iamjazzcarilla

[iamjazzcarilla]

Helios

And as the night gives way to the first rays of light, As the moon dims its sparkle to let the sun shine, As the twilight embrace the peace of darkness, I dream of quiet.

I dream of waves, I desire the north star— The constant in the chaos The steady in the shaking.

I dream of cold drinks hot in my belly Of earth-shattering laughter Of sand clinging in the crevices of my grip— I dream of memories. 

And as I bathe in the glory of nostalgia,  I watch the sun drown the universe with its lustre. I am reminded of how I wanted the end, But splendour won. 

The darkness engulfs, But light explodes.  Surrender.  Defy.

Rise.

[iamjazzcarilla]

My Youth is Yours (it should have been mine)

It would have been easy to write about him. After all, I am no stranger to the notion of having lost him--I experienced that twice in 10 years, anyway--but a second, deeper look allowed my ears to listen to the muffled screaming of a voice that wanted an out for eons now. 

Youth. 

We all had our fair share of bullshits that we did when we were younger that make good stories now: drunken nights, reckless dancing, careless decisions, loving someone, self-exploration. I’m not going to put here some needless pity story about how I didn’t experience any of this because I did. 

I was called in the principal office because we were caught drinking; I spent a good number of nights dancing my heart out at parties; I went home late after some (so much) drinking and smoking and pretending I was cool, but as I sit here and try to write the perfect explanation for my teen years, my youth, I realized that all of these were just pampalubag-loob, something to soothe the raging emotions in me that were brought upon by years of fiery fights and lies. 

I’ve always been known as the strong one, and, really, I have long accepted that. After all, I wouldn’t have survived a decade of abuse if I weren’t one. 

As the oldest daughter--the oldest child, period--I’ve always had the unsaid responsibility of carrying the family every time we fall. My parents are fighting? I’m the logical one who breaks it up before it becomes a mess. My parents don’t understand my younger sister? I play the mediator, trying my best to let them understand why my sister is doing those shits. My mother feels underappreciated? I go out of my way to let her know we adore her. 

My family falls apart? I take the fall and keep all the secrets to unburden everyone else with the pain they might cause.

I was 11 when I first knew. It was purely accidental--a message I wasn’t supposed to read, a message that turned my whole life around. 

It was nothing monumental, really, just a simple “Mahal, may kainan pa ba sa office? Pabalik na ako.” (Love, is the party still ongoing? I’m on my way back.) On first look, this is harmless--but not when the message was sent to your mom and your parents aren’t officemates, not when your father was overseas for months then, and definitely wasn’t on his way to join the party. 

When I was a kid, I never really quite understood the feeling of the world being pulled under one’s feet, (as I should) but at that moment I felt like my whole world was not only pulled under my feet, it was shattered and I was left panicking, helpless, floating with no ground to land on. 

I have never hated understanding something more than I did at that moment, more than I did my whole life.

I spent the next days, months, years, dealing with the emotional storm that that one simple text drenched me in. 

I entered my twenties barely surviving, desperately convincing myself that I was okay. 

Surprise! I’m not. 

In the more than two decades that I have been alive, I’ve always encountered people who are surprised when I have a different, more mature perspective on things. They ask me how I do it, in awe of my maturity at such a young age. 

They don’t know that I always wish that I didn’t have to look at things the way I do. 

It has been years, I’m almost 25 now, but I still look back to my teenage years and wish that I wasn’t a guidance office customer who always visits because I always read salacious, cheating-filled texts from my mother’s phone. I still lay in my bed and ask the universe for reasons why I had to be the family’s remaining tie when I was only a teenager who wanted to know who she was. I still scream on my pillow at night, silently, as I have always done, because I still hate that I played the role of the liar--outright deceiving my father, for my mother. After all, the truth would have destroyed the entire family. 

And I still flinch because of loud sounds, still haunted by the sounds of slapped cheeks, miserable wails, angry voices, and the voice of my father promising to hurt my caught-cheating mother more if she doesn’t stop crying. 

I scream. I get mad. I get frustrated. I cry, but I’ve never really mourned my lost youth because I hate what-ifs. 

