When the tides came in lapping gently at its shores I mistook its foamy waters for healing balm to an aching soul. It came and went with such hypnotic trance. I was powerless. So I went along, and I let it wash me out to sea instead. And I was stranded out in deeper waters. And all I saw were endless stretches of blue and green and grey. But the calm I thought I knew was most untrue. I tried to trap the endless liquid between the spaces of my fingers. And I tried to keep my head above its surface, I did. But the weight of my being could not be held up by water.

When the waves made sea walls six feet tall, I braced myself to push right through. But the strength of my body I thought I knew was most untrue. It was like running into brick walls, thinking maybe all my broken pieces could diffuse right through its pores, thinking maybe I could emerge on the other side — whole.

When I found a buoyant to keep me afloat, the darker waters scared me less. I had a device to help me cope, a sense of hope. A kind of friend, to see me through to the end. But the hope I thought I knew was most untrue. It became no easier to hold on, but a lot harder to let go. The ceaseless illusion of soon finding shore, set me adrift burdening more.

I thought I was being chained to a sinking ship, but really, it was the stone in my heart.

 

In the dead of night, what jarring silence render futile all attempts at laying my head to rest. Though as silent as the world could be, the cacophony of fiends in my mind never seem to cease. Loud and clear they scream, such devilish things, only made more so by the quiet that enables it.

Yet to be rid of these static noises would be the equivalent of removing from me, a limb, an arm, a finger, a foot — a part of me most indispensable. These fiends are an extension of me, each one extrapolated from an undesirable trait, an unpleasant memory, an irksome emotion, tempting in me the most revolting of thoughts and actions. Except these thoughts that encourages my actions have become not so much repulsive as they are condoling. I pine for the end of each day, for my solitude and dark, dark ways.

At first, I supposed i could, if i had given greater effort, banish these bumbling voices that have overtime grown in strength and potent eloquence. With such fiery i had fought, and so it seemed that not all hope was lost. Yet it is most evident that i remain still, in this endless loop of shame, and guilt, and wanton self-destruction. It is an unchanging dance, practised to perfection, fluent in its execution and each sway, or leap, or twirl, enervates me to no end. Hope, is such a strange, strange thing. It hurts me more than my decaying heart. Had i had none to begin with… There are no words for desperate hopelessness. Had i had none, no longer would there be, every morning, my melancholic sight of the sun.

I have clamoured “Tired!” and “Enough!” and “Stop!” more times than i can count; but only, as always, only in my mind.

If my eyes are the windows to my soul, i wonder if any has peered in, deep and down below. And if so, can they see the emptiness  grow; the nothingness that is to be, a life, a heart, a whole of me.

Cowards die many times before their death

Today I had one of the worst meltdowns I’ve had in a really long time. I stomped, and screamed, and smashed my fists against the walls of my bathroom while taking a shower— screaming: “I never asked for this. I never asked for any of this. I never asked to be alive.” Over, and over… and over again.

I am only eighteen. I have only been eighteen for about a month. I have barely lived my life, or pursued my passions, but already, I feel as though i have had enough of it. But the saddest thing? I am but one of the hundreds, thousands, and — god, i hope not— millions of people who feel this way. Who feel like seeing, and breathing, and touching, and feeling, is not enough to want to be alive.

If i really think about it, I have not had a hard life at all. In fact, all things considered, I’ve had it pretty good. So what i can’t understand is how this hole in my heart that can’t be filled came to be. What i am, is emotionally incapacitated. I don’t have the ability to feel, or understand what i feel. Maybe this is what it’s like to be numb, but then again, there’s a dull ache that never really goes away. I can’t really be numb if there’s an ache, can i?

Some days, when it gets extraordinarily bad, it’s like the ache knows to amplify itself. It’s a needle in my heart. Then many thousand needles. Like I’m a pin cushion, holding all the coloured pins in place, poked and prodded. Used and discarded. Then all too soon it’s a knife in a chest; A twist, a turn, pull out and plunge it back in. Except… it’s all only in my head (and in my heart).

