If someone or something truly matters to you, love persists despite fear of judgment and failure. Persistence comes in waves; with every splash against your soul, you're called into action. The goal is to swim above your own and others' shortcomings.

 I have lived experiences of what happens when you beat around the bush. It's not worth the heartbreak to assume how things are. I want openness, honesty and clarity.

I realize how little things matter. The less focused I am on others, the bigger I feel. 

It's so sad how conditional everything is. If you're in a horrible life circumstance, you're constantly selling your soul from one party to another to better your situation. No one is willing to help just for the sake of it. 

I put pressure on myself to be liked by as many people as possible. I try to be all sorts of charming, but to be honest, It feels destructive. I can't help but feel like I'm not me. The reason I'm still so performative is that fear that being anything else than charming makes people hate me or not want to be around me. Looks of discontent are particularly deadly. 

I wish I could say I'm fine and be able to mean it. However, I'm not fine. I lost something, or better, I lost someone. It's hard to describe my loss because it's not this isolated thing. It's not some detached tangible thing. I did not just lose a person; I lost a part of me. The portion of me that was made of that person. What's ironic is, I'm now so estranged from this person, yet they will never disappear. I get manic when I see a picture. I get an itch to catch up to this stranger's life. I get flooded with what-ifs. After tunnel vision, I take a step back and realize how sad all this is. I'm left with all this pent-up emotion I need to handle whist the person is seemingly content and happy. It's shitty, but it's real. Way better than some delusion like 'love is in the air.'

Reality truly hits when you realize that joy comes in infrequent increments. No one thing that can make you more elated than a collection of life experiences, sorrow and all. Progress can feel slow, but that's because true fulfillment is quality. 

Sometimes I wish I could be like the wind. Hard to notice, but still present, still loud. It would be so great to have the ability to pick and choose where and when I want to be relevant in people's lives; to show intensity without constraint; to blow away umbrellas of my choosing. I want to get messages across without that gross feeling of being turned away. What a privilege the wind has. It makes my skin crawl thinking about wanting attention and being blatantly denied. The thing with wind is most people live through it; tolerate it; some don't even mind it. It would be quite a wonder if people could feel my emotions like the wind. 

I don't abandon a relationship because of something as trivial as heartbreak or arguments. I abandon relationships because I feel less than comfortable. That's my standard nowadays.

I'm afraid I'm slowly turning into a  monster. I have so much anger inside me that sometimes It feels like It will just burst. It feels like unexploded ordnance, buried in all my overthinking and unpleasant interactions. It starts as frustration and stays that way until I eventually find myself pleading for a solution. When left with silence, my frustration morphs into a vicious flame of anger. I become very sensitive; agitated by everything. I put on a smile even though I'm screaming in my head. I've been thinking about what has been fueling these flames, and I realized that it's everything and everyone that's been abusing my kindness. What makes me the angriest are the hypocrites who say they care for me but harm me all the same. My soul is deteriorating, and this anger and agitation have been its way of self-preservation. For the past week, I've had to choose between being around people and being angry or avoiding people and feeling lonely. My brain prefe

Perfection is nothing but an annoyance; it's like a constant poking in the head, reminding you just how obscure every is, including yourself. The idea of perfection is a drug; it clouds your judgement, but you want more of it. Though, you know you can never truly be perfect in the back of your head. The idea of perfection just fabricates an unachievable reality. If you think about "perfection," it is simply the "best we can do."

This week I've been feeling sick. My body hasn't felt this weak in quite a while. Having been stuck in my room for most of the week, the aches have been seeping into my mental well-being. I feel vulnerable when I don't have a strong image to hide behind. I want to cry. I can't even find the time to encourage myself. I've been so occupied in my sorrow. I feel trapped in my body, forced to listen to all the things I wished I did differently.