I hate looking back because doing so will birth more regrets, and regrets don’t have any space in the mind and heart of a woman who needs to be the strong one

I have never mourned my youth. 

Until now. Until now when I decided to scratch the barely-there scab off my wounds.

And as expected it isn’t pretty because, fuck…

I could have done more. I could have been more. 

I could have been someone who is not terrified to love; I could have been someone who trusted people more; I could have been someone who doesn’t run at the first sign of commitment, but I am all those and more. 

I have always been extra independent, desperately trying to do things on my own because my entire life, I was conditioned to think and feel that if I didn’t take matters into my own hands, nothing would happen. 

And now I’m tired--the type of exhaustion that was born out of years of pain and helplessness, the type of fatigue that needs a new life to regenerate.

I’m now stripping myself of all pretensions, of all the self-boost I injected in my blood to survive years of being alone and unhappy, of all the hope I tried to inhale to keep going, and just letting a deprived child say her repressed desires. 

I want to hold someone else’s hand--fuck, I want them to hold mine--and be secured of their intentions. 

I want to love freely and not immediately think of ways to leave when shit hits the fan. 

I want to entrust myself completely to a person and not think of the relationship’s expiration date, not think that there is an expiration date. 

I want to be unjaded. 

I want to move freely and be uncalculating of every move I make. 

I want to take risks and not unnecessarily kill myself over and over again because there were so many possibilities that could have fucked me over. 

I want to know the self that doesn’t always give herself up to make others happy. 

I want to let myself be loved.

And, really, I want the wailing child in me to have her peace, to have the inner acceptance she has always craved, to have the assurance that she is finally, finally okay. 

I know I’ll always be the eldest. I’ll always have my wounds and scars. I’ll always be this. 

But this is me mourning the years that could have been, the days that were stolen, the love that could have been mine, the me that could have been more. 

This is me screaming to the world--asking for reasons, asking for explanations, asking for answers for unsaid questions.

Asking for the lost things that were supposed to be mine. 

Universe, give me a chance. 

I’ve loved and I’ve lost, let me take them back, I want to take them back.

[iamjazzcarilla]

The Proposal

I sometimes watch people fall in love: learn their truth, learn their holy, learn their all.

I sometimes think of a time, a space, a chance where it was me in their place—accepted, loved, chosen.

And then I take a clean breath, broken by the rays of the sun insisting themselves on my eyes, and in that broken stupor, I knew, I knew that it is not for me.

Not when I'm broken beyond repair. Not when trust is as rare as a snowflake in the tropics.

The little girl inside—the embers of the once-burning, now-stomped desire—screams for it.

But as the next breath comes, and as the sun continues to blind me after a night of mangoes and rum, I accept my truth.

Doesn't make it easier still.

[iamjazzcarilla]

To lost people and to lost words

This is the nth time I tried suppressing this tonight but we all know when the muse calls, us mere mortals have no choice but to heed her. This is the piece that is months in the making. The piece that waited for the writer to get her shit together before it happened.

It has been ages since the last time I allowed myself to let go, too busy trying to push myself to the limit in the hopes that I’ll finally get better at something without fucking it up.  I have forgotten then, that before everything else, I am a writer. I forgot that before all the glitz and glamor of event-handling, the reputation of public relations, I have the power of my words. (Maybe it really is high time for me to get that quill tattoo I’ve always wanted.)

I am now at a loss, I still don’t know how this piece will turn out, but I know I have to write something before everything bursts out in the worst way possible.

I haven’t been in touch with my emotions for ages now. All in the fear that if I let it get the best of me, I’ll lose the hawk-eye focus I have on my career. It’s easier this way, to shut down all the emotions, to suppress all the feelings that may interfere in the process of me getting that high I want in terms of work. It hurts less this way too, but sometimes I feel less human. Sometimes I feel like the only thing making me me is lost somewhere in the piles of paper I do on a daily basis, in the tonnes of email I send to people I don’t even know nor remember the names of.

