Many things run through my mind. Morbid thoughts, thoughts banished to the furthest corners of the world, never hoping to see light again. Moved from the clubbing song phase to the Norah Jones phase. Need some jazzy feminine feel instead of pumping nigga music to quiet my mind.
I asked myself why I refuse to let go of the grief, and slowly straining the grief through when feeling downright miserable and helpless. I'm like a small amount butter being spread across the loaves of bread. I see the light at the end of the tunnel, but I just turn back to the darkness because there I find comfort. I'm running scared and I know it. Because there in the darkness I can still feel hurt, grief, loss and pain. It's not that I don't want to move on, it's that I'm timorous that I won't miss you again, that without some emotional distress, I can't feel you.
I sound like a nutcase. Trust me, if I read this through I would think myself as one. So I'm not gonna read it through. Norah Jones, here I come again.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Monday, November 5, 2012
The world will still be here tomorrow.
In life, be it cheering or jeering you, there'll always be people calling out your name. You either tune those voices to be the one that motivate or get crush by the might of the audience.
"What do they know?"
I hear myself repeating that question.
What do I know?
As much as I say I'll be there, the whole load of bullshit even sounded weak to my ears. When I see my friends, hell, close friends crying, my first knee jerk reflex is to walk away. Out of all the times I walked away, I never came back. It's not right, I know. As if squashing the ant wasn't enough, I had to squish it harder, decapitating the body further.
I never understood my coping mechanism. The sense of escapism when aware of danger. Isn't it a survival instinct? Except that the crisis wasn't one of danger, but of a hurting friend in need of comfort. I can't give that. I don't admonish myself because I tried. Till then, if I find a way to cope with my rather unconventional coping mechanism, I'll let you know.
In life, be it cheering or jeering you, there'll always be people calling out your name. You either tune those voices to be the one that motivate or get crush by the might of the audience.
"What do they know?"
I hear myself repeating that question.
What do I know?
As much as I say I'll be there, the whole load of bullshit even sounded weak to my ears. When I see my friends, hell, close friends crying, my first knee jerk reflex is to walk away. Out of all the times I walked away, I never came back. It's not right, I know. As if squashing the ant wasn't enough, I had to squish it harder, decapitating the body further.
I never understood my coping mechanism. The sense of escapism when aware of danger. Isn't it a survival instinct? Except that the crisis wasn't one of danger, but of a hurting friend in need of comfort. I can't give that. I don't admonish myself because I tried. Till then, if I find a way to cope with my rather unconventional coping mechanism, I'll let you know.
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