I had come to the conclusion that when you tell a soul something, that soul will never cease itself from telling another soul what you have just told that one particular, except the information that was passed, varies. To prove my point, we don’t have a control over the interpretation of someone—how he looks at the things he saw from what you saw differs, conversely, how he take in words and sentiments from what one had said differs.
So, everything is just a misconception of ideas and both observers standing in a different frame of perspective would have never come up with one sync observation except when both are standing in the same frame. Just like how one could only fully comprehend what a person is actually going through when he’s already in that same actual situation consequently, how a person could never, in a million years, fell the intensity of pain one is dealing just by observing it.
To everyone, who thought of me as a fool because I never tried cleaning my name—that I never really had proven my point to change someone’s opinion on me—well, one is never a fool to just watch things as it unfolds yet one could become a fool if he kept on changing viewpoints that are unalterable by nature. One is a fool when he kept on coercing things that would never happen. So am I?
I’ve never been one to have a full grasp on my emotions, especially not vocal with it. I had always been a person who prefers keeping everything to myself than showcasing transparency for everyone to see, I suddenly realize that I value privacy more than anything in the world, but of course, nobody knows that not when, even that I hid as I try to deceive people that I am an open book and everyone could read me.
I’d always keep things to myself, all my worries, the pain and even those moments of bliss, I keep it all—everything because those were my secrets, because I made it as my secrets, things only I knew of. That’s why all my problems were internal. All my struggles were internally battled and because of this I had been prone to anxieties—I’d been caged up with my fears and my insecurities, this is why I am a very complicated person not to mention, melancholic.
I fear of being left behind, of being not enough. I fear my parents and I fear for the uncertainty that was the future, I fear the dark and those creatures calling me, those vivid dreams that engulf me, I fear of it—I am scared of sleeping, nonetheless it’s inevitable.
I fear even myself, for my decisions and for the things I am willing to gamble and lastly, I fear my mind and my ways of perceiving things.
The fears that materialize as insecurities that were equally as haunting as being trapped in a room that was going smaller and smaller, crushing you, suffocating you with the loss of oxygen. Yes, I am claustrophobic and nobody knows of it except for a few.
I kept on asking my inadequateness, why am I not enough? When will I be enough to the people I love. I had all these questions; it was an endless cycle I kept locked up in the premises of my soul, nobody to help me because I ought to keep it that way not until that particular thing happened.
I had my fair share of relationships; I’ve been into one so basically love was off to no avail, something I was not ignorant of. But what had struck me was the foreign feeling I’ve come to feel, the feeling I had never encountered of. That longing feeling—that wanting to talk to him and seeing him every day, the eagerness swept me off that I was actually scared of the fast and speeding emotions that would in time control me, that would someday overpower my mind and I do not want that. I do not want to lose control over things I considered as non-rational—because there is no rationality in love, that’s what people say—and I do not want that to happen to me, if I could, I would want to stop it from further growing so I did and it was by far painful.
I concede to the fact that all men are susceptible to love—we all are vulnerable to it. It is like a virus, it does not choose who to infiltrate. It struck at you even before you know it. There is no precautionary measures, no shield to hinder it from penetrating as it seeps through you like a gamma ray because, at the end of the day, we all are susceptible to love; it’s just a matter of recognition and nurturing this feeling that makes this robust sensation unlike from one person to another.
It’s not like I am in love with this particular, but it’s the feeling that I have if nurtured would turn out to be it either way. In my case, I chose to stop it—well, truth is, all I did was to deny it, to demean what I was feeling because it was not right, it looked wrong in so many angles but it felt right in every unfair way. So I have come to infer that this wasn’t because I feel something for that person but it’s the chase that tags along with him. Knowing that I particularly love chasing the things I will never have, I come to believe that it was just a phase I need to surpass and I had always been good at it, this one was no difference. And so I thought, and one thing led to another. Instead of actually having all means to surpass this phase I was drawn more closely than I ever give myself credit to. Like a moth drawn to the blinding light, I felt the danger but I did not mind it and that’s where my hell began.