I wanted this. I still want this. At this point, I’m willing to do anything and everything to make it through the 5th month mark and survive it. If it isn’t obvious in the number of times I said “want” in this paragraph, then I don’t know how much obvious I should be. I don’t regret shutting myself out for sometime in order to be where I am now, but I think I need to feel something again before I switch to that cold person I am slowly becoming.

I look at this and I realized I’ve already used the word “I” one too many times already, but I guess I deserve this. This is the time for the I in me to come out and let herself be known. She has been silenced for far too long already.

It has been 2000 characters already and I still have no idea where this is going. This is just me pouring out the pain I need to let go before I explode in the worst way possible. This is also just me proving to myself, reassuring myself, that the words are always just within me. The words are mine. Just as my feelings are also mine and it’s high time I treat it as a gift and not a burden in everything that I do.

My eyes are letting go of water I don’t even know exists in me still. My fingers are still typing words long-trapped under the illusion of safety the repression provided me. My eyes are blurry with tears that are finally rejoicing because of their freedom. And my heart hurts. It’s bleeding. For whatever reason, I don’t know. But I love it. My entirety loves it. It’s dancing with joy for the time I finally made myself see how much I am losing things and people because of the notion I have that people useless to my career hinders me.

The saltiness won’t stop falling from my eyes and I realized that even if I cry a minute for each day my mind effortlessly shunned out the thunder of emotions I have, it won’t be enough. Because there are still things I have to cry extra on--the extramarital affair my father might have, the relationship I built for years with my sister that seems to be falling apart, the undeniable hope I have over the possibility of me and him, the probability of it being crushed, and the slow trickling out of my interest in the fandom that kept me entertained and alive during those moments I almost wasn’t.

And I am still crying and I am still writing because maybe, at this point, they have merged into one big ball of letting go. A sign of surrender, a white flag raised, needed in a war that will never be won if I don’t give up. Because tonight, surrendering means not losing--not losing myself to the heavy pressure of expectations I have put on my head ever since this started.

And I end with this. Nothing inspirational. Just this. A paragraph of me being lost for words. A collection of sentences that has no direction, no intent, no nothing. Empty. Just like how I am going to be if I haven’t written this. And this is how it ends--with me looking for my words, waiting for it to return to me after the time of neglect, and swimming back up, looking for the light that has always been mine but I refused to look at. Writing is mine, just as I am also hers.

To lost people and to lost words, to lost people who lost their words, may they always meet in the middle and reach the greatness destined in their stars, together. Good night.

[iamjazzcarilla]

My Home Away from Home

(M3SY Production Teambuilding 2018)

The last time I did something like this was two years ago, when I was the production manager for our film class.

Me being me, I always run away from responsibilities—always choosing to stay at the background, following the leaders and silently doing whatever meager task I was assigned with.

Being a facilitator of this event was unplanned, I really just wanted to join the ocular because I wanted to do something fruitful on that particular Saturday.

And, really, who could and who would tell me that what we did on that fateful Saturday was something not fruitful when a whole two days of activities were formed because of it?

Admittedly, in most of our meetings, I was just going with the flow—only choosing to butt in when 1) my cofacilitators were losing track of the discussion and 2) when I am particularly sure of something and want to put my foot down.

And honestly? Up to this day, I still don't know most of the minute details of every single activity we planned, I just know that I enjoyed watching the attendees have the time of their lives while involving themselves in games made to test their grit, creativity, resourcefulness, teamwork and even their limits.

Sleeping over on a Thursday for a last minute preparation proved to be a challenge—at three in the morning, everyone was either grumpy, fighting to keep their eyes open, singing a particular line over and over again (all for you!) or straight up, shamelessly yawning, all the while, everybody has their own task of cutting crepe papers, papers, printing last-minute changes or creating medals.

At four a.m., our bodies gave up and we succumb to an hour-and-a-half of sleep.

We were up by 5:30 and unsurprisingly, nobody was well rested, everyone holding on to their last thread of strength and adrenaline to survive the day.

As we arrive in Lopez Farm, the greenery greeted our tired, tired bodies.

