Haha wrote this while waiting at some nice dark spot in the Ross building today.. its not just about these few days,, but a bit of the thoughts(although very retarded and in bad English) that have been bothering me for a while..

Leaving someone so fused into your life is never easy. With the utterance of a few words and tears in the middle, everything changes. Suddenly the world empties itself, like a kid pouring sand out of a pail. The days seem to go on forever, and there seem to be no reason to live past the next day. Voices bounce off the walls of the room, swirling in your head while you curl up on your bed, shaking, trembling, like an addict in rehabilitation trying to wait out the intense craving and the panic of loss in the hollow of your stomach.

Everything loses its taste, its smells, its touch. The environment around you a bleak cell and strait jacket - probably the only things that keep you sane so far during withdrawal.

Suddenly your existence is not complete. You laugh and smile, but there isn't anything around your finger or neck to fiddle with. You come out of a hot shower to find reaching for the usual shirt inappropriate. You instinctively reserve Fridays, ready to great him, clean and fresh at your door at 4, after school with a grin on your face. Now you watch MSN connect, but u know you should not click on his name.

suddenly you come home late at night, you get ready for bed, contacts off, tucked in your bed, to realize you don't have anyone to call anymore. The night becomes too long and sleep doesn't come. You stare at your computer monitor, soundless, as a obnoxious number of popups spring up, you realize you just have to learn how to get around it.. there isn't anyone to complain to. You watch your sister wolf down popcorn and icecream.. you stare at the unwanted rice or pieces of meat on your plate.. and it hits you that you don't have anyone to help finish it, and you are entirely on your own. So you run from the dinner table to slam your room door shut and crouch behind it to dissolve into tears when your parents mention his name.

but familiarity and natural tendencies to care isn't love right? Love when you are young is supposed to be about explosions of passion, energy and freedom? Isn't young love supposed to be liberating and not engulfing? Love doesn't include having selfish desires to seek something that eludes him.. right? Love is about even giving someone perfect up and telling him to explore and learn about everything and then perhaps later get back to you after you do the same?

Edward reminds me I chose this. I chose for my bed to be empty, for that pair of shoes to not sit on my shoe rack. That I must not sink back and I must go through with my decision. That the decision was made for a new start, a better one infact. Funny what literature does to us eh, ed? To think to understand and encounter foreign heartache translated into words would help. That analogy of the lady with the saggy boobs made me smile. Thanks for being there.

"confusion rules this shifting age"(dawne, 2004)
She tells me this after I crawled to her on my knees after realizing how much I needed someone to talk to. She regards me indifferently and tells me I will survive. That I am only 18, with a brand new world now to explore and somehow I will find myself. Hurting is just part of it all. How did she become so logical and wise? Did she just grow up so much with my back turned?

Maybe I should pay more attention at home.

Then you meet someone else. Your heart flutters at his name, you face lights up at the sight of his. You long to reach out your broken arms and offer him your damaged heart. You long to hide him under your skin, hold him in your heart, praying for someone who will for the first time decipher the codes embedded in its walls and ease the pain and loneliness. You want to possess his every fiber, with the morbid desire to lock him in a cell and absorb every breath he takes, every word his lips would murmur.

But you hold back a little, playing for time, sipping hot chocolate, knowing that asking him to be part of your life a huge step. A commitment that would, with time, render you helpless and so powerful at the same time, both physically and emotionally. Fully aware of the excruciating consequences when things fo fall apart, you contemplate the possibilities and factors. furthermore, its no longer just about you, you take in account his wants and expectations – yet you hestitate at the thought of tying someone else down again.. and that would conflict with those books that confidently convince you to keep on moving.. and constantly find new experiences in every aspect of your life to truly "live life" and find out what you really need and want.

There is no room for mistakes, apparently. You cannot keep stacking up all the guilt of wasting people's time and effort and feelings and find more and more reasons to loathe yourself a little bit more every time you steal a glance in the mirror. Oh how you abhor that reflection! Somehow, you keep a tiny silver of each memory in your heart. They never leave you. And you are tired of crying, tired of the "weirdness" in your nose, the puffy eyes and exhausted shoulders. Tired of that strange dark shadow that follows you everywhere. You thought you had it under control, didn't you? You thought u watched it from the corner of your eye. But sometimes you get distracted and it pounces on you when you are not looking.

Yet, you are still enamored by him. What do you do now?

I have been sobbing my puny heart out for the past 2 days and it seems like its never going to end. Well, Of course when no ones looking. I don’t even know wht I feel so bad, why that ache refuses to leave no matter how hard I fight it. I tell myself agin its just another one of those phases and I have been and will be fine.. soon enough. But its so hard when I don’t have a soul to whisper to.

HY tells me I carry too many scars and I hold too many secrets. Maybe its true. I dunno. Its only been a few years since that weird shadow started trailing me around, occasionally leaping out from lurking in unexpected corners. I still always manage to keep a straight face. I say im going through a sort of self conflicting discovery and maybe everyone else goes through this too. That all this confusion and sheer hurting for no peculiar reason, my habit of interpreting everything pessimistically and my disturbing peace and willingness to disappear or die is merely part of growing up. Is it?

Is it normal to feel so worthless and insignificant? How you can vanish one fine day and no one cares? Is it normal to be so absorbed in your own battles of frustration, self hate and depressing thoughts and not notice the red velvet chairs, the love shinning off his face?

I always thought im good at blocking out emotions, that my skeptism towards happiness would prevent myself from hurting more when it ceases.

Sometimes you wonder if those books were wrong. That perhaps sometimes holding on to something, however mundane and routine at present, may turn out the best thing you have ever done in your life. You wonder if not utterly embracing your current relationships and ongoing experiences and planning everything restricts you instead of maximizing the use of your life span as a modern goddess. You wonder how much you may be missing out.

You look around a lot too, and compare yourself with the people you talk to, the people you offer a slight polite smile to, the people who walk on by, oblivious to your existence. Oh, alas! The green eyed monster! Besides the plain good ol' jealousy, you feel inadequate, rejected and socially flawed all over again. As much as it is unhealthy and unpleasant, you cant help and still do it. Isnt it funny how you let the most superficial details break the kneecaps of your self esteem?

I sit in this corner, watching a light flicker and I think of seizures and horrible it is to have one. How horrible it is to have not the slightest bit of control of your body! Then I try to find my place, while I cause this black pen to spell out the floating words that are running in my consciousness – while I feel so detached from. Im causing this pen to move, with sufficient pressure, following the rules of conformity to write on the blue lines. Yes, of course it helps the reader and all that order crap comes it. But who am I to say im in control? Am I even in control when he tells me something funny and I burst into hysterical giggling? Am I in control that I sit here, my khaki covered legs crossed under me, the ache in my third finger and the "weridness" of my nose and the usual hollowness I feel being the only things that remind me im here?

God, I talk too much.