My hell was a mixed of bittersweet torture. It includes suppressing a dam of feelings and outburst of overfilling emotions. Everything I do was calculated as if walking down an aisle made of eggshell, one wrong move the emotions I kept so well would be discovered.
My feelings were a secret—an information that was kept only for me to know and for them to never find out. I was doing fine—I had been an expert when it comes to these things, not until my plan on guarding myself against the pain backfired. With a blink of an eye, everything changed, the sentiments weighed me down, and it felt heavy against my chest. I couldn’t even muster a smile, I couldn’t even do the things I normally do because I was bothered, and I was eaten by jealousy. Yes, I hate to digest the fact, that I, a person who hates the word is fleshly feeling the intensity of the word.
It was eating me up.
It was driving away my sanity.
It was doubling that heavy feeling, the feeling I’ve kept for a fraction of months—months of one-sided sentiments and it erupt because of an abstract concept of jealousy.
I couldn’t stop myself from telling that person about what I feel, well, more likely to me telling him that those months were enough and it is right to give it up—to give up the feelings that were erroneous in the eyes of the many. And with that, I had anticipated myself for the consequence that comes along with me spilling the beans.
Yes, I might have created a rift between us but one thing I had been thankful about is that I felt free, I do not walk on cracked egg shell, for a change I felt like I was walking and living at my own pace, without those unhealthy baggage’s that had pulled me down. And with that, I feel no regret.
It was true when they say that telling what you feel to others lift you up from that heavy feeling. And to me, it’s what all that matters. It’s what all there is. I do not care what others see me or what they think of me. It’s my feelings that matters and not them. This is why I choose not to rectify their opinions not because I do not feel the need to but because either way to their mind it would always be the same.
People may tell you that they accept you but they will never understand due to the plurality of opinions and one can never homogenize such things, it’s like going into a battle, you will never win even if you’ve had all the motives to win but you just can’t, simply because you have no control over it.
That is why, you could never understand me no matter how much you try to weigh things down or no matter how hard you try to understand parallel things because amid the relativity, still, we do not stand on the same plane to have sync comprehension and only could that thing happen when you try to wear my shoes.
Only then, could you understand me.
Only then could you appreciate the decisions I have made.
So, everything is just a misconception of ideas and both observers standing in a different frame of perspective would have never come up with one sync observation except when both are standing in the same frame. Just like how one could only fully comprehend what a person is actually going through when he’s already in that same actual situation consequently, how a person could never, in a million years, fell the intensity of pain one is dealing just by observing it.
To everyone, who thought of me as a fool because I never tried cleaning my name—that I never really had proven my point to change someone’s opinion on me—well, one is never a fool to just watch things as it unfolds yet one could become a fool if he kept on changing viewpoints that are unalterable by nature. One is a fool when he kept on coercing things that would never happen. So am I?
I’ve never been one to have a full grasp on my emotions, especially not vocal with it. I had always been a person who prefers keeping everything to myself than showcasing transparency for everyone to see, I suddenly realize that I value privacy more than anything in the world, but of course, nobody knows that not when, even that I hid as I try to deceive people that I am an open book and everyone could read me.
I’d always keep things to myself, all my worries, the pain and even those moments of bliss, I keep it all—everything because those were my secrets, because I made it as my secrets, things only I knew of. That’s why all my problems were internal. All my struggles were internally battled and because of this I had been prone to anxieties—I’d been caged up with my fears and my insecurities, this is why I am a very complicated person not to mention, melancholic.
I fear of being left behind, of being not enough. I fear my parents and I fear for the uncertainty that was the future, I fear the dark and those creatures calling me, those vivid dreams that engulf me, I fear of it—I am scared of sleeping, nonetheless it’s inevitable.
I fear even myself, for my decisions and for the things I am willing to gamble and lastly, I fear my mind and my ways of perceiving things.
The fears that materialize as insecurities that were equally as haunting as being trapped in a room that was going smaller and smaller, crushing you, suffocating you with the loss of oxygen. Yes, I am claustrophobic and nobody knows of it except for a few.