Choosing to stay over for some peace, quiet and a bit of rest, instead of going to the market, an emergency review of the budget, kit-preparation and room-planning commenced.

At one in the afternoon, people started trickling in, their excited and expectant gazes no doubt pushing all of us to squeeze out the last of the strength that we have, forcing us to exert a new bout of efforts to finally finish the planned stage setup and the super last minute preparations.

The first day was filled with talks and calm activities, just a way to prepare them for what's about to come.

My lack of sleep was finally catching up on me, most of the time, I don't have any plans— just going with the flow, saying yes on things, accepting whatever task comes my way and sneaking in some minutes of longed sleep.

I was tired, goddamn tired, but the smiles and the unconstrained excitement of the reason for this teambuilding sustained me the whole day and night.

I think I did everything that Friday: from thinking of animals that made the weirdest sounds to hosting an impromptu late night show.

But that was not the end of it.

As the high went down, we prepared them for the last activity before the worship night: The Faith Walk.

If you think that this is just hard for those who were blindfolded, then I'll straight up tell you now that it's not.

Guiding them, telling them what to do and where to go is just as exhausting as being the one kept from seeing the surroundings and trusting someone to keep you from falling.

Everything was going well, I was holding an exorcised rosary courtesy of one of my favorite persons ever and I was guiding the attendees through the vast and unknown land of Lopez Farm; everything was light-hearted and fun until that one person who I was supposed to guide came crying.

Then it hit me, all at once, that if I were the one doing this, I'll probably be bawling my eyes out harder than she was, my trust issues acting up.

The mere strength, courage and bravery to continue when she could barely breathe and could just scream "Stop!!!" at any point if she really wanted to made me look at things in a different perspective.

Yes, I have all the senses, yes, I know where they were going and yes, I was supposed to be their guide, but my job is just as exhausting as theirs.

Trust goes both ways—you trust another person and you wish for them to never put you in danger, and then you are being trusted, and it's your duty to do all you can to never break it.

When it was done, my feet hurt like hell, I can barely stand during worship night (which in all fairness, as much as our voices were already giving up, was a great, great, great success).

And yet, I chose to take a dip in the pool that was infested by two frogs just mere minutes before we got in.

Imagine the pain my poor, poor calf muscles experienced the next day.

Three hours of sleep later, I was woken up, not by my alarm clock but by a hand grabbing my feet and someone telling me "Jazz, 5:30 na, yung lugaw!"

I had to get up so we won't die of hunger; and lo and behold, there was not enough water to properly cook the porridge, but I had no choice but to start cooking it, otherwise, breakfast will happen at noon

I would now like to extend my sincerest apologies to everyone who almost died of hunger because breakfast took three hours before it was served, and to Sis Love who had to salvage whatever that was I initially made.

Another impromptu hosting, raffle and dancing later, the attendees were now ready to face the real thing: the much awaited activities.

I am and will forever be amazed by the fact that no one tried to bring anyone down, instead choosing to cheer for the other team, all the while fighting for their own.

I was given the task to facilitate an activity that involved the usage of lips and believe me when I say I've never seen something that was as funny and limit-pusher as that one.

The number of times people almost kissed another person accidentally made my day.

And of course, who would forget that squabble for that flag which tested friendships, patience and people.

But, really, by the end of it all, the unity was palpable, the love surrounding and, of course, the delicious waft of sinigang na baboy was calling all of us.

I could go into details with how the rest of the afternoon went by—swimming, resting, a different kind of worship for the facilitators, taking a much needed bath and poop—but I won't.

Instead, I would just like you to remember what you did, bask yourself in the feeling of it and take this moment to thank Him for all that He has allowed us to do.

I would dare say that this teambuilding was a success; the constant expression of gratitude from everyone made every single tear, blood and sleepless night worth it.

And this time, allow me to thank everyone who said yes, everyone who chose to spend their much-awaited long weekend with us.

Thank you, for being cooperative, supportive and for every single "Oh, magpahinga na muna kayo, kami na muna dito." you uttered even though this was made so that you would enjoy every single moment of it.