I've been feeling down lately because I have been thinking about what it means to be successful. I thought about how I didn't have the necessary qualities to succeed. Not only that, I feel like a total fraud because I'm working towards something I don't even know if I'm passionate about. I have a lot of shame, I feel like I owe it to myself to find something that sparks joy in me, but at the same time, I feel shame for being selfish. I know I'm supposed to lead my own life, but I don't know... I feel an obligation to people. What's also been keeping me on the low is that I say all these things about treating myself more and giving more to myself, but I don't exactly know what I want for myself. It's kind of embarrassing that I can digest so many hardships from life and not be able to figure out what I want for myself in the future. I don't like how unsure I am about my life; I wish I could be like other people around me who seem so sure and s

Out of nowhere, you held my heart in the palm of your hand, and I had yours. I was conflicted. I let go hastily and gave looks of bewilderment. Your face in confusion; mine in red. My actions are a juxtaposition to my emotions. All I wanted at that moment was a couple more moments. All that's left is a snapshot of what could have been. I placed your heart out of my hand because the last heart I held slipped out of my fingers. I can't afford to break anymore. At least not right now; it's far too taxing on me.

Days keep passing like the hand of a clock. I worry about whether apathy will consume me. Things seem to matter less and less. Maybe I'm just not cut for passion. Or perhaps I never find passion because I'm afraid of criticism or disappointment. 

To me, sacrifice is defined as not being to do what I love and enjoy for the bigger picture of everyone else. I never let it bother me. I think it would be far more bothered by being the white sheep in a flock of black. I much rather graze in my own sorrow than graze in everyone else's. I have never seen self-sacrifice as a wall because I never give myself a time frame. In an ego-centric world, I can make time for the people that truly matter. I can make time for the few people who better my spirit. 

I think that not being content with what you have is very dangerous. It can drive you to do things you normally wouldn't do. I feel like you can never find peace if you don't actively accept how things are. Yes, you are allowed to have more for yourself, but I feel like self-love should always take precedence. Think about why you want to do something. My hunch is that you're not doing it for yourself. 

The topic of you comes by here and there, and I'm silenced by the pain of revealing my pain. You arise when I least expect you to, often in bad moments. Usually, when I'm eating good. I don't let  our conversation pass on. I shift my eyes and pretend to be disinterested, and start focusing on the disinteresting. Speedily making my way through piles of small talk, making sure you're tucked away in my personal folder. Even with great company, you make me feel lonely. If only I could erase my metadata of your identity. 

I am most grateful for the times when I can find peace, free of all the stress, burdens, and expectations of life. 

I think it's wrong to generalize hate. You don't hate that; you hate something about that.

I feel like an overworked piece of dough. No longer malleable from the frequent force of generally living. 

One discernable thing I have utmost confidence to say about myself is that I try to rid of everything that poisons me.

Send me a letter of affirmation, and sign it with love.

I wish I were more conventional, where my heart held high the boxes of society. I wish my last name was 'appropriate;' that way, my feelings were just intrusive thoughts. If only I could be more like what I'm supposed to be, the perfect placeholder in a queue for what people want me to be.  All these shallow wishes, just to have a sense of normalcy. The kind of normal set out by people who have a selfish definition of decency. I wish it weren't taboo to be part of some statistic. I wish I could share my other boxes openly.  I hope that when I send you the list of my identity, you can still love me.

Imagine being so caught up in your intelligence. It's so telling. It has insecurity written all over it. Things don't work your way because I'm 'intrusive'. You're starved because some part of you is rotten. I put up with it because people like you don't digest criticism well, especially from someone you think is 'less than'. I think intelligence dies when you close your mind.

Rested on a bed of rocks, It is where I hide all my wealth. Late at night, An earthquake visits with gifts, and my treasury splits in two. I make eye contact with the darkness. Black eyes open wide.  Clamoring value falls into the abyss, And I'm on the edge. From down below, I hear his bellows.  I yell for him, and it echoes. How can you feel so close, when I can't even see you.

You know what's disgusting, when someone has the intent to harm you to prove a point. 

A deep reflection of myself outside the noise of public judgement revealed something personal. My appearance has been, up to now, a conglomeration of what people have liked me to look. My appearance has always been, to people-please—a veil against judgement—a cover for insecurities. An adjustment to appease criticisms. I'm like an iPhone, constantly being redesigned and perfected for an audience. I want to rediscover myself. I want to step back and see myself in an old light, not one through pink panes and filters.