a-cycle

[a-cycle]

Do this four times repeatedly and you’ll be out. But how does it work? There’s some real brain science behind it.

[a-cycle]

for-eons

I want you to know that I’m still here.

Wherever you are, whenever you read this, please reach out.

Because your anonymity helped me in a dark hour and there’s so much I want to tell you, so many words I want to share with you.

Underneath it all, thank you.

I hope to hear from you soon, and hopefully not under the guise of anonymity.

A.

[a-cycle]

I truly believe that everyone is on a search for a kind of love that will love them as strong as they can love.

[a-cycle]

For years, I've been subjected to people using mental illnesses as an excuse of their character without contemplating on how it belittles the mental illness itself. No wonder people react with so little concern when someone says "I'm depressed," or "I'm having a panic attack," or “I suffer from mental illnesses.” I'm certain that there are different spectrums of mental illnesses, but for those that use mental depression as a means to describe that they're a little bummed out because they missed out on a television program, "I'm so depressed that I missed the show live last night," or using obsessive compulsion disorder to explain why they likes having a clean room, “I’m just OCD about keeping my room clean,” or using social anxiety disorder as a means of avoiding social interaction when they really don’t know what it means to be suffering from these examples,  I despise you with all the cells in my body.

Do they understand that powerful prohibiting control that mental illnesses have to those that are afflicted by it and how belittling it is to hear it used so carelessly?

“I missed the show last night, I’m depressed now!” “I’m just so bipolar, I can’t decide what to wear.” “I’m having anxiety listening to him talk!” “I took forever because I was OCD about my tie.”

This might be why, when I informed my peers that I was suffering from mental depression and had my first episode of mild psychosis, they reacted in a traumatic way. “It’s all in your head; just get over it.” How true the statement “it’s all in your head” is and yet how callous of them to react in that way. It’s exactly that reason why I came to search for support outside of my own shoulders. How consoling of them. Could this kind of reaction, which I’ve heard to be almost widespread throughout the population, be subjected to the kind of belittling that mental illnesses undergo?

How can I simply “get over it”? For almost ten years, I’ve had a never ending whisper in my head. “Kill yourself.” “You’re wasting space.” “No one’s really going to miss you.” “You’re just a burden.” How can I get over it if these thoughts are propagandized in the confines of my own thoughts every night? How can you compare a slight sadness to overwhelming thoughts of depressive suicidal ideas?

Have mental illnesses become a phrase with no meaning? Has it become a household commodity in our vocabulary without understanding the real oppressive nature of the affliction?

I did not expect so many people to be afflicted with mental health issues. Why isn’t this a more serious topic in everyday thinking? Do they feel an ability to communicate be choked by ghosts when confronted in a classroom by their own professor? Do their mouths dry up as the words quietly escape into frozen silence and their heart race when the class pauses and waits for the never-appearing words? Do they criticize themselves the minute their idea is up in the air and wishes that their laugh out loud because the silent laughter in their heads is much louder? Do they freeze up at sending a text message and re-evaluate every text that was sent? Do they have a fear of social interaction that enhances their inability to leave the house? Do they mutter in their last breaths, before going to bed, that their responses the entire day was unfounded, illogical, unfunny, unamusing, moronic, unintelligent? Do their legs numb up when friends talk to them? Do they feel light-headed at the idea of being around their own friends? Do they avoid being around friends that they’ve known for ages because the slight notion of being in a room with friends is unendingly exhausting? Do they look forward to leaving social events the minute they walk in the room? Do they prefer the company of their own thoughts than the people around them? Do they feel like there is another person living within your own mind? Are they scared of the voices that sometimes feature in their thoughts? Is every social interaction inflicting the same kind of stress as a final exam? Does death seem embracing, warm and forgiving in comparison to the looks and judgements of your peers? And most of all, do all of these thoughts or some strain of similar concepts come flooding in the time span of twenty-three seconds every time someone greets you?

How would it feel if we began using more socially accepted illnesses as a means of describing a slight inconvenience in our lives?

“My legs are killing me, I feel so paraplegic.” “My back hurts, I slept awkwardly last night, must be my scoliosis acting up.”

