Mourning my spontaneity

Mourning my spontaneity

image source: @eccentricsky

I don’t write poems anymore

I don’t know why

It doesn’t seem to matter

Wait, maybe I do

I have an inner bicker

Between my sane self

And the I who suffer

Full of paradox, not metaphor

Spontaneous is the other

The another stutter

This is what I feel

An old soul,

Sick and ill

The trunk of the tree

Gave up on me

I fell swaying so stiff

I am a floating dry leaf

I am a fleeting mist

in a vast ocean

A poem of no gist

A bootless potion

My laptop told me this morning, it's been a year since I penned this. I have yet to edit, revise, or do whatsoever to finish it. Although I remember countless attempts, it all failed to add clarity to a vague picture of how foggy and hopeless my quarter life is getting. I guess, the best and the only metaphor to envelope this senseless and directionless poem is the poem itself. Apart from the seemingly dooming downfall of a young life, it also covers the reality that I can only start something and never find a will to finish it or lack the ability to do so.

Just recently, I realized that no matter how saddening the thought of losing is - may they be people, ability, talent, job, dreams etc. I only take hope in knowing it is a poignant poem. And it wasn't supposed to end up poignant as life is still wheeling and it ain't the end yet.

Honesty hour (an excerpt from my journal)

Honesty hour (an excerpt from my journal)

Image source: @eccentricksy

What a sucker life I have.

As I wake up every morning, I ask myself, “When will life take me?”, when all I should be asking myself is, “What can I do with my life and to the others’ benefit today?”. Also, I ask myself, “When am I going to take my own life away?”

Screwed up, twisted, exhausting life. 

Oh why.

I lack a good story to tell the people I love. Happens when nothing good really happens.

I have read a lot of books about anything under the sun - Bible, philosophy, poems, history,  novels, autobiography, yet so little lessons learned. 

I have a lot of things in my past not worthy and too shameful to look back on. 

I (tried) to do everything right. 

Yet I feel so incomplete and lacking. 

I’m wasting my time. 

I make sure the only hour that’s without an activity is for a nap - I fill time with a lot of stuff to do but somehow, it’s still being wasted.

Truth is …

I could etch in my heart all the teachings in the book of Proverbs and all the fundamental principles in life and I can still blow it up. 

I heard one of the most sincere apologies yet still finds a way to doubt even just an inch of it.

I talked about how life is worth living and the beauty of it and that you’re loved and all the fancy schmancy that come along with my beautifully ribboned encouragement and felt like everyone else’s, except mine, is worth another tomorrow.

More than knowing, I understand and learned (the painful way) that all feelings, of course, are valid (thanks to all the rejection and the judgment I experienced in the past). I learned how to be empathic. Our experiences affect us and the people around us in ways more than one. Our upbringing, belief, past, culture - they all play a part. The other could supersede the latter and/or the former. The sameness or the resemblance of our situations don’t mean it has been pulled by the same gravity in effect.

AND THAT’S OKAY.

YET, I came to realize that not all things I’ve come across with and felt are true.

They might be sound,  reasonable,  rational,  logical,  justifiable - valid BUT not always true.

I felt (still feeling, tbh) like a failure.

But even truer than all of these is - I am a work in progress. I am in the process of learning and understanding even more.

Funny how I feel alone in the company of more than three most of the times. 

I feel lost. 

However, I cannot discount the people who stayed with me and loved me, or the strangers that didn’t hesitate to smile (gahd that newbie-in-walking-bald-baby  last night in the coffee shop who kept smiling at my direction) or my patients for the thank you’s, or my seniors for the mild appreciation, or even my not-so-close-casual-friends who laugh at my dated jokes and make me feel like somehow, I saved the day when really, you saved mine.

I could feel worthless; I could feel like a fleeting mist hanging above a vast ocean - microscopically smaller than small, here now, gone later. 

But the fact that my journal is still inked with another entry, typing, feeling, thinking, breathing, maybe … just maybe, I am worth another day of living. 

As a matter that occupies space, maybe I am worth what I occupy that I feel like the world is leasing me.

Maybe, I am not a wasteful oxygen-consuming human being.

Maybe, just maybe … I am worth another shot.

Part of learning and the progress I hope I am making is the realization that whenever I feel:

Nobody loves me

Everyone leaves me

The deficiency

The insecurity

The self-lack

That I’m no better

I’m a loser

Another schmuck whose brain is cooked with meds

Needs to achieve more

Needs to prove more

All the lies whether they are in my head or from somebody else’s mouth …

I learned how to have this time of solitude and stop listening to all these lies. I learned to be alone sometimes; I learned how to stop it - all the calls; the messages; the notifications … I sit down by myself and pray, “Father, I am going to listen to You. I recognize and acknowledge the existence of all these things. I feel these things. I feel I’m better off dead. I am so insecure. I feel unloved. I feel so embarrassed for the things I should have known better to do differently, for the things I failed to do and the people I failed. I am consumed by this voracious anxiety and worry and lack of faith to You. I am worried about the results of my life’s choices. But here I am, without any religious covering, without any self-justification, just the pure confidence that I am bought with a price. Before Your throne is the Alyssa you desire - not the perfect Alyssa but all of Alyssa so here I am - hear me”