May 22, 2020.
It is day nth of being alive. I have endured for 19 years 8 months and 22 days. I think some people know how deep my hatred runs for people who uses the military time for their phone clock. I could never get a grip around how I need to do the "minus-12" math everytime I need to know the time, but I get the concept and reasonability of concretizing it. I might have already forgotten I was born in the p.m. if I didn't keep it in 24-hours system. 1418.
When I was 18 turning 19 I was so very complaining that all of my time is being sucked by the monotony of routine. There were whole day classes, the dusk spent outdoors, the depressive naps, lethargic weekend afternoons and just so much I wanted to do. Now that time is being very generous, very cheap to give in to me, even inevitably out of each other's control, I am not finding myself doing the things I enjoy. I am not losing myself in writing letters or postcards or pasting collages, drawing my cats or my friends, or painting skies I or my friends have seen. Fuck that, I haven't seen what the sky looks like these days that my skin have long forgotten the sun it loved to soak up right before this happened. The sea hasn't seen me in quite a while. Everything that defined a small, so tiny light of me being alive is so distant. I wonder if it'll ease up soon.
There were so much time, so much thinking that I did as my days involuntarily gets thrown away for the greater good. So much digging into my own conscience that I might as well lose track of them if I don't try to tuck it somewhere to revisit it.
I am a coward.
Some people aren't really good at being on the receiving ends. They can give or provide but somehow gets repulsed when it is returned. I don't really consider myself to be able to pool with this kind but I was thinking hard about the reason I am so fucking petrified of letting my feelings be known when it still exists and I came with the conclusion that my pride is just so damn thick that I don't even want things I can't have nor do I want things that I may not be able to possess. That was why I air my true feelings only when everything is over, when the tracks get irrecoverable. It's so unreasonably difficult. This is also the loveliest brewing. I keep my truth like fine flower wine, that when I spill it out of my mouth, it gets light. I am not good at being consistent in loving someone, but I will never be afraid of trying again.
I also think there's a few things I've gotta prove to myself: those sayings people spit: that daughters turn out like their mother, I gotta see it for myself. Been so ecstatic for phone calls.
There were enough time for me to turn nocturnal too. One night it got so fucking lonely that I had dinner in the dark just to let it pass. It was spaghetti, pancake and ginger milk tea. That night sounded like a soft scream for help that no one was able to hear. I know I'm not alone. My mother calls me every other day and I look forward to be beside her and my friends are the loveliest caregiver at times like this. Minus this that, I still had time in my hands to think about a faraway address that skipped deletion when it should be gone. I was thinking of being selfish and find ways to insert myself into my past again by a piece of postcard. I had apologizing as my excuse. That's selfish so I won't do it. I let you go with no regrets. You can keep the words, the curses and everything else in between.
Love has also knocked on every door and windows. I may not be losing myself in my passion, but the bits of productivity I squeezed like hell out of me are dopamine shots. I've also been interrogating myself about the things and people I am and have pursued. I think it's possible to have it all. I'm a dreamer after all. I'll open every door and window there is to let the wind to say hello to the curtains.
Happiness is best shared, irrationality best kept in a mason jar. The sweets I had lately are best on empty stomach. The last eid before I'm gone will not be spent with my mother but I can bear with it.
I realized I don't write as poetically and full of imagery as I did when I was 15 anymore. It kind of felt like I was trying to strip bare my emotions and shamelessly air out the truth now. I find it to be less beautiful than my old metaphors and big pretentious words back then, though it feels more real to stand my words with intended meanings rather than layers and layers of unnecessary piece.
Oh, may the light of trueness shines, even if I barely go out to seek it nowadays.
I wish you fine. I wish you light.
Forever.
