who am i?

I have never given much thought to my existence, to be frank. I just know that I am being true to myself more often than just sometimes. Thinking such, I then realize that I am not exactly the genius behind the logic of how much am I being true to myself, for whether you have seen it or not, “more often than just sometimes” seems quite vague a description of the time I actually spend on being me and not being others. I guess the whole world is just telling me, “Who the heck are you, really?” I may be numb sometimes, but such a slap in the face could, and should, never be ignored unless doing so could save you from certain death. In my case, doing so might even save me from a life better spent dead. And besides, I myself am curious to know who I really am, and that is quite ironic, even funny, considering that I know who I am although I have never given it much thought, which, in turn, makes me forget.

I have been crazy, and I believe I still am. Some people might stop calling me ‘baliw,’ or ‘balieu’ after reading this, perhaps because they believe that constant name-calling actually leads the person to evolve into such name. Do not worry, my friends, and even those I have not met yet but had the chance (perhaps privilege) to read this piece. I have been first to call myself crazy, as a means of getting over past craziness issues. I like to view my past, out-of-my-mind experiences as times with which I could look back and just laugh at myself. Those were difficult times, and I do not think anyone even noticed I was undergoing those moments. I was pretty much alone just when I needed someone at the very most, and this I mean without offense to the people who surround me, for I have chosen to be alone. Remembering my darkest hours are dark indeed, and viewing those times as ‘jokes’ actually help me cope. Trust me, I have not recuperated completely from my period of insanity.

I am tired and I am going to sleep. I am going to finish this piece some other time.

love hurts…

Love should not have to hurt. Maybe that is our constant logic, which causes us to hurt others, entitling us to become hurt in the long run. We think that love should not hurt so much that we take everything for granted, especially the objects of our love.

A song is currently playing in my mind right now, and I am highly against the thought it contains.

a letter of hurt

You are only good at making me feel bad. I never get to feel anything more than hurt with the extended periods I get to spend with you. I do not know whether you know that or not, but every time you hurt me, I get the impression that you just plainly hate me. Worse still is that every time I try to have a reason to stay far away from you, you never let me go. I do not know whether you just really hate me a lot to try and make me feel worse by not letting me free or whatsoever, but sometimes I just really wish you would kill me so that I will not have to suffer any more. But then I guess you hate me that much by not putting an end to my life, even if my existence meant a little discomfort on your part.

Why can you never appreciate me? I call you just to say that I am a Dean’s Lister, and yet what do I get? Congratulations? No. You are too good to congratulate me. All I get is a bloody “You might as well be blablabla…”. The most sad part about this is that no mnce more, and I feel so darn empty, I do not know what to do. I just want to die. Generally, that is what the Shackle is good at, and I guess I am letting her succeed again.

I am going to drink my asthma steroids then cry some more.

Goodye.