Call me an ideal person or a delusional one, but I’m still dreaming and hoping for that kind of love to come in my life that are like in the books. That kind of love that overcomes everything. That kind of love that I finally find the reason why I’m living and that that person is the only reason after all. That kind of love that that person accepts me entirely for who I am and for who I am not and for who I am underneath all my masks. And even when all the masks come off at the end of the day, that person will still love me and all my flaws and all the unacceptable things that I find in myself won’t make that person love me less.
A love like in the books, to find that person would never give up on me, would use words, or music, or literature to woo me. That person would make me feel so special. Everyone wants to feel that they’re special anyway. That kind of love that even in silence, it is still felt in an overwhelming way. That kind of love that would make other kinds of love so little and unimportant. A love that is immeasurable. A love that doesn’t end even when the book has ended. That kind of love that would make me stop dreaming and wishing about what kind of man or what kind of love I want to have because I finally have that person and would know that it is that person is what I’ve been waiting for.
It is only in the rarest times that I allow myself to think about love and having a person to love in an intimate and romantic way. And it is only in these rarest times that I let myself dream and hope of the love that I want to have in my life. A love a lot like in the books.
There are days that I just feel that I’m so fucking ugly that I wanna kill myself. Today is one of those days. I wish people wouldn’t be so tackless. I wish people wouldn’t call or describe a person by his/her biggest insecurity. That person may not know about it and just said it innocently or without any intention to offend, but damn, sir, you hit me with the sharpest sword and stabbed me ever so slowly so deep in me deeper than my soul. Thank you.
My problem with being too happy is that I forget to write.
Right now, I can honestly say that I’m happy. Everything’s going well in my life. There are down moments at times but my optimism drives the unhappiness away.
I’ve been trying to write a story or a poem or even a blog post (I’ve been only successful with blog posts lately and Ibthink most of them are rants just like this one). But I find myself staring at a blank page of microsoft word searching and sqeezing creative juices out as much as I can but the farthest I’ve gotten was a paragraph. I don’t even know where it’s going so I deleted that file. I want to make stories but I’m not inspired. I tried recalling the things that I’ve thought whenever I wrote the stories I wrote before. It felt so easy, like words freeing themselves from your mind that it becomes so simple as breathing (I mean simple breathing with lungs that don’t suck at being lungs like Hazel Grace’s. I love that book BTW.) But now a days I can’t even get through a single concept or idea.
So I reviewed my past stories and poems. There was a common theme among them. It was sadness, rejection, unrequited love or affection and tragic endings. I don’t know why but I think I find it quite difficult to express my happiness through words or how to make a literary art about it.
But of course, maybe these assumptions of mine can be all wrong. (I’ve just thought of this at this second huzzah). Maybe…just maybe I’m happy because I resist to feel otherwise? What if I’m unconsciously filtering my emotions and just accept and retain in me the positive ones. I mean, nothing much wrong about that but…
Being a writer means allowing yourself to be vulnerable and feel all kinds of emotions. Being a writer means being able to be real and to be honest with yourself, which I think I’ve been having a hard time doing because I’ve been supressing (yet again) am emotion that I decline to feel.
I think I know what my problem is
I don’t wear nice clothes everyday, or powder my face or wear pink lipstick to impress others. I want to impress myself. I do the things I want to do because I do it for myself, not for anyone else.
When I was younger, I struggled with my self-confidence. I wasn’t the typical pretty girl that guys usually fall for. I didn’t have the pale skin that most of the guys prefer. I was a shy, timid, introverted and didn’t think of myself as much. I always thought that no guy would ever like me.
As grew older, I realize that I wouldn’t be truly happy if I continue that way of thinking. I wanted to be free and an unexpected tragic event gave me the chance to be free and to alter my perception of myself. It took time for me to realize what a blessing in disguise that was.
Due to that tragedy, I learned how to lift myself up, cheer myself up and to protect myself. I became stronger. I learned how to put more value to myself because I realized that it was up to me and up to me alone how much I want to value myself.
I started to embrace myself more. There are still times that insecurities lurk in my mind, but that’s normal. I just have to remind myself that whatever insecurites I have, they don’t define my whole being.
I’m still not the prettiest girl around and I still don’t have the sexiest body that most guys want. But I’m okay with it. I don’t dress nicely, fix my hair and wear powder and lipstick to make guys fall for me.
I do it because I want to fall more in love with myself.
As you read this you may think of me as narcissistic, but I think it’s important for all of us to appreciate and love ourselves first before we accept love from others and give love to others. 🙂
To a friend that may never read this:
I have been friends with you for almost half my life and, honestly, I want for it to last a lifetime. We’ve been through a lot. We had a lot of petty fights, alliances against other friends, our share of naughtiness and a lot more. I can truly say that we are really best friends.
But I can’t just ignore the changes I’ve noticed whenever we see each other. It’s like you’re a different person every single time. You show me a side of yourself that I’ve never though I’d see in you. At first I thought that it’s normal because we’re adults now and somehow starting to find ourselves. And then I thought that maybe you jist adapted some ways from your college friends. I was trying hard to understand you and accept you for who you’re becoming, even when we were younger.
It’s okay to change, my friend. It’s the only constant thing in this world anyway. But, my friend, change for the better not for the worse. Sadly, the changes I see gets worse and worse. I’m not saying that I’m perfect, that I’m better than you because I’m not. But I try to be good. At least I try to be. For you right now, it’s like the bad is the new good. The good actions and words I try to do in my life it’s like you’re making me see them as a bad thing. That’s why I’m not comfortable in sharing that part of my life to you because I feel like you’d laugh at me or mock me.
I know that you are strightforward and don’t sugarcoat things much but there’s a difference between being straighforward in a constructive, respectful way and being tackless, self-centered bitch. Lately, you’re being the latter. (I’m not calling you a bitch. It’s a verb. You know, what bitches do)
I don’t know what to say to you anymore because you’re old enough to be responsible with your actions. I still love you because you are my friend but I don’t like what you’re becoming.
Find your way back, my friend. Find your way back. And if there will come a time you’ll realize everything, I’ll be here to help you. You are not like this. You are a good person. I believe you are.
And now, it’s your turn to believe it too.