Thursday, February 25

Just finished my lasagna in like five minutes after I sat down to find a movie to watch while I’m eating... and here I am looking at the empty take-out container and the screen with a long list of movies I need to catch up on *chuckles*. I haven’t had a proper meal since God-knows-when. I had two mini bags of cheesy rings last night for dinner while mourning over my dead internet line. I am basically broke and have like a couple of bucks to live on for a couple of days before my birthday (this sounds so pathetic). But my devil incarnated soul decided to spend six bucks for a pack of hot lasagna just because I’m too hungry and thought of staying up for work. I either eat too much or starve myself. Sleep for 14 hours or have insomniac nights. Fall in love very hard or hate passionately. I don’t know what grey is. I never did.

You can’t read me, you still can’t read me is it?

“Study me as much as you like, you will never know me, for I differ a hundred ways from what you see me to be. Put yourself behind my eyes, and see me as I see myself, for I have chosen to dwell in a place you cannot see.” — Rumi.

You can look at all my social medias, consume all you can, study everything I posted up on my platforms but you still can’t read me. I am a private person. I have mastered the art of telling you little about myself but doing it in such a way you think you know a lot. I keep personal shit private so don’t think you know me. You only know what I let you know. That’s why, that’s why I flipped out easily on my Tumblr when people come off as anon and acted like they fucking know me so well in person. You don’t. No, you don’t. You think these kids who were with me all this while in my college know that I have anxieties late at nights? You think my parents know that I still can’t moved on from the fact that they ruined my future? You think anyone know how lonely I can get whenever I was left alone in my cramped room? You think if you read all these writings, you know me? No. 

I wanted to talk to someone. But who? It’s moments like this, when you need someone the most, that your world seems smallest. I think it is too much to hope that the people you’re there for, will be there for you. Is it? Is it really too much to ask for? Or maybe a little hope that there is a person, out there somewhere, who are actually made for me to rant my late night thoughts to. Lately, I have been talking to myself in exact tone how I actually talk to people. Those conversations I’m tired of, like what are my favourites? What do I think of people who left me? Why do I love standing at the verge of a tall building when I’m scared of height? How did I survived all those nights with suicidal thoughts alone? What I’m good at? What I love the most about home? I’m good at loving books. I’m good at loving soft bed sheets. I’m good at loving coffees and teas. I am good at loving things that can’t love me back, that don’t have the power to leave. And maybe, that’s why I love them.

I wonder how many seconds of insane courage it would take me to get up and walk away from everything I’ve ever loved. To never look back and willingly end up lost. At one point in your life, you’ll feel like your back is against the wall and there’s no point in looking for a way out. Today I caught hold of that feeling, a black restlessness settled in my bones and urged me get lost and run away. Sometimes I think it would solve all of my problems and that all of the people who ever used me would wake up with saddened hearts and guilty minds. It would be nice to leave behind a world of hurt for a beautiful, bright light.

Should I go now?
Should I?