Been feeling so apathetic lately. I go through really highs and lows - where I feel everything at once, like waves crashing over me.. blankets falling on top of my head one right after the other. Each one a different colour, a different burden, a familiar emotion. I've felt it all before, I've been here before. Or nothing at all.

I was at the beach the other day. I hardly ever go to the beach but I walked real close towards the shallow water and felt the waves crash against my knees. My best friend was telling me stories to my right but all I could hear were the waves crashing and swallowing the sand. I felt myself moving forward, getting sucked into the deeper end quicker than the sand beneath my feet. I felt her look at me and wander off, leaving me alone with my apathy. Then sometimes I think I'm really happy and content, too. But I know that's always a lie.

I write a novel. Three thousand edited words about nothing and nothing happens. I realise it's all my thoughts and I hate it. I have to work hard and show. Show that I can do this. To myself, I need to do it for me. I read somewhere in a book about creativity that when you partake in a creative process of any sort, you must go about doing it from action. Act upon it - just get it done. I wrote a story for a soldier not long ago. It was a story I've been meaning to write for a while, but kept putting it off. Then one night I came home and wrote it all in one go, and it was amazing. It was close to perfect. I showed him and a tear trickled down his cheek.

One thing that really gets me is when people don't remember as much as I do. Do you remember when I showed you those fragments of my art? Or that song? I'd ask them. They'd all shake their heads, each and every one of them. Like those conversations never happened. Like they had never read that fragment of my art I chose to share with them. Like they didn't compliment or criticise it at all. I remember everything. From the colour of peoples eyes, to the roots of their hair, to the way their faces seem to twitch, to the way their bodies move in motion, to the way they clear their throats when they're nervous and to the way they have strange little habits they can't break out of. I wish I didn't feel so much. Or see and hear so much, as a matter of fact. If only I could be ordinary and simple; asleep at three in the morning like the rest of the world. I'm tired - so, so tired, but it's never enough. No matter how much I write, how much thought I put into something.. I'm never satisfied. How could I show all these people waiting for the novel I'm writing? Waiting for the snippets, the perfect little ~poems~ and ~verses that will touch and break them. That will make them fall in love with my words.
What if they're just that - words?
What if they won't touch or stain you with sadness and glory.
What if they're supposed to be disposable and forgettable.

But what would I know. I can't feel anything now. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow.
How superficial and relentless we are sometimes.
I hate it.

Not Another Post on 'Life'

Life is made of short lived tales of beauty, unspoken flatteries and half-hearted smiles. Sometimes we fail to appreciate the big things, the things we all need that are necessary for daily survival and instead focus on the tiny, insignificant things that succeed in altering our moods - either drastically or ever so lightly. We fail to realise that we are so fortunate in this world - so fortunate to be breathing with ease, to be held in place by gravity, to be able to fill ourselves up physically and figuratively with things that are important, things that are crucial to our survival and most importantly, our happiness.

We have spent a lifetime trying to figure out what it means to be alive, happy, free and fleeting in the very steep, dark woods of this place we've been placed. Choices don't exist sometimes, we didn't choose to enter this specific world and we didn't choose to get our hearts broken over what we possess and what others don't. We aren't lucky, we were chosen to be. Even during the moments where we want to end our choices and our breathing, we are reminded of these things. Sometimes they preside over the poison, acting as the driving force that keeps us intact - keeps us from melting to the very core of our being; melting into nothing but sweet melodies that are bound to fade eventually. We all fade away, we are all forgotten - although we are all remembered somehow.

I feel too much most of the time. My heart breaks every day over words that linger in the air unspoken, over faceless strangers that fail to curve the corners of their lips, over exhausted mothers yelling at their magical children, over lonely animals searching the streets for crumbs and over unappreciated greenery that never fails to stain us with an inkling of hope. We are all alone, but we are together. My heart is constantly divided between the lonely company that accompanies us and the clarity we feel when we lace our fingers together with souls that seem to match our own.

We are constantly searching for ways to feel alive and by doing so, we forget to breathe. The air that surrounds us is paradoxically pure and tainted - but it's there. We so often forget to inhale the good things and exhale the bad. But we exist, and we should never forget to remember that.