How much mistakes needed until one can get it right?
How much tears needed until one can get the smile?
How much pains needed until one can get a victory?
How much scars needed until one deserve true love?
How much lies needed until one can stay on honesty?
How much jealous needed until one can be at peace?
How much insecurities needed until one can stand proudly?
How much sleepless nights needed until one can have a rest safe and sound?
How much sacrifices do we need?
To be alive.
To feel loved.
To be accepted.
To feel recognized.
To be happy.
To feel like we belong to something.
After all this time, how much sacrifices do we need?
And when will it reach to the end?
“Don’t let them define you and don’t even try to define them.
For every persona in this earth have their own thoughts, even those which are too peculiar for other to comprehends.”
When others are move out in order to work, my case is the opposite: I work in order to move out.
A drastic life comes by a single call, then I packed all my belongings and aimlessly wandered. Not a totally aimeless, though, but still…
It still fresh in my mind: those confusion and anxiety. I’ve always convinced myself that I born with this steel armor attached all over my body, like a legend warrior. So that I could even walk in fire if I want.
But that time was different. A drastic changes completely decayed my armor, left me naked and vulnerable.
And I slowly gathered up everything. Gathered those armor that I’ve always been took pride of, and glued them back with a sort of adaptability and strength that I’ve also took pride of.
Power, a complete and almighty one, maybe my main purpose. The feel of being able to take control of your own life is unbeatable, it reflect a pure strength. And that’s maybe the thing I’ve been looking for.
But sadly, if I thinking about it, from another side of the perspective, gaining power is not my mere motive. I moved out myself in order to runaway. Which, ironically, contradict the whole thing.
I’ve told ya’ I’m merely a humbag contains thousands opposite traits and thoughts, I’ve told ya’.
But, hey, aren’t we all a bunch of pilgrims who runaway from a particular things in life? Am I have to beg forgiveness? It’s not a sin, isn’t?
I don’t know.
Runaway is for a coward. Stay and fight is the only way for those valiant hearts. Maybe I’m not as brave and daring as I always think I am.
Are we lose?
Are we lost?
Or are we just understand our limits too well?
Right after the farewell was bid, the door of another hardness is opened.
Welcome to the wonderland, babe. We’re not mad here. We’re just…insanely struggling. To breath, to life, to eat, to love, to do everything.
The 22-year-old me is an introvert, an acute one. A random MBTI tests all over internet said either she is 84% or 96% introvert. If it’s true then it’s not a shocking fact as she suffered a lot from her social anxiety. She was even hide in the restroom just to catch a breath at least twice a day during her the first three months of work life.
The 22-year-old me would be a national champion of overthinking competition, if it’s any. She is a B-type which people would called a happy-go-lucky type. So basically her nature is a mix-up. An overthinker B-type, she would declare. It’s quite not easy to live in kind of state of mind which contains thousands of opposite traits and behaviours. She has to dealing with voices in her head that arguing each another everytime. That’s why practical thinking is not her style, hence it doubles up the hardness of life for her. Poor soul.
The 22-year-old me still avoiding phone calls, messages, people; glitching from responsibilities; and escaping from real life. The 15-year-old her was ever composed a song titled “Escapist”, it tells about a person who doesn’t belong anywhere and can’t handle real life, and she still think that song compatible for her personal self even until now.
The 22-year-old me was longing for a perfect romance life, everyday, everytime, tho she never verbally admit it. Being in touch with the other one whom she considered as ‘boy’ or ‘guy’ makes her awkward hence this traits often translated as a ‘cold-and-cool-and-not-interested’ trait by the person she deeply longing. What an irony.
The 22 year-old me was ever felt so depressed that she nearly got her hands to alcohol can in the groceries and even keep eyes on which cigarettes to smoke. She never drink neither smoke before as it’s encounter her principles of life. But that depression almost eat her up to bones. Luckily, she then considered yoghurt and glico pocky tastes better than alcohol and cigarettes, so, well, attempt of rebellion: failed.
The 22-year-old me still speak to her imaginary friends. Yes, she has. And not only one but SIX instead. One of them is a wolf named Pandemonium and one other is Sora from Kingdom Hearts game. People might said that she is a schizoid because she talks to herself a lot as if she actually talks to a ‘friends’. And she refused to called them ‘imaginary friends’. “They are my guardian angels”, instead she replied.
Birthday is not her thing since 5 years ago. She loves a quiet and lonely birthday where everybody forget about it and behave like usual to her. She hates surprise or party or other kind of celebration because spotlight freaking her out and make her anxious.
And this birthday, too. Except she finally leaked it out by revealing her big wish on her instagram account, which her friends apparently recognized and makes it not a ‘quiet-birthday’ anymore. But this time, no problemo.
The 22-year-old me now have become a 23-year-old me today. As the 23-year-old approaching, she anxious a LOT. She hasn’t obtain a big and meaningful thing that she thought every 23’s people has to. “I will be 23 yet I’m still an useless potato, what should I do?!”, she mumbled panickly everyday since April began. But when the day come, peculiarly everything happens just like that. It’s not painful at all. Being 23-year-old feels strangely not different as being 22-year-old.
Being 23-year-old doesn’t mean that she have to evolved to become an extroverted, and stable, and rich, and wise either. I think, she will just stay this way. People change and her, too, will unnoticedly changes. It doesn’t matter the age. Age is just a number. But the process to be a mature person can’t be started or paused right away as if you’re installing a phone app. It happens as the time goes, slowly.
Happy Birthday to her.
She has a lot and numerous cool dreams to give up now so, 23, please be nice to her.
Just everytime. I gets too emotional. Flood of Emotions.
A mental breakdown. Huge disappointment. Tired. Fear. Excite. Anger. Laugh. Perplexed.
Coward. Swirling. Comes gliding across the sky. Swim in the terrace. Knocking in. Bash the door.
Somehow a revelation. Awakening. Bright. Like a sun. Dancing. Shining. Shimmering.
The hope. The dreams. A good visualization in the head and mind. Flowing through the veins. Bringing all the life. Soul gets pumped. Energized.
I can’t really describe, nor giving example and illustration. It just…. something. Not losing nor gaining. Or maybe both losing and gaining.
I’m not talk in rhymes, not even trying. I just can’t figured out the order of the words. It’s messy right here. Everything is mixed. The colors blend into one. I’m blackout. Either full or blank. Or in between. Or none of those.
I listen to some songs. Not to facilitating the emotional conditions. Just needed some melodical tones. To make the colors less dark, to saturating. Merely as backsound. Eventho an unrelated backsound. The score director must be a worst one. I am the worst one.
Thus we catch the breath. Living in vacumm space. We scream, we light up. It’s undesirable, this kind of roaller coaster. All I can feel is just a banging head. Beating motion.
I’m in the middle of vertigo. Your eyes moves diagonally. Your voice draw a circular shape in the air. Try to catch it up, the hands grasp in between of tremors. I can’t, I said to you.
And I cry.
And I cry.
And I cry.
And the sea formed, hence we sail upon it.
Row, row, row.
Row, row, row.
Image credits to Jenny at Flickr.com