I write this with the intention of gifting my words as a present to myself, because often times I forget what I write. And when I look back at them after a long time, it’s like my writing’s not my own. So perhaps, if I wrote myself indirectly, I might remember what I am about to say.
Lately, I’ve been neglecting myself, gifting others with words, leaving none for myself. I cannot remember the last time my mind was empty and that I was actually embodying any sort of nonchalant, even in my sleep. Everything seems to bite me and even if it doesn’t, I provoke my thoughts till they sting me just so I can feel something.
Every waking morning, I feel like I’m in a body that’s not my own and I’m constantly craving the sensation of some sort of shock or pain to wake the living dead inside of me, so I can gel my body and mind to feel alive again. I might have forgotten what it’s like to be alive.
I am physically living but my life has no pulse.
I long for the day I regain consciousness. I feel dazed, un-present and empty. I am hollow, and betrayed. And at this point I’m not sure who betrayed me more; the people from my past or just myself.
And this is how it feels like- It haunts me like a poltergeist. You’re at your local. You have two, three, maybe four drinks, you kiss a stranger but don’t feel the euphoria. You continue the lip-lock wishing it would fill this darkness inside you but it ends with nothing but brief, degrading fun. And you repeat
that cycle over
and over and
over again, different stranger each week, thinking it will fill you. When it won’t, because there is no cure for the degraded and seemingly infertile plain we call your heart- still occupied with the remnants of your ex-lover’s roots from the last harvest. It is the remnants that render your seeking of him in every single stranger you meet, which hasn’t and will never satisfy because you just keep looking for him in everyone you meet, which you are never going to find.
So if you could just stop that bad habit,
I want you to kick.
Can you say that you have actually moved on, or are you still seeking the scent of familiar trouble in every person you meet?