them as much as I do.

That’s why sometimes I feel like wishing for you to love me back is not as selfish as it might seem - I really believe I could make you happy. I don’t wish just for something, anything, because I’m not satisfied until I get the real thing. I don’t care if it’s too much, less isn’t enough. And that’s exactly what I’m willing to give. And even more. Starting from, believe it or not, I’d give you as much space as you needed, even though it will always be my secret desire to hide you away from the world and have you all to myself. (Mind you, I’m not here to kidnap you. Unless you’re into that kind of thing and want us to roleplay. I don’t know. Awkward remark had to be made, or I didn’t write this.)

Other than that, you know the deal. We both know I’m as imperfect as it gets. I’m a poor excuse of a woman. I’m not particularly(/at all?) pretty, smart, funny, mature, friendly, secure, charming, motivated, knowledgeable, talented or lovable. Or even normal. I have a personality that’s commonly regarded as impossible. I’m lacking in every single department, and it’s obvious that you deserve better.

In my defense, as my only weapon, I could love you more than you believe it’s possible. I’d be the girl that wouldn’t be able to look at you without happiness being painfully obvious in her expression. I’d be the girl that would bring up old conversations she only remembers because she treasures every second with you. I’d be the girl that would turn everything into a joke just to see you laugh. I’d be the girl that would endlessly tease you (and because I still feel like being awkward, take that as you wish.) I’d to that in knowledge that deep down you wouldn’t have it any other way. I’d be the girl that could change if you wanted her to, drawing a line and without losing herself. I’d be the girl that knows and acknowledges your every flaw, and loves you for them. I’d be the girl that would smile when your lips touch hers. Just because it’s you, and it’s truly happening. Every single time.

And I dare you to find that somewhere else.