I’m not a good person.
I know most people are not, but the bad consumes me and I let it. I have very little good in me regardless what anyone says. No one knows me the way I do, its something you cannot fight me on. It’s not something I believe, its something I know.
I’m trying to be a better person, especially to myself and to my parents, but I don’t know how to be good to both. I’m selfish enough to pick myself over everyone else, to pick my moments desires without giving a thought to others. I realised that I cause a lot of pain to the people around me, my family and the people around me.
That’s what makes me bad, I’m aware I cause pain to so many yet I do nothing to stop it. I don’t know how to apart from not letting it begin in the first place, yet I let it begin. I let things spiral out of control until it is inevitable that pain is caused. Yet I don’t have a reason for letting it begin apart from my own selfishness.
I’m a bad person.
Have you ever been suffocated?
You start shoving, scratching and screaming to get out, but you don’t get anywhere because it just gets worse. You get pressed down further, and then one day you snap and all that shoving, scratching and screaming goes to waste.
You die. Inside.
Then everything becomes mellow, your look on life completely changes and you’re no longer living, you’re just existing.
I don’t want to just exist, I want to live. That’s why I’ll keep fighting until the day I break and, the day I break will be the day I die. I refuse to break, because I want to live and living means to fall over, get up, learn and repeat. I refuse to spend the rest of my life wallowing, regretting, avoiding like a coward because I don’t want to face up to my fears and problems.
As long as my heart beats, I’ll keep living.
I’ve never realised how much I talked until I found someone who listened. I guess before I always listened instead of talked, and I was regarded as someone who was quiet, timid because of that. But when I talked, I talked. Non-stop. I could talk to you until your ears fell off, I could talk for hours and hours on end, with just a few sips of water in between.
I haven’t written much lately, and that’s probably because I hadn’t been feeling at all. Nothing felt right, as I put a pen to the paper. It felt forced, I felt as though I was telling myself what I was supposed to feel instead of what I was actually feeling. The feeling of nothing. You never realise you feel nothing until you feel something again.
That spark of happiness, pain, anger, ignites inside you again, and you wonder how you managed not to feel anything. And I guess the reason we hurt ourselves is because we want to be reminded of what feeling, feels like. To remember that we’re human and how we once were. Because feeling pain is better than feeling nothing. Being empty and wondering what on earth was wrong. Because all you hear is that hollow thump thump in your chest instead of excited squeals or cries that your heart emits when you feel.
And god damn does it feel good to feel again. To break a smile to thin air, to look like a psychopath whilst thinking about things that make me happy. To talk to people, and feel fulfilled after conversations with them. To actually write what I actually feel. It’s been a damn while. To have people who listen, and people who care is one of the most important things. You don’t have to posses the ability to fix problems, because not all problems have a solution, but them knowing that your presence is a choice, not an obligation is the first key step to being there for anyone. And it makes me smile, that I have people like that in my life. People who listen, people who care, and people who are always there for me.
And I promise forever and always to be there for you too.
I’ve built up courage to tell people about things they could probably hold against me. I’ve given some people access to it, to know about my life in words. To hold the knife against my neck and keep it there.
I told myself, they can wield the knife to kill but only if I give them my neck, and I want to believe that there’s no issue in showing the people I love around me this part of my life. I was opening up. Trying to show people a part of me that I’d always been scared to show. My wounds. My scars. My life.
But when I speak to people, I have to be cautious. This was the one place, where I didn’t have to watch what I was saying because it was my hideout. It was my safe zone. It was a secret. Somehow, I feel that I have to be more cautious now, think about the consequences of my writing and wait for these people to look me the in eye and run their knives across my neck.
But I can forgive them, because they do it without realising. Without realising the consequences of what they inflict upon me. I’m not sure how to put this without sounding ungrateful. I cherish the people around me highly, I love them and will forever be loyal to them but my feelings aren’t stories for you to read. It’s my feelings, my most treasured feelings. I don’t want to be asked if it was about you, I don’t want to be told that you feel sad because I felt this way. I felt this way once upon a time. That is true, but I don’t feel that way now.
I write to set these feelings aside, and when I’m ready I let the world see what I overcame. My problems are a fleeting occurrence, which soon go because new emotions overtake it.
Letting go isn’t easy. It will never be. If you’ve genuinely loved someone, you’ll understand. Your life depends on it and you enter denial when you come to realise.
It’s easier said than done, but it can be done. It’s not impossible. It takes time and persistence to let go. Persistence and a constant reminder of why.
You’ll miss them, but you learn to live with it. Eventually you come to understand that you need to let it go. It’s poison to your blood. Fire to your veins.
Letting go is for the best.
The beast inside feeds off anger, insecurities and pain. When I feed it, it feels heavy, like it’s about to rip my chest and pounce out. When I starve it, it cowers away and stays silent until the next time because it knows. It knows that it will get fed one day, whether it be in two hours, a week or a month. It slowly waits inside, knowing. Smirking.
That’s why I write, I write because the screaming in my chest quietens down after I pour it onto a page. Instead of letting my heart bleed, I bleed ink onto a page. Little by little, I let out what is supposed to be kept inside to calm the beast inside. To tame it. Because if it gets too much to handle, it means the beast has won, I’m left in pieces and I have to slowly piece myself together again. Alone.
Because it is my battle, and mine alone.
Happiness is a weird feeling. It starts in your chest then explodes in your soul. There’s just something about the feeling of happiness that is so addicting.
But happiness is short-lived, and it always will be, because in the end something will wreak-havoc and create a storm in your wake.
We do not think about happiness the way we think about love. We want to be in love, but we forget to be happy. Maybe we think that happiness comes along with love. It doesn’t. Love hurts, and so do people.
People say that love is fragile, love isn’t fragile, happiness is.
Happiness is like a thin string balancing your love, your hopes, your dreams and some days the string can be knotted twice over and other days the string can be just one strand, ready to break.
It drives us insane, why we can’t find happiness in love, but we can’t find happiness in love because we’re not happy ourselves. We live for those moments where we’re happy momentarily and not happy inside because it feels good to laugh. It feels good to abandon all sadness and drown yourself in happiness. Happiness is a drug, and you are addicted.