I know.

The thing about thinking is it ruins me. It ruins me every time. But it's something I have no escape. It built me, to be overly dramatic and highly sensitive.
It gets me through decisions but it's not always the right one.  It gets me so ahead I miss the actuality and the bigger picture.  It ruined me.

these thoughts too biased to seek comfort from.  I kept at it for no concrete and well founded reasons. I make the wrong judgement and interpretation, because I kept filtering, kept rethinking over and over it becomes muddy. Those that I wanted too much has become an obsession, it gets me every time. It makes me see things that was never there.  I imagined them then.

The things that had ruined me has always remained. I made them stay. Because it feels familiar. It's a mistake I keep living with.

The thing about me is. I like to think.  Things that has never happened, then I make sure I attach some hope along with it to make it more tragic. I like making myself worry about those that has never happened. Somehow the insanity of it all makes it work, because then I knew It's still me. I guess, I'll never walk away from it. I can be hard to deal with because of my own internal war. I appreciate those who stayed, And I understand those who walked away. There's always a part of me shaded to gray.

I am bound to tire myself out. I know it. And I am bound to tire those that are around me. This I know too.

Popped out.

If i could just stop existing without dieing, i would have popped out of existence already.  But unfortunate enough there is no possible way to be. I am just tired.  I haven't even lived a full life but i am already exhausted with everything.
Tired of talking to stupid people,  of being normal, of thinking, of having to be something,  of trying, of feeling, of fighting, of letting go, of choosing between good and necessary evils, of accepting, of trashing, of speaking, of listening, of caring, of not caring, of everything. Because it gets tiring to be too much of one thing and being less of another.  If i could just be in a corner and stare at nothing,  let leaves fall, rain drop, ants cross by and do nothing but breath while my brain shuts into blackness. Stop. Shut up. Get out. I'll let the precious man made time to tick away and pass because seconds of minutes of hours doesn't even exist. Lucky bastard. You know i feel my heart beating now and i don't blame it for doing a good job, but my soul, i feel it leaving me, floating in mid air. Just floating.
You know how we take time off and escape everything behind for a while but then you still get back to reality. And that is inescapable. I don't want to get back every time i escape. I am escaping because there's no point to the word if i go back and return. Even to the memories of being a kid with no responsibilities i can't return, because then i have to remember being a kid left to face her very own demon by herself. You'd think it's our demon that would want us to quit, you'd never blame the angel. The angel that keeps whispering through sufferings. The demon that watches through sufferings. Nuances.
Poke me with something sharp and i bleed same time with the wound. And i am tired of others and myself poking the same wound over and over again. This is your fault brain, you've grown too cognizant of every little details, even the most moronic, even when it doesn't matter, you just have to understand everything don't you?  You self inducing pain bastard.
I have always imagined and reminded my good old self of how much i shouldn't care and how much i can be unshackled. But the problem is, the times i phrase that i don't care are the times i hurt because i am a fucktard lier. So if i stop existing, nothing to care about. Nothing to fight. Nothing to let go. Just nothing. You know what i like wearing everday? A full on fuck you mask. Makes me look like i actually don't care. Fuck you world. Fuck you stupid people. Fuck you society. Fuck you pain. Fuck you life. Fuck you noli. You're a lier.
Even if i close my eyes, cover my ears and empty my brain does nothing if not magnify. Nothing really works.
Now i don't know how to end this because after the last word and the period it never really ends.
I guess that is just it, it never ends.

Kid as i was.

"The pillow feels soft on my cheeks. I am not sure how long i was staring at this wall.  I should not make any sound, they're just downstairs.  They think i am asleep,  well there are alot of things they think i am,  like insubordinate, or worthless. They're not really creative,  they just come up with the most obvious. I should just be sleeping, but i keep thinking of everything.  This day was so usual, ordinary, they laughed at me and called me names.  The old ones.  I did my best to ignore them and keep what little space i have and make sure i'm unnoticed so they wouldn't look at me. I am triumphant,  i am home now.  My chest hurt,  like a hollow cold spiky stabbing pain.  And my eyes are wet and puffy,  i suppose i am used to the usual antics of everyday but the shock is the hurting in the chest seems to get worse everytime. And it is always here in front of this wall,  with this pillow yet again wet, and always in this dim light,  by myself.  I can hear thier noise downstairs and thier laughter.  It makes the the stabbing more painful.  I'll just sleep,  please let me sleep. Please. "
I will always remember this kid that i was.