The heart is a muscle. So maybe it needs to be worn out before it can grow. But each vein is a lifeline, and each day one stretches taut and snaps. Today however, at one go, ten were snipped into loose threads. One for my father and my mother. Two, for my brother and my sister. Three for my friends who i could never truly love. Four, for the grief of the girl in the mirror.

So you see, i am only eighteen. But already i have only sparse few lifelines left. I am hanging onto strands millimetres thick, dangling over a cliff. What i wish for, is the courage to let go. What i really want, is for everything to end. Because when i picture my life a year, a decade, a lifetime from now, i see the same. The same anguish, the same darkness, the same routine day in and day out. The irony is, if i want it to end, i mustn’t do anything.

I am not suicidal, and this is not a farewell note. My attempts at being heard is proof enough of my hope to live. Yet, this is what kills me everyday.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but feelings can really fuck me right up.

Passion

Pulsing through your veins is

A molten fire red.

Swift it comes and goes, yet

Stain it will, the host.

In dying embers grey,

Of winter black and blue,

No warm a fireplace as

 

In

The

 

Heart, and

Mind, and

Soul.

Hi, do leave a comment on what you think about this poem. I’m thinking of submitting it for a competition under the theme “Passion”. Your opinions are greatly appreciated! Thank you(:

Tonight I might set my affairs in order,

And lay myself to rest till all is over,

Because the world is just a mess,

And life a mere test, so what is left,

When it all ends, is not the worst or the best,

But an anger abated at the least,

And a silence that forever holds my peace.

A Dreamer's Canvas

Reblogged from Rebellious Dreams :: Wild Adventures.:

It's been said that one must venture to New York to transform a dream into a reality. After all, it's the city that never sleeps...and dreams never do take a rest. xx.

Read more… 2 more words

Barely Breathing

Occasionally, I get into one of these moods, where everything upsets me, and I want to punch somebody in the face. Then I want to spontaneously burst into tears for absolutely no reason at all — except, I can’t. I just can’t. My tear ducts just will not comply. And then I will watch Captain America (or whatever else happens to be on TV) and I will feel my heart ache, and my eyes will well up with tears, just because I find the movie so damn ridiculous. 

I mean, who runs a mile a minute with nothing but a shield and never, absolutely never, gets shot. Not even once. Those German soldiers must be one hell a bunch of rejects.

So this silly movie will make me feel thousands of negative emotions, and I won’t be able to focus on anything for the day (in fact, for days to come). But the best I can do, is only to recognise that I’m feeling these negative emotions. Negative representing a big umbrella of emotions I cannot even begin to describe. Not because I don’t want to, or that I can’t find the words for them, but mostly because I don’t recognise them.

I cannot tell frustration from sadness, or disappointment, or loneliness, or hurt. All I ever do is swing from anger to numbness with the snap of a finger. And if I’m lucky enough for it to be a good day, I overflow with joy. Like, “non-stop giggling, endless jokes and high on 10 cans of Red Bull” joy. The worst part of it all, is that I don’t even know what made a ‘good day’ good, and a ‘bad day’ bad. I cannot predict how I am going to feel the next morning, hell I don’t even know how I’m going to feel in the next ten minutes.

So right now, I’m somewhere between hopeless and numb. I woke up this way and it’s barely mid-afternoon but already, I can’t wait for the sun to set. Except, I have an endless list of important things to do, but I don’t feel the urgency for any of it. In fact, if it were up to me, I would probably curl up in bed for the next 7 days and hibernate. But then again, I wouldn’t be able to do anything but lie there, tossing and turning. The silence that fills my senses isn’t enough to drown out the noise inside my head — or the numbness inside my heart.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone has felt any these things before, (of course there is, silly me) where my heart feels hollow and heavy, and it weighs on my ribcage and my lungs. And if I imagine— figuratively— what my heart looked like, I picture this organ the size of my fist; dull red like the colour of dried blood; fragile like the sun-dried leaf. It is frayed at the edges, and each crack is a vein that has long ran dry. And this overworked machine is an easily crumpled heart, falling in flakes like ashes in the wind. Ironic how something that feels so heavy, seems so weak and so light.