To those who spent the two days in the kitchen, making sure that there would be enough food for everyone, thank you.

We all know that you are the unsung heroes of this event, we would have suffered a lot if you weren't there exercising your arms while cutting onions and garlic and stirring the food we all know we enjoyed so much.

To our council who approved this, thank you.

As previously said, this only happens once in a blue moon and the fact that you allowed and trusted us to push through this made us feel honored.

And to my cofacilitators: Rachel, Raul, Babs, Love, AJ and of course, our ministry head, Jake, thank you for the tireless dedication and the never-ending support and efforts you've all exerted the past few weeks.

Words will never be enough to compensate for all the nights you didn't sleep, for all the mornings and afternoons you worried yourself sick (I'm looking at you, Jake) and pushed yourself to the limit (Yes, you too, Rachel) and for everything in between when you gave your all at all times.

Here's to more bingsu, 12 hours of bonding, roadtrips, stories, bickerings and unplanned trips to Bonchon.

Here's to friendship, twinning and bullying with love.

You're all the reason why I always, always look forward to Sundays.

I hope you all know how much space you occupy in my heart and how happy I am to grow with all of you.

I love you, prod team! See you on Sunday!

And, of course, to Him, without whom this would not exist. To You be the glory, oh Lord. 💜

[iamjazzcarilla]

Others: gonna drink some alcohol to forget ‘bout my problems.

Me: gonna read some fluffy fanfiction to forget 'bout my problems.

[iamjazzcarilla]

One Last Time

Years of people telling and making me feel like I’m not good enough finally took its toll. The anxiety didn’t rear its ugly head until I was trying to look for a job for the first time. Months and months of looking, getting interviews and receiving no callback, I was at my wit’s end.

I spent 16 years of my life in school, the last 8 of it I was just trying to get by, doing my best to not be a disappointment but never trying to excel. I was, for the lack of better term, just there, merely existing and surviving.

I will always remember that feeling of bewilderment when I discovered that, yes, I am getting my bachelor’s degree.

Why won’t I be surprised when I feel like I spent my 4 years in college just going with the flow? Why won’t I be when I was certain, at some points, that I would never make it to our graduation day?

I was skeptical even when my graduation pictures were already being taken. My heart was going haywire on our baccalaureate mass because all I can think of was, what if, what if I really am not graduating and they’re going to pull me out any minute now and tell me attending this was a mistake?

Imagine my face when I became certain that I was definitely getting my diploma, albeit not a real one, on stage on the 6th of June.

Bewilderment became a strange and almost familiar territory to me then—the awe I felt when I got to the final interview, the bubbling excitement I couldn’t, for the life of me, contain when I first received the message that I got my first job, the befuddlement I experienced when after a messy resignation from my first job, I got a call from a big company, and the eventual constant astonishment I faced whenever I remember that I actually got in, when the prestigious job wasn’t even an option before, nay, it wasn’t even a dream.

Three months later, I was still there—still working, still trying my best to not drown from everything.

It wasn’t easy. I was staying later than I should, most of the time compensating for a work load that should be done by 4 people but instead is done by 2, sometimes even doing things that are completely out of my job description.

I was constantly being pulled from sections to sections—five in total—making sure that the end product will be at par to the company’s standard and trying my best not to get lost in the constant changing of things, always proving myself worthy of my place in the company.

I was tired, but the awe I get every time I go down the car and see where I’m working at never faded, not even a bit, not even when I was going in there as an employee for the last time.

I got in. I have the job. Me. Me who, even at my best, is mediocre. Me, who wasn’t even sure I would graduate, passed the test, the first and the panel interview. Me. How did I?

Bewildered—that was me; until they told me on my 5th month that they aren’t continuing my contract. A case I actually expected but never anticipated.

Devastated—now that is me.

I was in this constant state of confusion, torn between just accepting that I am losing a job I didn’t even know I wanted, and hoping, praying even, that they would call me out, tell me it was a joke and ask me to take back my resignation letter.

That prayed statement was never uttered.