Nothing to be scared of.

When i die i know some people will cry, some will pretend to care,  some will remember i existed for a while.  They will have eulogies that says how good i was and that they will miss me. 
Death isn't so bad.  What comes after it?
I would talk about how i believe in reincarnation forefront, and almost make myself really believe that it is what will happen.  But deep here in my consciousness i always picture pitch black. Pit of void. Endless everywhere of nothingness. We just cease existing. But it is so hard to accept that we will just stop existing and come about in the end with nothing,  so we believe in every afterlife ideology smart and spiritual people comes up with.  We wanted to believe that death is not the end. I almost wished i believe the same.
I wondered how it feels to stop existing, i guess you don't feel anything,  feelings also stop existing in death,  so you do not really know how it is.  Nobody really died and lived to tell the tale. I think the time of unconsciousness like in our sleep is what death really seems like except it goes on forever,  no mornings, no heartbeat,  no breath and your body rots slowly in the ground and becomes part of the soil and you never know, feel, see, hear anything forever. You're just gone. Every people you met,  places you've been, memories you kept all gone.
The soul,  it is the one that continues in the after life as they say it, whether it goes to another body and reincarnate or goes to hell or heaven.  I know i have believed i have a soul, i have been brought up to believe so, but i do not know anymore . I can just be a body made up of tissues , muscles and bones that will eventually die and rot.
Even your memories in people's minds start to vanish slowly, eventually they will forget. They will cry for you for weeks maybe, regret the words they haven't told you, pity your loss but eventually they will move on and forget.  Because it is nature.
And after death,  same as how your life halted,  the memories of you left in people's mind shall slowly disappear too. everything you are and every bit of evidence you walked the earth will be gone,  forgotten if not unrecognized.  And that is when you are entirely and truely begone. You're simply done.
Death itself is nothing to be scared of. It just means that your time is up, you need to go. I guess having not enough time is what is scary, and the pain in between passing from having a heartbeat into having none.
We are all going. Everything we ever had and acquired will be in nothing too. I think all we are ever going to have is that brief moment before we crossover into the void of nothingness,  where you realize if your life had been everything you'd ever hope for. And fortunately it is, because by then there is no going back.

Walk with me.