Yet this description is the epitome of my entire being.

I am sum of all my contradictions. My strengths are my weaknesses, and what I love, I also absolutely hate. I posses what I don’t want, and I want what I have left behind, threw away, abandoned.

I do not believe in wishes upon stars, or the eyelash I blew away. I much less believe in praying to a higher power for what I want. But today, like every other day, I will believe that I deserve to feel happy. That one day, I will stop single-handedly ruining my own life.

And until that day, I will believe that I can hold on.

Pictorial: Leaves, Bricks & Cobblestones

All of life is a puzzle— The roots that feed the trees to fit the leaves on winding branches; The multitude of bricks so similar yet uniquely different, stacks a castle in thin air; The cobblestones beneath your feet fixes a path out of nowhere, promising only to lead you somewhere, anywhere—  The world and I.

Yellowing for years to come, occasionally dusted and admired from afar. No, no hands. No touching. No changes to be made. There is only one way to complete this puzzle, only one path I can take, and when it’s done, it’ll be the perfect picture of a life that I have made. Then I’ll hang it on a wall, without meaning or purpose, but still I’ll take pride, because it is something that I made.

For far too long, unconsciously, that was how I have lived my life. For single purposes, and lists to adhere to, and places I must be, things I must do, words I must say, and endless endless streams of goals to achieve. It is, of course then, with no surprise, that I admit that satisfaction was not a feeling I could relate to. Ever the over-achiever, failure was never far from my sight, when really, there was nothing for me to fail at. Because in not living a life I could love, I have never really succeeded to begin with.

My place in this world begins and ends with a word that, unfortunately, still dominates my life: Money.

Money makes the world go round. There is nothing money can’t solve. Money buys happiness.

Misconception, misconception, downright delusional.

Surely, life has not been just that for you? You must think. And of course it wasn’t. Young, free-spirited children have no care for money. I cared about that blanket fort I built with my sister. I cared about my scraped knee and bleeding fingers. I cared about imagining places that don’t exist. And in those places I was anyone I wanted to be, doing only things that I loved. And my place in this world, was the bedroom that yesterday, was a castle; today, is a volcano; tomorrow, might be the moon.

But the blanket forts turned to tables and computers, scraped knees paled in comparison to sleepless nights, and the bedroom— has but one practical use anymore.

These were the pieces to my puzzle for a “prefect” life.

The world is as static as I am unchanging, and this puzzle is all but a permanent fixture on an otherwise dull wall.

15 Things You Can Do To Be Your Best Self Today

Reblogged from Thought Catalog:

1. Try to have conversations with people you casually meet in everyday life. Find out the name of the woman you see all the time at the grocery store and engage her. You can have small talk or unexpectedly talk about the big things. I once ended up having a three-hour conversation with the girl who worked the cashier at the thrift store I went to all the time.

Read more… 1,212 more words

THESE SOUND LIKE SOME PRETTY DIFFICULT 15 THINGS. D A M N.

Way Overdue

A new year alway brings new(old) resolutions that, for me, always go unaccomplished. Unfortunately, this says a lot about my dedication and willpower to keeping committed to the things i want to accomplish. But this year, obstacles be damned, i will get what i want!

1. Believe in myself
2. Read often. Write more. Dream bigger
3. Take risks, truly experience every opportunity, and never let failure keep me down
4. Face my fears and solve my problems
5. Learn to trust
6. Be open and honest
7. Laughter, laughter and more laughter
8. Travel
9. Love. Love myself, my friends, my family— love life
10. NEW YORK

More specifically:

1. Focus on my studies
2. Prioritise my commitments better
3. Take better care of my body
4. Show more appreciation for my family and friends
5. Ace my classes and top my school
6. Scholarship
7. Positive thinking. Positive actions. Positive results
8. Read more books than i can buy
9. Never stop being curious
10. NEW YORK