Nearly two years of self-imposed isolation.
Approaching the twenty-seventh year now. What has changed? What is different now from the past?
Two years ago, I made a decision to never again stepping out from this place. The place where I am most comfortable. The place where the only thing that can hurt me is myself.
Two years of self-reflecting.
Two years of dark cultivation.
Two years in this dreary, dusty gray room.
Occasionally I would venture out. See things with my own eyes. Never on my own volition, I must say. I never feel the need to go outside. In fact, I am at most ease being alone at the moment.
Siblings come and go. Friends slipping by. Words of scrutiny brushed aside. Why should I listen, when my own words are not being listened to?
Can I blame myself? Probably. Do I hate myself? I think so. This person I have become, it's not what I had in mind years ago. This bundle of negativeness, the mass of flesh afflicted with uncertainty and anxiety, a person without dreams.
I lie to myself. I am learning new things on my own. I lie, still. I distance myself from others so they would not have to see me.
Being alone, a lot of things come clear to me. I sleep, live and wake on my own beat. Like a clockwork soldier. The soldier cannot look back to see who winds him up. The only thing he knows is that he needs to move forward. No objective, no sense of being. No accomplishment.
I wonder when will I cease to wind my spring. I am not suicidal. That much I know. Death is never the goal. Living is too painful, however.
The world, so much tragedy. So much conflict. The Earth is riddled with holes, it's being wrecked apart, and the collective effort of sensible human beings seem to lose to the greedy ones.
I ask myself, do I want to be here? Is is right to bring forth new life in this world? Why are we being put here? Why am I given this consciousness, if the only command given is to obey without questions? Are we living, or are we simply existing? My decision and others' decision, how much of it will affect our reality?
Lately I have been reading about conquests, about colonialism. A queen from far-off country stated that her kingdom took command of foreign lands to protect the people living there from unjust leaders.
Does that sentence even make sense? The queen is but one person, and the governing body is of many people. Is it even possible a task to rein those people in, to make sure they adhere to her wishes? All it took was the voices of few to drown one the voice of one.
Then I thought to myself, what about those people who lived with more than one voice inside them. We are quick to label those with that affliction as mad, but what if madness is relative? Can a madman know he is mad? And if he realize that he is indeed mad, will he still be considered a madman?
I feel sleepy.
As of late, my sleep is riddled with dreams. Memories intermingled with wishes for the future and so many other nonsensical things. I have taken a habit of recording down as much as I can recall.
Within the last two months, I dreamed of hearing music. In those dreams, the sources of those music would not be visible, but when my dream self listened to them, there was a curious sense of pride swelling in my chest.
How is that possible? I myself is not capable of making music, let alone reading one. And for that reason alone, I am left with this frustration. My dream self is handing me songs, and I am unable to jot down the notes.
It is the hardest during the night. In silence, memories came. Unstoppable. All the good and bad. Mostly bad.
I cry. Why are they here again? I want to stop recalling. Why would I want to be reminded of the past again and again? I learned my lesson, but they are not done yet.
To circumvent this, I would turn my own clock upside down. Sun's up, time to sleep. Night-time would be spend on many things I am interested in at that moment.
It works, somehow. As I do, however, the feeling of loneliness increases.
I wonder, if I have to go, how would it be like
I am not a pious person, but I refrained from the biggest of the prohibited acts
Will they refer to me as the person I was years ago,
or the one a few nights ago?
All I wish for is for them to remember me fondly
of the times I had with them however briefly
I am not suicidal. But I am very tired.
I will not know what I open my eyes to tomorrow, or the morning after that.
So let this be, hopefully, one of the few voices that I can let out.