I don't know if my senses are fooling me,  if my mind has taken the best of me but i feel it. I am never ever sure if i dreamed it,  if i have seen it or if i imagined it.  I guess no matter how much i think i know my reality and the difference it has with dreams and illusion it still escapes me. There are still hazy memories or it could be a dream or just a vision or maybe my brain made it up and for some unknown reason i can't distinguish what is real.  It played over and over in my mind that i feel it physically happend, or––i might have only effectively convinced myself it did? but it is blurry and dreamlike so maybe i just imagine it?
It is hasty and blurry at edges of vision, but i am aware i'm in a street,  gray dry cement stretching far ahead with trees and grass all in lively green swaying in the direction of the wind.  It is not hot or cold,  not humid nor scorched but it is cloudy with rays of sun escaping from edges of clouds and striking through holes and sides of the leaves and branches of trees creating this sharp rays of sunlight while soft wind blows in my face and hair. I am walking,  i have no direction in my mind,  i am taking steps by steps, one foot after another. As i have always done in my life, i walk alone, always alone. I always choose solitude in every journey,  i seek no company for times such as this.  I have my certainty and peace walking alone straight ahead as i always have and i believe always will. It feels very familiar,  the walk,  the air,  the solitude,  the peace, it is comfortable. I see people passing by me but never taking the time to glance at me,  why would they? i do not know them they do not know me,  makes perfect sense.  I am somewhere busy with crowds and cars all doing their business.  I am turning my head sideways to see different angles of everywhere and i felt a pull in my hand like another set of fingers touched mine and i halt.  The hand holds mine in a way as if it has been holding it with too much familiarity.  It was warm and rough with callouses, i know i should be nervous for all the right reasons but i feel nothing if not curious. I turned my head to the direction i anticipated the owner of the hand will stand and he was there,  smiling.  I have never seen his face before, he is fair cream color, has dark ruffled hair blown by the wind, thick set of strong eyebrows,  dark eyes squinting from rays of sunlight.  I stared at him hard, my gaze traveled from his face to his chest,  to his abdomen,  to his groin,  to his knees to feet back up to his extended arm and rested my eyes to his fingers holding mine.  I know i should have pulled back but i didn't. I should speak to ask but i didn't. I should think reasonably but for some incompetent reason,  i didn't.  Not because i can't but more because i don't want to. His hands felt warm not only in my hands but travels in my arms and in other parts of my body,  i feel warm all over. I was breathing through my mouth and staring,  just staring, dumbfounded i suppose is what i look like. I was frozen but it didn't feel wrong like it was suppose to be. I looked at his face again,  he was still smiling,  was he mine?  I feel his hands tighten around mine and speak.
"can i walk with you? "
Why will he want to walk with me?  I think. 
I can't let him.  I always have walked,  and will walk alone.  I choose to.
I don't want him with me. Do i?
I know people,  they never intend the meaning of the words they speak.  How different is he?
They never understand the clarity behind solitude and he won't.
I didn't speak and keep silent.
He is no longer smiling but he is still holding my hand,  tighter this time. He just stared at me the same way i stared at him.
I wonder what he thinks.  How this is not odd to him and is incredibly odd to me.
I stare in his eyes to see if i can peek in his soul,  i can't.
So we stand there,  staring.
And i covet with every ounce of my strenght,  every strand of my soul that he was mine and that he can walk with me.

I hope it is real,  a memory. My hope was almost stronger than the persistent logic that it was a hasty dream. But i am holding on to that dot of adamant possibility it was a memory trapped in my dream,  if such things happen.

To write.

I promised myself that i will write everyday about anything i could think of.  I promised myself that this once i will put all of my effort known to me,  that for this once i will persevere,  that i will not quit and i will not lose focus. I have tried a lot,  millions of times to think and realize what i want to do.  What this hands,  mind,  heart yearns and i can't count the times i never got an answer.  But now atleast one,  i do.  I want to write,  for all the tiny and inessential reasons. I can also state the obvious reasons,  but then again they are obvious. I asked if these reasons are the same with mine, somehow they are and they are not all at the same time. This one thing i know now, is the first thing i can work with,  finally. I decided i will work with it with all i got, and "all i got" may not be on a grand scale as compared to what "others got" but i will be no more than extremely proud to have given blood and time and efforts i could have never imagined,  because i never did before.  I am still figuring out alot these days and i bet much more in these coming months or years,  but along the way i will write. In between my juggles of priorities in every incomplete aspects, i will write.  With every shuffling emotions i would encounter i will write.  In the crowd of different faces and diverse ranges of beliefs,  i will write. And i will write incessantly until my hands, sore ––my mind, mute. I don't even worry of how.  I just came aboard with the one thing i can want the most entirely,  so i am giving myself permission to be flimsy and rubbish. As i have coveted to believe in the concept of Einstein's relativity theory,  i will still say i have a lot of time. I don't know what will come of it,  i never planned to be a professional in the field i have starved to be a part of.  I have never planned to do anything of it as of the moment but pleasure my soul with the gift i have yet to develop.  I have never planned things in my life actually.  I just do what my heart and my brain has altercated to want and to need.  This exact place where i stand will not hold me forever,  i eventually have to move on.  While i try to do the best moving forward i can and while i try to figure out all the corners and the turns i am yet to tangle myself with in this life i will write.  The first and one thing i have not confused myself with is what will remain constant in me in my entire walk.  I didn't even realize before i was holding onto it the same way i am holding off to it.  I maybe was scared more than i wanted it,  that is why i let go too soon and walked away.  But i do not forget of the times it crosses my mind and furnish my hands to draw words and to describe pictures. In those flutter of moments i felt the need to want to write,  so i do.  But it never last,  it would leave me as soon as it impinged on.  It left me bereft, i have to abandon hope before it ever flowed through my veins. And then i grew up a bit,  i know a thing or two now. I earned myself an intuitive amount of enough to know small and important things from all the days i spent in this lifetime. I know you never give up on the what you want,  especially if you never knew what it was until it hit you in the face and especially if it is quantifiable,  i should say.  Here i have a corner of my heart filled with one of the things i never pursued but had yearned long.  To keep writing is to keep smiling. So maybe that is why i keep smiling these days.

