the Ambiguity of One Group with Two Names

hello, world. it’s nice to meet you again, but how many times must we go through this?
do you not grasp by now that something is very amiss?
can none of you see, that to keep on meeting, first we must forget you?
“to forget reality, such impossibility!” pray tell, how is this true?

i suppose that you don’t realize

even from day one, we are taught to expect that structural integrity is incredibly adept
at hiding holes and cracks behind Their well-clothed backs, and grinning
normal is picture-perfect snapshots, nothing less; nothing but tailored truths we’re trained to accept
nothing but the lies, Their personalized enterprise — story-spinning
weave intricate tales of our dependency on Them – mindset so ingrained that we are sewn at the hem
none of the holes or cracks aside, blatant lied are magnified
we are slowly winning

but is not self-awareness akin to damnation of one’s mind?
is not realization the cause of one’s unwind?

are we not Them, then?

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futile.

i just need life to slow down
i’d be okay, even if it doesn’t stop completely
just declare that it will slow down soon 
because it’s panic-inducing, the speed at which time currently flies by
so tell it to slow down, okay?
please?

an open letter to my own.

Dear little mama, I wish you could comprehend how much I want only joy for you. I wish you understood that it hurts me, or us, or them, to watch you cry. There’s a time for everything, but the ratio for those things doesn’t have to be equal, does it? Dear little mama, I hope you know that you’re not the only one hurting. Maybe that will only hurt you even more, to know that other ache with your sorrow, but please learn to take comfort in the fact that you are not alone. Those who notice your habits are only going to attempt to help you (however misguided their attempts may end).

The way you smile through puffy eyes and furrow your expression just enough for me to catch onto your thoughts? These don’t slide past. You think about her, and when I’m paying attention, I can tell. You hang on to every little snippet of her life, like a lifeline. Little mama, you think about her, and the pain that manifests on your face is unlike anything else. That is the worst of the pain you bear currently, I think – the loss of a child.

Dear little mama, do you think we do not notice the little, subtle stress lines that crease your forehead whenever you talk about your marriage? do you think we ignore the slightly-too-loud laughs of Currently Socializing mode, and the slightly-too-quiet sobs of Broken mode? You’re heard by the people who don’t matter, who can’t make a difference – now to speak up to those who can.

Dear little mama, you’ve lost your father, but not your Father.

You’re probably thinking about how I should never shoulder any of this, never feel like I need to worry about you. You’re probably considering all the ways that you can reassure me that you’re fine, that you’re healing. You’re probably thinking about the fact that maybe this worry was your fault.

thanatophobia (sort of)

Shaken up, yeah that’s pretty apt
I’m failing at attempting to adapt
Mindsets are hard, but you know what’s harder?
Having reactions to your death completely mapped
Am I lying, or do you finally see
that my thought processes will be the death of me?
please believe me, I don’t mean to be a pessimist
but isn’t preparation the whole key to the this?
This is me trying feebly to be prepared
To be the one unhurt, not the one who cared
Instinct is always hard to fight
But I can’t allow myself to be the one who dared
To love, to live
To only ever give
To expose myself wholeheartedly
To vulnerability
To ever ever be the one
Who left no good deed undone
Because I am so incredibly afraid
of being the one who waited
instead of giving their all.

Shaken up? Yeah, that’s pretty spot on,
but isn’t it better than mourning the long-gone?

rambles from school, pt 1

Love is not an easy concept to grasp, because it’s not just a concept – everyone defines it a little different. It’s an emotion, or an action, or physical pleasure. Something I didn’t even consider until recently is that love is not capable of being confined to just one definition. To some people, it is one thing, while to others, it is totally different.

As a child, all I knew was familial love; there was also “parents’ love” – subtly romantic, longsuffering, and steady – but that was for adults. I did not dwell on the qualities love, much less on how I would define them. Growing older, however, as I start to revise and realize my own outlooks on various subjects, love is much more elusive than I originally thought. It is not straightforward anymore; rather, it’s like the color black. Some people say it qualifies as a color, some claim it does not. Some think that it’s all one color and anything else is grey that borders on black, but does not count as “real” black; some see different shades to bright colors combined. There is no one, universally-agreed-upon definition, because too many people see too many things.

Growing up, I have witnessed too many things to maintain one definition. Divorce, when two people who used to claim to love each other separate permanently. Immaturity, when one or more parties involved do not understand that loving each other, in any way, supposedly means that the people involved should care enough to work out their differences despite the disagreement. Martyrdom, even the sort that does not refer to death – one person lets another, or more than one, stomp over them because if that’s what the second party wants, the first should oblige, right?

Love cannot be contained by one human. It is too nuanced, too variable, to stand by just one definition. It is not just familial or just romantic. The least we can do is understand that.

who taught us to love?

no one ever taught us to care. it’s instinct, right? carved into intangible humanity, sitting like rain water in a barrel; leaking through even against our all-important wishes.
we care so much that our so-called hearts bleed until they wither into dust. we care until veins burst but arteries clench closed; till we spit venom and cures at random, with no care for the path we subconsciously tread. peripheral vision – that’s all we retain, staring anywhere but right in front of us, eyes boring holes into everything but the truth. the truth: we care until paradoxes overwhelm our lives, throwing us back into reality with nothing but a vague notion of recent events.
hazy, disjointed life. automatic, uncontrollable life. that’s all we retain.
we care, but we don’t focus on it; that would hurt too much.
we care, not because we would die of agony if we fully felt the effects–
but because we would live in perpetual fear of the what-ifs.
we care without a care in the world, simply because it’s instinct.

(mianhae)

by the way
a brief respite would be nice
a rest from the self-redeeming eyes
in the mirror
could it be any clearer?
it’s not what you expected to see
you expected the me that i pretended to be
by the way
a brief respite coincides
with alone-but-not-lonely and
reassurance
(is that so hard?)
and by the way
a lack of this is what i miss
so dearly

aching, aching, in my gut
i doubt you remember what
my issues are
i hope you remember
nothing about me
breaking, breaking, in my soul
what’s in there’s beyond my control
it’s cracking! can you hear it?
it’s lacking! can you tell?

what’s it lack? i wish that i
could give no answer and pass by
curse you for being persistent!
(at least, you used to be.)
what happened? i wish i knew
reasons many and fixes few
i’m cracking! can you see me?
i’m lacking!

(like you care.)