i live with a ghost

Your loss killed me. But I’m not the ghost. You are.

Every night I go to bed happy knowing I’d get to see you again. But when the morning arrives, my heart feels waves of pain upon waking up and realizing that the life I have lived for seven years has been greatly altered.

I know I have stop thinking that things should go back to how it was. You will never age in my memory but I cannot keep you frozen in time forever.

I have to stop standing on that same spot where you left me. You are no longer here and you are not coming back. The script in my head does not match reality.

I have wished for a time machine countless times. But they told me that if it is the will of the higher power or the universe, the outcome is and will always be the same no matter which course I re-take.

Hence, I am left with only one choice — and that is, to finally let you go. But I cannot. Not yet.

Perhaps in the future…

…but until then, your ghost lingers.

Saying goodbye maybe… finally

I’ve started deleting the text messages. I’ve blocked the contact details. I hid the remaining photos. I thought it was possible to retain the connection but maybe I need to cut off all ties for a while until the feelings have died down. I will now slowly learn to un-love you.

I have to finally let go and detach from all feelings of longing and nostalgia… I will now learn to accept that the chapter is over and that there is no longer any hope for a future.

You chose to let go and you didn’t fight for what was left. You chose yourself and maybe it’s time I choose myself too.

Farewell dearest. I will always love you.

Wistful

we turn years older

yet we yearn for memories

fragments of a younger self

wistful for ideals

how much time was wasted in

trying to forward time?

was I always in a hurry

to get to the moon and stars?

not living in the moment

and being in the present

that is the greatest regret

wishing I’d reverse the time

to where life didn’t weigh me down

Thoughts that wake me up at night

Am I lonely?

I don’t know. Loneliness is a complex feeling and I can’t exactly describe it in just a few sentences.  But I suppose loneliness is not having even a tinge of hope that things would eventually turn for the better. The concept itself stems from not getting what we want, from not achieving our dreams.

I wanted to pursue music or theatre arts when I was younger. But I was told it wasn’t practical. To survive this world, apparently, I had to find a career that would help me get by – a job that helps pay the bills, to be exact. And now here I am. I am able to pay the bills, but am I happy?

Am I happy?

I don’t even know what genuine happiness feels like in the first place. I used to think happiness is life’s end goal.  But then, the inevitable happened. Cue in drumroll…

I got older. 

Responsibilities suddenly stormed into my life, most of which I wasn’t really ready for. Nobody told me about evil bosses, toxic workmates, office overtimes, bills, bills, and more bills! Nobody told me the real world would drive me to madness. I got sucked up into reality so bad that I could no longer get back my idealism.

You know what’s even more miserable? It’s realizing that the dream was only meant for my young and innocent self. Because dreams go together with idealism which disappeared during “adulting”, now replaced with realism and practicality.

I’ve had so many chances to pursue the dream but I didn’t. I had the intention but I didn’t act on it. I was strangled in fear. I was afraid to lose my current, practical, pays-the-bills career. So, now I am buried in “what ifs”.

Regret is my biggest tragedy in this lifetime.

And so is loneliness.

Hence, not one, but two tragedies.

Awesome.

Writer’s block?

I used to love writing. I enjoyed it. I was told I had the knack for it. You’re a natural, they said.

Expressing ideas and emotions on white space wasn’t hard. Writing was an avenue for suppressed feelings, which I had to let out occasionally – err, most of the time. Writing was bliss. Words just effortlessly fall into place. I could finish an essay in just an hour or two. Easy breezy.

I used to love writing.

Until, I lost interest.

My job requires too many tasks on management and logistics. Not enough writing tasks as I had wanted. It isn’t entirely part of the job description I was told. I had less time for writing or reading.

Rust. I feel my brain rusting, slowly biting the inside of my skull. Words are starting to disappear. I can’t even construct a sentence that doesn’t seem report-ish.

My writing isn’t as fluent as it used to be.  I used to effortlessly fill the blank spaces of the paper with black ink. I had it. But I was told I lost it. I don’t know if it’s still there.

I’m stuck. Is this writer’s block? Am I on a dead end?

I need to figure this out.

Help.

It was even difficult to finish this short post.