Nothingness...

I am so tired. I am so tired of my life. I want to fall right now. I am giving up. And crying will never be enough. I will never be enough.

I wonder why I am still writing when all I make out of these pages are never ending stories of depression, hate, anger, indifference, and sometimes....love. My life is just small, like anyone else's life. Some people consider it easy while I consider it something extraordinary. Sometimes, I make it appear bigger and interesting by lifting words out of the dictionary and arrange them my way to describe for the day. Like what I do now. I do it best when I am down or depressed. The power of writing---starts from the HEART. Emotions transferred on forgotten pages. I do that best when I feel the void slowly coming to me and how ironic it is that I get all the good comments from you. But, to tell you honestly, I don't write to please you or the people around me or to touch their lives or to make them relate to my experiences. Experiences are common, but their footprints are not.

So I write because I am in direct need to write. I write because I am hurt and that is almost all the time. I write because I do not know of any single decent outlet other than this. This is my therapy now. I do not trust friends anymore. It is rare for me to write about something lively or plain living or contentment or happy endings. Deep inside me, there is always my continued search for what seems to be lost. I don't understand exactly. But all my experiences in the past brought me to a realization that in my life there is something amiss. I lost count of laughter and of pain. I do not know what's left, if ever anything is left. This feeling seems to be unending. My only defense to total exposure and betrayals that brought me so much pain are my jokes, punch lines and vagueness. Now I write vaguely, such that this entry will hit you to the very core, or feel you or cry with you and you clearly understand and feel right then and there without even knowing what it is I am writing about. I think you know what I mean. Clues are expensive these days; unless you have good intentions of really knowing me, then maybe we could talk about anything over a cup of cappuccino.

Right now, I want all of these to stop. I never wanted more than just to heal. Maybe, I'll start to appreciate prosaic and mundane things. No more vagueness, no more pretense, no more making all of these to big and spacious when my life is a mosh pit. Maybe then I'll start to write about sheer happiness, dogs, constellations and one funny experience worth remembering. I have been to places either because I want to be healed or I get evicted from my place or I'm just sick and tired of the place. And I thought that part of healing is moving from one place to another. Because of lack of permanence, I get to meet people from all walks of life some I got tired of explaining life to; some became my friends, some had heavy personalities, some were just too much to take. And so I move again, and a new set of people comes in. I don't mind their coming, unless they start to meddle with my life. Then I thought I had to be anonymous so they can never penetrate me. Now, I don't even know myself...