A bus to wherever.

Wherever destination i am required to be i seem to always take the slowest most comfortable form of transportation,  so far i consider the bus to do the perfect job. I always enjoy a long ride by the window in a well matressed seat and a good air conditioning, i pay the same fare as everybody else but i want the best seat in the house ––or in the bus.  Without any seatmate if it is not too much to ask.  I take my time on every journey,  i don't need a quick transportation if it involves butt bumping, crowd wrestling or race running.  I am oblivious to the fact i won't arrive in time for my appointment,  but i shrug it off.  Due to all the shrugging off i am a lousy,  unpunctual bloke to the eyes of my friends and acquaintances.  I am always the one to arrive last they have to allot minutes and more to wait for me.  I have the reason for coming last scripted up, Recited it many times and seems to still be of effect.   I see enough to know the importance of time for all the people running everywhere.  I see too much of it,  everyone is infact in a rush most of the time ––most of thier own time. They chase every ticking second one after another,  it becomes endless.  I can tell it matters to them,  so i can't tell i don't want to accept and live by the concept of time more so follow it.  No explanation can clear the forordained argument that's already nailed down in thier preconditioned minds. I don't blame them but surely they can blame me. A lost cause anyway.
But i want to see every people, trees,  cars,  buildings,  everything inanimate ––or not pass by me.  A usual scenery for an everyday ride to somewhere.  Just for a 10 maybe 15 minutes flashing of  usual mundane scenery of an everyday route is what i am after,  epecially in the morning. With the coldness from the early-morning hour still left, the sun about to rise in the pale blue sky vaguely painting the clouds with orange, a number of people just about starting up a crowd, and the almost emptiness of the streets that are usually overpopulated.  Nothing is remarkable in the scenery and the journey.  The slow pace and the lightness of the mood is what is pleasurable. There is stillness and awareness i am able to identify with every journey i take time with. Inhale,  hold, exhale.  I am in a journey,  i am moving with speed and i am not even touching the ground or provides the effort for placement acceleration.  I am just sitting back and feeling the space of movement.  Passenger perks. I find the pleasure in acceleration, in the jolt of forward movement i can watch objects pass by in a blur on my peripheral vision, it is the small world in all its ordinary scenes.  They are tiny indeed, but is invisibly connected to one another by chance. And as much as i have wondered i wonder all the more how these tiny scenes unworthy of enough attention fit altogether to create the bigger ones. They just do maybe. It slipped me maybe the whole commute might be just a distraction from the purpose of the appointment in the back of my mind, or it might have been the whole reason for the appointment.  For some given time i find that i look forward to a very long enduring ride even when there is no point to the destination. I always take my time nonetheless it is habitual.  I will never chase time in all it's glory.  This brain have been conditioned to quantify each courses to fit every ticking time of the day with activities. I am aware.  But the pleasures of slow pace is where i am putting my foot into.  I can see,  hear,  feel more. Such time wasted well spent.  Once i arrive at the destination is a different story all together, i am reminded of why the commutation.  I almost forget. But it was worth the nettled discourse after.