storytist

[storytist]

You ever want to disappear, but know that you can’t? Because same.

[storytist]

My mind is time traveling between both the past and future.

I’m not supposed to look back. I’ve told myself there’s no point in being sentimental. Yet, there I am, replaying the moments of when things were different. Wishing that I could return to a time where it all seemed too good to be true.

I’m not supposed to look forward. I’ve told myself there’s innumerable uncertainties. Yet, there I am, questioning why I am not planning every single facet of my life anymore. Wondering about every what if and drawing hypotheticals.

I’m supposed to be here, but living in the present has always been so damn hard.

[storytist]

I ask myself, “Who was I before the world told me who I had to be?”

It frustrates me that I am confused about my identity. Do I push myself to be objective because of the ones I’m close to? Do I change the parts of myself to accommodate loved ones?

I have these high expectations for myself. “I need to be stronger. I need to be logical. Reason is more important than feeling,” I say.

“I can’t let my emotions rule me,”

“I can’t let my emotions dictate my life.”

[storytist]

A friend once asked me, “How do you know when you love someone?”

It’s funny because I get asked that a lot.

“I think it’s the way they say your name,” I say. “Like you know it’s safe inside their mouth.”

“Could you tell me more?” They ask.

I reply, “You trust them. You trust that when they talk about you with others, there’s no ill intent. That they take notice of the little things and appreciate you. They accept you for who you are, flaws and all. And they love you so much that words cannot do justice.”

[storytist]

Do you ever think about why you come back here?

Is it the familiarity? Is it the security?

It’s strange because I always seem to find my way back here. No matter how much time passes, I make my return.

Writing here has always felt sort of like home.

[storytist]

I’m just tired most days.

Tired of people failing to meet my expectations.

But, I can only blame myself for this weariness because the root of disappointment is having expectations.

[storytist]

Maybe it’s better to keep to myself.

Maybe it’s better to keep to myself.

Maybe it’s better to keep to myself.

[storytist]

It’s the little things.

I often try to remind myself that the little things are significant. Seeing you smile should be enough. Hearing from loved ones should be enough. Baby steps to success should be enough.

Yet, there’s this void within me that hasn’t gone away. For the past week, this emptiness has carried over.

A new week is approaching, and I still feel hermit.

[storytist]

There’s this lump in my throat and scattered throbs in my stomach. I don’t want to say it’s guilt because I don’t feel guilty. I recognize I’m being selfish by wanting complete isolation from the world, but I just want to be alone. I’ll come back eventually.

Until then.

[storytist]

My world has been hauntingly quiet. I’m tired, so very tired. I don’t like admitting to it, but I feel my soul draining from my body. I’ve been physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. I feel myself pulling away from everyone around me. After hours I just want to be alone. Work is work, after all. I just don’t feel like talking when I don’t have to. I can’t be bothered to reply. I’d rather the messages go unread. I feel burnt out by all that I’ve done. Consumed by all I’m doing.

I’d like to live in solitude a little longer.

[storytist]

Weary mind of mine,

Must you feel as dreary

as this eery heart.

[storytist]

It’s not fair to think that way,

because I knew of your day—

I knew you had a lot in the way.

But, sometimes it’s difficult to keep emotions at bay,

on days filled with gray.

And I wish you were here,

so we could lay—

I miss you, my favorite kay.

[storytist]

Sometimes I just want to lie in a pitch dark room and find peace within myself. The quiet of the night guides me in rediscovering my sanity, but also probes at me to spiral. The muteness brings me at a state of both serenity and turmoil. That’s the peril of being alone with your thoughts, anyway. Regardless, from time to time it’s the only way to recover from calamity.

[storytist]

I guess I’m sad the little things don’t matter as much to you as they do for me.

I need more time to think about everything. Forever is a long time, you know.

[storytist]

I know I’m changing.

We all are.

That’s the beauty of it, anyway.

There’s always room for self-improvement.

[storytist]

At the verge of tears, she admits to him, “I just don’t feel like you care about me.” Frustrated, he tries to calmly make sense of the situation, “How do you possibly think that I don’t care about you?”

She knew it is never his intention to make her feel that way. A lot of the things he did for her was because he wanted her to be happy. I suppose all he ever wanted to do was to make her happy.

“The way you’re treating me and the situation. You know that I want your undivided attention,” she replies. “I care about you,” he says. “Then why don’t you act like you care?” She questions.

Both were frustrated. Tired of thing after thing surfacing. Eventually, he stepped out of the bedroom for a bit.

He kisses her on the forehead, “I love you.”

“Thank you for having the patience to talk to me, even when I don’t know what to say,” he adds.

[storytist]

Starting today.

Here I am.