The world is already difficult for the many that are unfortunately attuned to mental health issues. Don’t make it harder by bastardizing the afflictions they carry around their necks. 

[a-cycle]

It’s said that once you hit the 10,000 hours of practice before you can be competent. The 10,000 hours rule is written as the threshold that an individual has to hit before they’re proficient enough to make something of themselves out of that practice. But what happens if an individual has 10,000 hours of self-esteem issues? 10,000 hours of depression, self-hate and trust issues? Does this rule still apply? Am I competent enough in being depressed? 10,000 hours of thinking that the world has no need of what I am? Am I proficient enough at hating myself after 10,000 hours of telling myself that I’m worthless?

[a-cycle]

ghosts follow me wherever I go. only when I fall asleep do these ghosts leave me. But then the sun raises me from my quick slumber, and my ghosts return to me again. 

[a-cycle]

.spectres

There was a time where my best friend and I would speak of crushes. Her and I are not so close anymore, but it pains my heart thinking how far away those days are. She would tell me of guys she fancied, and I her. And I her. I felt immeasurable feelings towards her but she never saw me in that way. Maybe she did once, centuries before we became best friends. Might be a millennium ago, definitely in my ghost's past. She and I were best friends, talking of little silly crushes. That's all they were back then, little and silly. And innocent. They all seem so far away, these memories of mine, of a simpler time. It might be millions of eons ago, when I fancied her, and she might have, most likely have, probably have fancied me the same. These are ghosts of a time long gone. Her and I are not close anymore, but when I saw her greet me with her smile of hers, I felt nostalgic. A pain shook my spine, an effect of feeling such nostalgic nonsense. A pain, most unbearable and most unthinkable. Where has the time gone? And I know that those hours have bitten dust and turned to specters of ghosts, because when I saw you, I did not see the innocence of your smile, your lips, your stature, your figure, your face. I saw a woman grown, and whose stature had become a woman grown, whose figure had blossomed to a woman grown, whose every bit of physical endowment was woman grown. And all I can see is how innocent we are not anymore.

[a-cycle]

.ghosts

Whispering wisps strangling my own throat.  My mind splitting at the seams to scream out the voices of the plauging ghost inside. A ghost, you are the plauging ghost when I close my eyes.  My stomach twists and knots when your eyes pierce my the veil of my soul. Ivory skin hanging over your soul and bones that I want to sink my teeth in and taste.  Slender curvy lips that I want to be the first thing I inhale into my body every morning.  Eyes vividly blue like the color of the sky reflected on the surface of the ocean. Blood rushing like a fresh, open cut when I feel your voice vibrate the space between us.   You are a ghost when I close my eyes. Appear before me to tease me and bloody my nervous hands with your grip.  You are a ghost, my ghost. Appear before me with my eyes wide open and tie my heart in a noose.

[a-cycle]

There is a light and a darkness. But where am I when I am with you? 

[a-cycle]

.framed pictures

For as long as I could remember I’ve always thought about the bigger picture

I’ve always wondered how small my life is

And as a six year old these weren’t your normal questions that you would ask

I remember taking my grandmother by surprise by asking her at the age of seven why are we alive

What is the purpose of our entire existence?

I was a little disappointed when she replied to me that it was God’s will

For as long as I can remember I’ve always felt a little different, a little isolated, a little outside

And the older I get the more aware I am how different I am

It’s difficult to feel isolated your entire life

While most people I’ve met vomit the first thought that comes through their mind

I formulate and construct each sentence with precise calculation

As if each letter belongs in a certain position in a certain word in a certain phrase

Each word having carefully picked from the thousands in my vocabulary

Each sentence handled carefully like sculpting a detailed tulip carved from ice

Each comment carefully selected through ravenous inspection of its effect, and the reaction of those who hear the comment

And more importantly, how will it affect the relationship between myself and the targeted audience

Even the simplest “okay” carries on its shoulders millions of whispers of thoughts

So understand that when I request permission to take portraits of you, it is not that simple of a process

I want to immortalize the beauty that glistens under your skin

I want to capture your presence of everything you are and will be

I want to hold against time the imperfections that make you so beautiful

When I ask to take your picture it is to capture a fragment of your soul

For there is no one like you and there will never be anyone remotely close enough to imitate you

You are the creation of a unique set of variables, of your culture, environment, experience and mistakes

You are as bright as the gases that burn endlessly in the dark night sky

There will never be another you

Take pride in the idea that you will never fit in perfectly for you are your own geometric shape

If there was even the slightest change in the course of your life then you might not be where you are and who you are

There will never be a right place at the right time because the possibilities and variables of your entire existence are infinitely endless

This is why your flaws are beautiful

This is why you are different

This is why you are unique

This is you and there will never be another you

And this is why I want to immortalize your portrait

Frame the variables and endlessly sing of your beauty.

