It’s been some time –

Since I’ve written anything for myself. Too many times I have touched this keyboard with the primary intention of pleasing my audience; I forgot what it meant to write out of sheer desire to release the kept up words that strangled my verbal-cords unless I discharged them through alphabetical expression. Strangely, I’m staring at this screen realizing I have no idea what I want to say, other than it has been too long. I started this blog deciding that I would only use it so it can expose my writing in some sense; however, I feel like that is such a waste of terminology and contemplation. I should not fixate my thoughts on a scale of one to brilliant and it should definitely not just exist for the pleasures of others or for their critiquing on how they felt about the things I’ve written. Every word I have plastered into this black hole that is the e-biosphere are my symbolic opinions that I have not cherished enough to merely present even if only is for myself. So, here’s to turning a new page – or post. Like most geniuses, I’ll be speaking to myself more often.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Not for Thee.” When my ex and I broke up, I wasn’t quite sure how to resume with my normal life. One day, when I realized he had moved on and I yet haven’t, I told myself “Learn to be a scumbag. Do the things that others would call you a bitch for doing, but do them because they will ultimately teach you how to let go. Go out and don’t give a fuck how it affects him. Learn to take boys to the same restaurants he would take you on dates, sit on the same table if you must, and enjoy your time only focusing on yourself and the person you’re with. Create new memories everywhere. Keep your old memories sacred but never let them hold an opinion on your present ones.” I wouldn’t give anyone else that advice, but learning not to fixate on his feelings  and his interpretation on me was the first practical step I took to forgetting him for good.

Easy does it

I’m not sure what it meant. I used to be constantly at my feet; worried that this preexisting romance would vanish long before I was satisfied with it. The rule having been that I would never be satisfied enough. Yet, at this point, I found myself waving away the possibilities; shrugging at the incapability of the love continuing, not worrying much on whether or not it could proceed. Most times, I did not care at all.

I watched myself as I fed no interests to my heart, whilst feeling no pain if the romance burned thin. I no longer methodically knew how to care. This scared me a little. Yes, I did feel a sense of empowerment. I was once deafened by my beating heart; I was defeated by it. But now I was able to silence it. Alter it. And when the inevitable ache of loss would invade my territory, I would let it travel through momentarily, I would let my mind and heart feel the torment, then I would close it off. Think of something else; feel something else.

It is possible to deceive yourself; to insist that you no longer care. I lied to myself every day until it eventually became the truth. Have you ever shrugged away your losses? Trust me, it works. It was a strange feeling, being able to walk away from things you thought would forever control you. But sometimes I would view myself in the mirror, and I would see it. The emptiness fading in and out of my pupils. My eyes were lightless; vacant. There were dark signs of unhappiness circling my eye lids. They were droopy- hanging like dangling deceased arms.

And it became transparent; I was tired of being cavalier. Exhausted with not caring. I was unhappy with the realization that I was so prone to disappointment, I no longer yearned for gratification.

Those things have become miracles in my mind. And even when you’re granted these tormented miracles, you become too concerned with the fear that they’ll be taken away; far too busy anticipating when they will be ripped from your gripping little fingers that it is proven impossible to experience the happiness through all the sweat beads situated on your forehead.

And when the moment finally reveals itself and your beloved, part-time miracle is stripped from you, the most upsetting portion is that in the heap of all calamity, all you can feel is relief taking over. Relaxing soreness that the moment has finally come, the torture has seized; the anticipation departed. You can at last go back to having nothing to lose. Because it has become my belief that love only hurts when you’re doing it right, but why allow the injury if someone else is doing it wrong?

Maybe those dark circles dwelling around my eyes were a good thing, a reminder, a constant visual that once full, twice empty. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I missed the warm remembrance of care. Perhaps strength isn’t primarily based on the defense and blockage of pain but on how well you can risk your own comfort in the likelihood that you may find a higher level of satisfaction and happiness. I spent a great deal of time trying to conjure some sort of response; yet, I couldn’t guarantee myself an answer. All I knew was one thing, there must be something wrong when you’ve learned how to fall out of love more than how to fall into it.