in medias res

I am not technically back, but I do visit from time to time. I no longer write the way I used to and I don’t really recognize the self who made this blog a long time ago so it’s hard to make amends with all the time I’ve lost, so I’m just keeping it the way it is and check up on you guys through the dashboard. Thanks a lot, though! I hope you’re in a better place, too. 

i lost something huge in my life again.

However, this year woke me up to a different person, a person who no longer writes as much as she did in her long years of confessing. I, too, like many of us here, am afraid of growing old, and as much as I don’t want it to happen, it is taking off my young flesh each day. And I am only twenty-one. All the efforts of trying to write has downgraded to only thinking. I am thinking every minute of every day now, and the thoughts have gone wild and uncontrollable. Every letter is a worry, every question, a story that I would just send to grave. It feels as though the twenty-one years is a lie, that I have lived longer than this, but have not written that much. 

I am leaving this blog for good, for every time I write in here, I feel like I’m writing to someone who has died long ago. That nothing in my words will ever touch her anymore because it is too late. All her memories seems too far now, the people she met in this journey of writing have all gone to different roads already. Even she, as she died, has grown up and became a stranger to who she was before, when she was fourteen and starting out a blog she never anticipated would last for years. 

I decided to begin another journey, another diary that which the entries are thoughts of this changed person. A wilder, more brutal, unfiltered honesty in her words. She is more worrisome now, and hard to please. Her heart has taken the form of a stone. It is hard for her to trust now, because she is a different person now, and this changed person insists to write, even when the old her is trying to take that away from her. It seems to me that only a good, yet painful heart is her only way to bleed entirely. 

For the friends of the once young lady who once owned a diary, see you around. 

Mahirap magpasaya ng taong ayaw sumaya. Hirap at dusa at paulit-ulit na pagkadismaya ang pagod na haharapin ko araw-araw. Pero uulitin ko. Hindi kita susukuan. Kahit na nilalayuan mo ako ngayon at nagsasarili ka na naman dahil pakiramdam mo ang laki mo nang pabigat sa akin.

Minsan din naman akong nagkukulang sa'yo, lalo na itong linggong ito na paiba-iba ang sakit ko, sa katawan at sa utak. Hindi naman habang buhay akong masaya at maliwanag para sa'yo. Minsan nalulungkot din ako, pero mabilis akong babangon at lalabas ng kwebang pinagtataguan ko dahil nga, diba, hindi mo kaya ang nag-iisa? Anong klaseng tao ako para iwan ang isang nagdurusa?

Pagod ako ngayon, at hindi kita maintindihan. Pero hangal ang katapat mo't nakausap. Tanga ako sa dahilan. Hindi kita iiwan dahil lang sa kapagalan. Gago ako sa diyos, pero martir ako sa mga taong kagay mo.