[a-cycle]

.fear

A dear friend once posed me with a question:            "What are you afraid of?"  And I replied,             "You do not want to know." Because the minute that question mark left the grasp of her lisp, two hundred thousand thoughts burst forth from my cranium, ready to change the way she perceived me.            "I'm afraid of being the last one left from my circle of friends." Because life is not short. It is far from that. It is distant like the moon from the perspective of ants. Life is the incest daughter of infinity and forever, making her the cousin of death, born with the innate qualities of her sibling parents but just falls short. Life is too long and I've already grown weary and bored of it.            "I'm afraid of being hurt so painfully that coaxes death as a sweet remedy." Because more often than not, people turn to suicide as the axiom of life. The one medicinal option to cure all suffering. It would remedy any and all forms of pain, it comes at a steep price, a price that some have paid. They sacrificed their lives to end their torments at night, their terrors in daylight, to nevermore seeing, hearing or feeling the darkness in their soul and around them.             "I'm afraid of being forgotten by the ones who would mourn me like a faded missing child poster." Because while I do know that life must go on, and that our human brains are fragile and forgetful, I am selfish. I want to be remembered for all eternity, like the stories written in religious texts, or the names that history chose not to forget. I want to live forever in the memories of those that knew me and the generations to come after me. But the universe was designed so that nothing can ever life forever. Not memories, not stars, not people, not even gods.              "I'm afraid of being inadequate and useless like flashlights in the afternoon or like apologizing to a tombstone." Because in the grander scheme of the universe, ants have more contribution than I do. I am a human being, consuming everything I come across and returning nothing back. I am a virus on this planet. My entire life I have been compared to peers in an attempt to motivate me. Little did they know that it discouraged me, it defined my self-esteem. And now, ten years later, it is embedded in my soul in acid. And every time I scratch it and try to remove this tattoo, I ache, I grieve, I mourn. I have been taught to fear inadequacy in the form of constantly telling me that I am eternally inadequate.              "I'm afraid of myself, because I know the monster inside." Influenced by the world around me, by every action I've taken, every statement stated by those whose company I keep, every breath of air by the society I live in, every story my culture has handed down to me. I am the by-product of all of that, and it cultured a monster inside me that I ate with, played with and grew up with. I'm afraid because I know that the monster is capable of pulling fear out of corpses and shells. The monster that hides behind every smile and every tear. The monster that sometimes wears my skin while I sleep in the passenger seat. I am not afraid of this monster that lives within me because I know its heart and it knows mine. I'm afraid because I know when the monster comes out to play. And you don't.

[a-cycle]

.broken summer

She hit me like a summer breeze, with the sun setting behind my back. She kissed me, gently on the cheeks, while her orange summer dress danced with the summer breeze. She stood before me. Granted me the honor of seeing her smile and hearing her giggle. I amused her, I feared. I feared that she would get bored of me, eventually. Like all the others have. She stared at me, eyes locked tighter than the lock I chained my heart with. She thinks I'm cute. Like little bunnies, or new born pups, still clinging onto their mother's milk. She thinks I'm amusing, like toys, or roller coaster rides. Fun to ride, while the park is open. She thinks I'm something. Something more than nothing. She thinks too highly of me, I say. I am not accustomed to so much praise, it'll do my ego no good, I'm sure. But she praises me, talks to me, enjoys my company. I wonder to myself, why. It's because she can see me. Past the wall of my confidence, built to keep my insecurities boxed in. Past the little child inside a cage with my heart around his neck, a reminder of who I used to be. She sees me for all that I am and more. A broken soul, broken like the innocence of a child when her father misses her mother too much. Broken like a child with a curious older cousin who wanted to feel and touch. Broken like me. Broken like her. She sees me for everything I am. Broken. I am in ruins, a shadow of my former self, hiding behind a rainbow illusion underneath the thunderstorm. But that is the problem with being with her. She is a shard of the mirror that I had thrown bricks at. She is the image inside my mind when I want to be alone. She is everything I am, everything that I will be, everything that I can be and everything I want to be. If I believed in soul mates, in a higher, magical, eternal bond that one person shared with a destined soul, then that is what she is. Like the mirror she came from, it is a lie. I know who I am. It took me two years to accept that fact. I am clinging to everything that I have left like mothers when they must bury their own child. I refuse to be disappointed and angry at myself for mistakes I've created. I may be pieces of my innocent self, but that does not mean I am any less deserving of happiness. But at least I'm still alive. There is nothing more to say except that I will always be broken. 