My last days were a blur: me trying to spend my last working days with the people I got close with, desperately grasping the last minutes I had with them and ultimately saying goodbye—to them, to the company and to the dream I only realized when I already lost it.

The first official bum day was the worst. I woke up on my own, with no loud blaring sound from my phone signifying that it is time to wake up. It is everybody’s favorite, mine too, until it hit me that the only reason the alarm is nonexistent is because I lost my job.

Being cooped up inside our house wasn’t good for my health. I was spinning the story in ways I didn’t even know it could be spun to.

I was angry because they were unfair with their judgment and prejudice, and for not giving me the chance to redeem myself. I was sad because I lost something I didn’t even know I wanted. I was exhausted because, really, again? Losing my job the first time was bad. Losing it twice in a row? Now that’s just unbelievable—and a big blow to my ego.

I eventually had to go back. Mind you, it was just so I could return my identification card, but me surrendering that last piece of the company I had was more than just that.

It felt like freedom, that one comforting breath you take when all is finally well. I have completely forgiven myself, and all the people who caused my misery.

I still get mad at times, as anger is an emotion that is hard to contain, but I try to control it and I am sure that I’m in a better place now.

So for the last time, I stepped out of it and looked at it. Just looked at it. No bewilderment, no awe, no astonishment, and for the first time in forever,  completely devoid of any emotion.

I got the job. I had the job and I finally realized that I deserved it, that it was not too good for me because I worked hard to get it and they felt that I was competent enough for it.

It was great, but so am I. It was one of the best, and I’m now in the process of being myself’s best version. It was great and it was one of the best, but now it is not for me.

I walk away, every step lighter, every step leading me to a place where I know I am needed more.

I turn back one last time, I smile at it one last time. Thank you, Inquirer. It used to be us against the world, but now it’s just me against the odds. May they be always in our favor.

[iamjazzcarilla]

Tonight

You spend the entirety of your life smiling through the pain, pretending every single jab was not a crack on your almost nonexistent self-worth you tried so hard to build. You spend every single day plastering on a grin on your face, brushing off every single harsh comment that seems to do nothing but push you down the abyss of self-distraction and pain. You let them believe that it doesn’t affect you, that you’re one of those strong people who accept things as they are, leave them be, then move on. Sometimes you even have to beg yourself, please, even just for a moment, believe that you are that person most people perceives you to be. And most days, you succeed. You manage—to live, to continue, to move. To pretend, to make them believe, to not crumble in pure agony.

But tonight you let yourself rest. You bare your all. And in your most naked form, you let yourself be defeated. You let yourself be tired. You let yourself soak the pillow with pent up tears you tried so hard to keep until you can’t. You let every words thrown to you affect you. You let everything you “brushed off” get into you. Tonight you let yourself just be. To exist, not in that idealistic world where everything is fine, but in that world where you drown yourself again and again in that ever sinking hole of words and pain and mistakes and stupidity—stupidity, stupidity, stupidity. Tonight you acknowledge that void in you, always there, most of the time covered, seldom accepted. Tonight is the rare night that you allow yourself to say you can’t, not anymore, not when you’ve always pushed yourself to say you can, even if, sometimes, just getting out of the bed is a fight you almost didn’t win. Tonight, you mean it when you say you’ve got no will to live. Mind you, you’ve always meant it. But tonight you do not guise it as a joke, you do not throw it out carelessly, you do not beam after you say it. Tonight you own it. You say it with as much conviction as you tear-stricken face allows you to. Tonight you recognize the crippling pain that almost destroyed you when you finally, finally, allowed yourself to fully feel it, when you finally, finally let it take over you. Tonight you realize that you wanted the end so much, to the point of almost craving it. And it surprises you, but at the same time it doesn’t. For the end is a dark place, but the shadows have always been your solace.

Tonight I just let myself. Tonight I let the darkness swallow me whole. Tonight I let myself drown. 

Tonight I am myself.

[iamjazzcarilla]

Girl, hi.

You came at a time when my whole world was shaken by happenings I didn’t foresee. You came at a time when news after news of attraction, repulsion and unexpected revelations were the center stage of my seven-day long agony. 