I kept on asking my inadequateness, why am I not enough? When will I be enough to the people I love. I had all these questions; it was an endless cycle I kept locked up in the premises of my soul, nobody to help me because I ought to keep it that way not until that particular thing happened.
I had my fair share of relationships; I’ve been into one so basically love was off to no avail, something I was not ignorant of. But what had struck me was the foreign feeling I’ve come to feel, the feeling I had never encountered of. That longing feeling—that wanting to talk to him and seeing him every day, the eagerness swept me off that I was actually scared of the fast and speeding emotions that would in time control me, that would someday overpower my mind and I do not want that. I do not want to lose control over things I considered as non-rational—because there is no rationality in love, that’s what people say—and I do not want that to happen to me, if I could, I would want to stop it from further growing so I did and it was by far painful.
I concede to the fact that all men are susceptible to love—we all are vulnerable to it. It is like a virus, it does not choose who to infiltrate. It struck at you even before you know it. There is no precautionary measures, no shield to hinder it from penetrating as it seeps through you like a gamma ray because, at the end of the day, we all are susceptible to love; it’s just a matter of recognition and nurturing this feeling that makes this robust sensation unlike from one person to another.
It’s not like I am in love with this particular, but it’s the feeling that I have if nurtured would turn out to be it either way. In my case, I chose to stop it—well, truth is, all I did was to deny it, to demean what I was feeling because it was not right, it looked wrong in so many angles but it felt right in every unfair way. So I have come to infer that this wasn’t because I feel something for that person but it’s the chase that tags along with him. Knowing that I particularly love chasing the things I will never have, I come to believe that it was just a phase I need to surpass and I had always been good at it, this one was no difference. And so I thought, and one thing led to another. Instead of actually having all means to surpass this phase I was drawn more closely than I ever give myself credit to. Like a moth drawn to the blinding light, I felt the danger but I did not mind it and that’s where my hell began.
My hell was a mixed of bittersweet torture. It includes suppressing a dam of feelings and outburst of overfilling emotions. Everything I do was calculated as if walking down an aisle made of eggshell, one wrong move the emotions I kept so well would be discovered.
My feelings were a secret—an information that was kept only for me to know and for them to never find out. I was doing fine—I had been an expert when it comes to these things, not until my plan on guarding myself against the pain backfired. With a blink of an eye, everything changed, the sentiments weighed me down, and it felt heavy against my chest. I couldn’t even muster a smile, I couldn’t even do the things I normally do because I was bothered, and I was eaten by jealousy. Yes, I hate to digest the fact, that I, a person who hates the word is fleshly feeling the intensity of the word.
It was eating me up.
It was driving away my sanity.
It was doubling that heavy feeling, the feeling I’ve kept for a fraction of months—months of one-sided sentiments and it erupt because of an abstract concept of jealousy.
I couldn’t stop myself from telling that person about what I feel, well, more likely to me telling him that those months were enough and it is right to give it up—to give up the feelings that were erroneous in the eyes of the many. And with that, I had anticipated myself for the consequence that comes along with me spilling the beans.
Yes, I might have created a rift between us but one thing I had been thankful about is that I felt free, I do not walk on cracked egg shell, for a change I felt like I was walking and living at my own pace, without those unhealthy baggage’s that had pulled me down. And with that, I feel no regret.
It was true when they say that telling what you feel to others lift you up from that heavy feeling. And to me, it’s what all that matters. It’s what all there is. I do not care what others see me or what they think of me. It’s my feelings that matters and not them. This is why I choose not to rectify their opinions not because I do not feel the need to but because either way to their mind it would always be the same.
People may tell you that they accept you but they will never understand due to the plurality of opinions and one can never homogenize such things, it’s like going into a battle, you will never win even if you’ve had all the motives to win but you just can’t, simply because you have no control over it.
That is why, you could never understand me no matter how much you try to weigh things down or no matter how hard you try to understand parallel things because amid the relativity, still, we do not stand on the same plane to have sync comprehension and only could that thing happen when you try to wear my shoes.
Only then, could you understand me.
Only then could you appreciate the decisions I have made.