[a-cycle]

Oh, sweet, lovely child of the world. The temptation of ending it all may seem like the axiom in your eyes, but I must tell you, that it is not. I can not take away the pain, sorrow or sadness that you feel, see or hear. I can not promise you that it does get better because you know that life is a roller coaster. But you see, my sweet child, there are people that you've affected, and have grown to love you and attached themselves to you. They see the beauty in you. They see such beauty in you.

[a-cycle]

.open letter

Dearest Auntie,

Your death was a turning point in my life. When I heard the news that you’ve left this plane of existence, because I do not have undeniable proof that there is or isn’t another plane of existence, It had left a never ending void in my soul. To this day, that void is consuming everything. I understand the importance of moving on and letting go, but I will not, I shall not. There is possibly nothing to console my restless soul to cope with your passing.  

Death has always been fascinating to me. How vivid and alive one is up until the last breath. Then they become as inanimate as the statue of liberty. But at least that inanimate object isn’t buried beneath the ground where the light will never shine on. I’ve been told that she’ll live in my memories, or it’s all for the best to move on. I’d rather those useless and pathetic attempts at comfort to die than you.

The mere idea that you’re alive in my memory is both unsettling and frustrating. Memory is the most subjective medium in this entire universe, and they want me to use that faulty recording device to remember? I’d rather have billions upon billions of pictures stuffed in albums hoarding the space in my bedroom than relying on my memory. Unfortunately, we don’t have a whole lot of pictures together. That is one of my biggest regret.  

The “advice,” and I have the word advice in quotation marks because people who point out the obvious should be punched in the scrotum, of moving on because life will is the most redundant statement ever. I have been alive for twenty one years. Do they honestly believe that I do not understand the concept of time? I’m sorry, it never dawned on me that the entire universe does not revolve around me. It frustrates me because those statements come off as condescending.

Life does go on, I know. And you probably want me to move on as well, but I will not, I shall not. You were one of the biggest influences in my entire life. You watched me grow up and I am depressed at the idea that I will never hear your voice. I am suicidal at the fact that I have broken my promise to you. I am at a loss, Auntie. I’m always at a loss.

Your story of how your youngest brother died at the hands of an American in the war that introduced machine guns will forever be embedded in my memory. I will never forget the tears that came into your eyes as you described to me how your family ran to the woods to take cover as bullets from the new and improved fast-firing, portable machine gun tore leaves, bark and the bones and flesh of your younger brother during the second world war. I will never tear away the image of tears running down your face as you recall this painful story to me. How I wanted to rip through time and space and save your sibling, regardless of whatever consequences may happen through the direct change of time.

I have in my room the last gifts you’ve given me before your unfortunate passing. It includes the old coins you collected over your entire lifetime. A letter directed at me which broke my heart even more when I read it again for the millionth time upon hearing your death. I have hidden it in my room, along with strings of memories that I have of you. Because every time I happen to open that box or remember you, I am reminded of the void in my soul. I am reminded that I will never be able to be held by you, or hear you sing to me, or tell me to finish my education. I will never live down breaking my promise to you. I will never forget you. And I am truly sorry for not saying it enough: I love you.

But both life and time does crawl on. And unfortunately, I am still alive. I have so much more to talk to you about, and I am destroyed at the fact that I can never have a conversation with you ever again. I wish you were still here, Auntie. I really do.