But you also came at a time when what I needed was a distraction, not something that was for good--I don’t even know if I would ever want something or someone for good.

We said fun was all we wanted. Yes, it was fun. Yes, we were having the time of our lives. Yes, we were enjoying ourselves. Yes, it was. Yes, we were. But now it isn’t. Now we aren’t.

I’d cut the chase and just tell you–I’m sorry. The moment we talked, the moment we deemed this a good idea, I should have told you. 

I should have told you that from all the bad traits that I have, easily losing interest was the worst. I forgot to warn you that sometimes, I treat people like I treat my cigarettes–sucking the life out of them, getting their best parts, leaving them empty; before I toss them to the ground, before I leave them for good, pretending that they hadn’t just given me even the slightest pleasure for even the slightest of times. 

I am sorry. 

This was not what I should have given you. This was not what I wanted to give you. 

This is not what you deserve but this is all that I can give. 

But, what do you expect from someone who doesn’t know what she wants apart from the fact that she never wants any commitment? What do you expect from someone who cringes at the mere mention of that word? What do you expect from someone who expects people to stay because they only need something from her?

We were fire and we burned. Scorched so brightly, our flames engulfed us whole. But we burnt so fast that we crumbled into ashes–tiny little bits of charred pieces of the people we used to be. 

And then we are empty. 

Nothing. 

Nothing but questions of whys and what ifs; of memories and moments, of late night talks and shameless flirting, and kisses–with each other, from each other, that only really happened in our minds, in our wishes, in our lust, in our dreams.

You were my conscious, my real life in an unreal world, a solace, a comfort zone, an unpredicted place of peace and bliss without the consequences, without the danger of the onslaught of reality. 

It was a week of fire and ice, of heat and cold, of sunshine and rain, of smiles and tears. It was everything. Until it all came crashing down. Until I started crashing down.

I should just say goodbye. I should just leave you. I should not string you along. But I can’t. Because I’m selfish. Because I still need you. Because I have just lighted you up and I haven’t even gotten to the good part. Because you are addicting as all cigarettes should be. And I still want a taste, I still want the chase. I still want to open you up, explore you, push you to the limit and see the things you’re willing to give me, offer me. 

But I am getting bored. I am shutting down because you are as dangerous as all smokes should be. Because you explore me as much as I explore you. Because you give as good as you get. Because you can destroy me as much as I can. Because, maybe, deep inside, I want you to do the same things I’d like to–push me to the limit, and see how far I can go.

And this should have been a goodbye. We should just let each other go because we are both hurricanes unaware of the damage we can leave. But this is still too good to leave, too good to let go. And as much as I am already getting uninterested in you and your slow, unenthusiastic replies, I still have this sadistic urge to open you up, leave my mark--then be gone. And that’s what I will do. If you don’t do it first.

And, yes, you did it first. 

[iamjazzcarilla]

An Honest Anecdote of My (Used to Exist) Feelings Dated the 13th of April 2015

I wonder why this hurts so bad. I wonder why everything seems so fucked up and so painful when it’s not supposed to be. I wonder why I obsess myself with you when you’re not even thinking about me. I wonder why after all the years in between, my heart deems this the right time to think about you, to dream about you, to make you the center of my whole fucking universe. It was just a picture. Technically, two pictures you deleted from your instagram account. Two pictures you took with me. Two pictures which shows us smiling with each other. Or maybe, all along, it was just me who was. Maybe all along you were just there for the ride, not really enjoying it. It was just two pictures. But then again, maybe it was not. Maybe it was the late night conversations we had that you suddenly stopped replying to. Maybe it was the hints you purposely avoided. Maybe it was the short replies you keep on giving me. Maybe it was the empty promises you don’t even bother try to keep. Maybe it was the lies you gave me. The lies you did not even bother concealing. Or maybe it was the simple “sorry” you gave me. Because maybe all along, you knew. You knew you were hurting me but you keep on doing so. 

