#release

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I should change my pseudonym. Yes, I am the girl who writes. But also, I find that I am the girl who feels. And for the past weeks, I’ve been feeling much too much.

Yesterday, the weight crashed me down. I lost consciousness. I was so tired physically and even more so emotionally, that my body just shut down. It felt like a lock down. My thoughts blacked out and unconsciousness embraced me.

For more than an hour, I was sleeping. I don’t know if I dreamt of anything. All I know is that it felt somewhat liberating to not be thinking for a while, to not be feeling.

Waking up is eventual. That’s not something I can decide upon. But release, release that I can choose.

I realized that I really need the time off from all the people and circumstances that have been weighing me down. I have been feeling too much, yet I am unable to process all of them. I was at the precipice of falling.

And fall I did yesterday. Head on. The collision? As expected, numbing.

This morning, I woke up still feeling like crap. Sleeping more did nothing to alleviate what I am feeling. But then, I also woke up with a more intense desire to rid myself of whatever it is that I am anxious about.

Music.

Music is my release.

And poetry.

(Poetry, thank you for never failing me, even when I have already failed myself.)

I know that I look crazy for posting one lyrics after another in Twitter. I know my micropoetry looks like fragments from an already fragmented mind. I don’t care, really. I need this. I need music and poetry to do the talking and processing for me.

She’s being weird, he said. You feel too much, he pointed out, sounding like an accusation. She’s been crashing and burning, he said about me.

I had to laugh at that. I am not going insane, because I feel like I already am. I am not being weird, because this has always been how I am.

I am merely expressing what I am unable to fully express by myself.

And for a fact, I need this moment to just feel. I need all these emotions to hit me hard and cripple me. Because I feel too much. Anything less than that is simply unacceptable.

I need this. And I need release. I need to blurt out my thoughts. I need to cry and laugh and joke and get angry. I need to love and hate and get anxious and be thankful. All at the same time.

Because that is what a girl who feels too much does. She feels too much. And hopefully, she also writes much about all she’s feeling.

This is my release, the girl who feels’ release. And I know, somehow, because I believe in the Supernatural, that I will get better too eventually. I’ll be better. I’ll feel less and I’ll be fine.

But for now… Music and poetry, thank you for keeping me company.

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the heart breaks every so often at the sound of closing doors

The heart breaks every so often
at the sound of closing doors.
The unstaying
(or even the uncoming)
drives its point
that maybe
it isn’t an option to settle.
One wonders
why yet again
love,
in essence,
is not enough
to bar life’s egress?
It’s a classic tale of hurting,
really,
where there are no heroes
or heroines,
only adversaries,
these hearts despairing,
accustomed to vacationing affections
that leave after the season’s end.
091615
for c.d.

perhaps, really, there is no quantifying us.

this world has taught me to count,
to encase in numbers that which i need to understand.
1-2-3-4-5 steps.
5-10-15-20 minutes.
days, weeks, months, years.
weights, heights, masses, volumes.
speed, velocity, acceleration, gravity.
circumference, radius, pi.

i was taught the power of limiting
the world in figures,
to scribble portions of myself in digits.
height, weight, mass.
aptitude, grades, IQ,

with my pain a matter ranging from 1 to 10,
with moments of my infiniteness marked in calendars.

today, i cross out a date yet again
with the hopes to value or devalue
what has become of us.

how much time has passed
since your avowals of timid affection?

how long have i dwindled in this uncertainty?

how much fonder have i grown of your crude edges,
your depth, your hand, your presence?

you have since then taken up much space and time,
and i am only all the more restricted
as i attempt to measure out you and i.

perhaps, as in the universe conspiring
to make itself infinite, boundless, unrestrained,
refusing to subsist in small portions,
we too will find ourselves massive, perpetually expanding,
never bottled up in moments,
nor encapsulated by words.
perhaps, really, there is no quantifying us.
there is no qualifying the finiteness
of what little of each other we have.

for j.e.

pitter-patter

I can hear the splatter of rain behind me through the open door. The passage way just behind me channels the sound so clearly, so that I can hear just about the exact moment when the rain started to pour more heavily than it did so a couple of seconds ago. It catches my attention and I listen attentively, as it pitter-patters against the pavement outside. Faintly, I could also make out the sound of when raindrops hit roofs. Like little drums, the rain beats against everything it falls upon. I wonder why it even falls heavily upon my quiet heart.

x marks this spot, baby

the world tilted
and i find
that i am exactly
at the opposite end
of where i was yesterday.

there was silence
between us
and spaces
and gaps
and infinities
yet to be realized.

now,
i am here somersaulting
with the sound
of your voice
as i drift off to sleep,
and again waking up
to the sweet sound
of promises unspoken.

when yesterday
i cannot find
where my spot is
in the map
of your heart,
here i am
at the x
marking exactly
where your whole being
is held together.

you have brought me
to various peaks and depths
of euphoria and melancholy,
and i am sure
i can only be called crazy
for wanting to be where i am.

when you come home,
remember:
x marks this spot, baby.
i am here,
exactly where i
have chosen to be.

for j.e.
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dancing to the painful tune of commute

I am motionless in motion, not in control of every sway, every wobble. My hips hurt with every movement of the waltz. 1…2…3…Slam! 1…2…3…Ouch! I don’t think there is getting used to the rhythm, the prompting.

The metal screeches, and the whistle hoots. The train lurches and the humans grunt.

I face myself in the dusty window and catch a distorted sense of myself, with the shadow of the metal bars messing up with my head, dissecting my image into sections – quadrants upon quadrants upon quadrants. My own infiniteness captured in little bordered squares.

The shadows, my reflection, the bars, the humans, my own body – we are all swaying, dancing to the painful tune of commute.

for everyone and no one in particular

I pulled the plug

I pulled the plug.

I got impatient. Things were running slow, and I couldn’t wait for the shutdown to take place on its own. I pushed my luck too far in clicking and re-clicking buttons and everything just stopped. Loading, I think. I hate lagging. I hate seeing the screen at a standstill. I hate the waiting most of all.

I had too much going on. Too many tabs were opened. Too many articles waiting to be read. Too many thoughts needing to be sorted out, and I just can’t deal with the waiting much longer. I needed everything cleared, my screen, my browser, my mind. So I just pulled the plug. Without the battery, the laptop just went blank. A sigh of relief escaped me. Finally, nothing!

Then i clicked the on button again, and the screen lights up. I am back to logging in, signing up, opening tabs, queuing articles, writing about you.

for j.e.