[a-cycle]

.pills

I am twenty one I thought my life would be set Firm grip on my dreams.

But I imitate A flowing stream in winter Frozen, yet restless.

I am just human Scarred with knife cuts from the past I have pills for that.

And I'm popping pills Because that's what would fix me I have to be fixed

For I am broken I did not know I'm broken Why am I broken?

Is it the voices? The ones that tell me stories The ones I dream of

I can not relate But I possess empathy. Am I still broken?

I know pain like you I have dreams and goals to do But I love to sleep.

Lost in my dream land Where I may yet find my peace I would love to sleep.

But permanently I feel the darkness brighter Slowly digesting.

These are my dark thoughts Please help exterminate them Exterminate them.

Exterminate me. Free me from these rusted chains. Let me fall asleep.

I know pain like you I know pain better than you That's why I pop pills.

[a-cycle]

"What people don't understand," he spoke with anger on his tongue, body shivering with pain as the cold breeze caress him, with his hands gripped on a steel bat, "is that I can never be like them. I can never be normal. My entire existence has been nothing but normal. Every night millions of thoughts keep me awake. From the tiniest awkward encounter that happened today to the unknowing, ever-changing future. And these may not be a big deal to you, or anyone else, but to me, they are a lot to sleep with. I hate being given answers like there are worse people than you or there are people who have it worse and make the best of it." he swung the metal bat and a loud crash resonated through the building when it met with a full body mirror. "Fuck that," the bat found a wooden railing as he swung it again, ripping out splinters of wood, "and fuck you." the bat arced once more and cut through the damaged railing, tearing through the grain, "My entire life  I have been compared to peers, cousins and celebrities. Fuck your comparisons. I am myself. I am only myself. I don't need you to tell me that there are people who have it worse than I do, because it's my subjective life. What do they have to do with me? They are not me. They can't take away the pain I feel. They can't make my depression vanish into thin air. They can't feel what I feel. Everything just feels so empty. So, fucking, empty. I'm sick of you all. Just do it already. Do it, cotdamnit. Do it. Do it! FUCKING DO IT." 

[a-cycle]

For Eons.

Thank you for taking the time to read whatever whimsical sentences appear on this page. I've been writing on this blog, posting personal writings that I am semi-proud to share with the online world. I always run on the assumption that some of my friends in real life that I share some posts with keep track of the url for future reference or that strangers will eventually stumble upon this. Which ever one of the two categories you are a part of, I thank you. For taking the time to read ramblings from my stormy mind. 

I apologize if I gave the impression that I have lost hope. I understand well enough that life is tough. My mind is quite a fickle thing, you see. So frail, subjective and ever shifting. But I do not belong here, or anywhere. I have always, for my entire life, felt like an outsider. I can relate bits and pieces of myself with those that I have become accustomed to being around, but never as a whole. I fear that I will never find someone who will truly, whole-heartedly, feel and see the world as I do. I feel as if I am a whisper of the wind, quietly walking the streets, battling against forces of wind who are shouting at the top of their lungs. In my heart, I feel that this place is not for me. In my soul, I wish to find the place where I belong. And I know where that place is, and that place is in my mind, in my dreams, in the hours I spend asleep and years spent lost in my own thoughts. In my own little world. And I can only be in my own little world when I write, when I dream, when I am lost. I can probably explain it better, but I'm afraid it'll take some time. To explain a feeling that has lasted for over a decade, it isn't surprising that it'll take a bit of time. Maybe next time.

Just know that I am, among many other labels, a dreamer who abides in the practice of realism and lives for the pleasure of escapism. For-eons, I am, and possibly forever will be, a by-product of the worlds I live in.

I do hope that you continue to find enjoyment in reading what I bravely publish here. And please, don't be afraid to continue sending messages. I'd be honored if you would do me that favor. 

There are not enough words to thank you for taking the time to send me a message. I will, however, say it once again. Thank you so much. 

With all that said, I leave you with one final statement that I wish to share with you.

There will never be one thing to make life worth all the pain and suffering one goes through life. It is a collection of all the experiences, the subjective experience of each individual, that gives living life value.