When did this, whatever this is, went from something to nothing real quick? When did that small boy who used to look at me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to him stopped even looking at me? The worst thing is that, the moment you stopped looking was the same moment I did. Was I too late? Was it all my fault? Did I push too far? Did I leave too early? Or is it simply because you don’t need me? That maybe in the seven years we were apart, I never even crossed your mind. Maybe I read it wrong. Maybe you don’t really give a shit about me. Maybe all those messages were as it is. Maybe there were really no meanings behind it; they were just thoughtless replies from you. Maybe I don’t have meaning to your life. Maybe I’m just pushing myself back to your life when you don’t want me to. Maybe whatever it is that I think about the two of us is just an illusion. Maybe I was just too caught up with you, wanting  for something, anything to happen between the two of us. Maybe I was that desperate for you I created all these illusions.

There are so many things I was willing to give up, you know? Even my perspective on life was changing just because you came back. I was so used to being alone and yet here you are, wanting me not to be one. I used to dream about New York, Paris, careers, success. Now I dream of walking the aisle, building a house, creating a family. I never saw myself as that type of person. I am a fucking nomad. I walk the earth, meet new people, then leave. Repeat cycle. And now you make me wanna stay. You make me wanna leave everything behind. 

[iamjazzcarilla]

On The 25th, She Woke

With sleep encased in a silver, she wakes up one day with wounded knees, battle scars and purple skin. With a surprised, devastated look on her face, she wonders how every beautiful dream became a horrible nightmare of blood and crosses and voices and curdling sounds of pain and heartbreak and tears and... love.

She dreamt of roses and daisies and a field of fragrant buds and stems of earthly beauties. She dreamt of freedom and long runs and wind brushing against her hair, hugging her face, giving her the taste of what she's always wanted. She dreamt of a prince charming, with brown eyes and brown hair and a smile which makes her world shut down but her heart soar up.

But the once clear dream is now a confusing nightmare of dead flowers and choking vines. Of battle grounds and cell bars and short breathes of the dirty air she now intakes. Of prince charming and how he is suddenly now a monster. Still with brown eyes and brown hair and a charming smile but with his hand held high, ready to strike, ready to fight.

And now she's awake, awake from a sleep she willingly entered but now desperately wants to leave. And she tells them, how she once dreamt of fields and the sun. And how every single one of those dreams never ended well.

She tells them of honesty and brevity and time. Of men and of letters spoken. And of blindness - in hope and in love.

And she asks them why. Why he finds beauty and satisfaction and happiness on every single mark he left on her body with his hands and his words and his unloving cold stare. Asks them why she opens her mind and her heart to him and to everything he does and yet he closes his when she tries to ask him to do the same. Asks them why she loved a man who never wanted her enough, never fought for her enough.

Asks herself why she loved him when there should never be a question on love, on honesty and on eternity. Asks herself why she loved a man whose body is in her but whose mind and heart was never with her, never belonged to her. Asks herself why she loved him when he wanted someone else. Asks herself why she gave everything to a man who left her with nothing.

And asks them why she let this happened when she should have known better. She should have known better.

And now as she again cries herself to sleep, she asks for an end. For the promised rainbow after the rain. For the happiness she has always wanted. For the true happiness she lost when she thought he could give it to her when all along, it was just inside her, ready to be unleashed, ready to be freed.

And again she asks them to dream of roses and daisies. Of fields and freedom and the wind but to never trade this dream for a prince charming with soulful eyes, cotton hair and a deceiving smile. She asks them to tell her of the men who wanted them, their bodies, their minds, their souls, their whole. So she can see if they are worthy. So they won't be like her, regretful and full of what ifs and what could have beens.

So they won't end up like her. So they won't end up like their mother.

[iamjazzcarilla]

Reblog this if you like Harry Potter. No questions, just do. It'll make sense later.

[iamjazzcarilla]

4/5 should leave one direction to join zayn and create a new group called one direction 

[iamjazzcarilla]

[iamjazzcarilla]

this isn’t a boyband it’s a soap opera

[iamjazzcarilla]

[iamjazzcarilla]

God...

"God doesn't settle for "JUST ENOUGH". He's More Than Enough. ‪#‎Faith‬"

This says it all. Amen.