Mess

I don’t think I have a personality. I just reflect the personality of people I choose to surround myself with. And even though I resonate these, I’m still a bad copy-cat.

If overthinking and anxiety is a personality, then I’m already wearing it to the bones. Engraved in every neurons and hormones in me as I surf through waves of blissfulness and feeling of impending doom. Iced with social awkwardness on top which is inversely proportioned with my confidence, I hope people would have the idea on how my soft attributes would by synonymous to a walking disaster.

But I’m learning to love myself. A bit late than the usual and much later than what your self-help books would suggest. I’m accepting more parts of me that I thought I can never accept. Like how my dreams reflected my anxieties and fears, and thinking how they could be used to gamble a win in a lottery. Or how I get through days of overthinking knowing that there will always a day after where I would have pure peace and mental serenity.

Now these may seem to be self-centered and sound oblivious to those people around me, but I have come to terms that self-healing is indeed a selfish act. And you need to heal yourself first and be whole before giving yourself to others. It’s okay to be selfish before becoming selfless. Or else you’ll be left with crumbs of your non-existent personality and fragments of your broken self.

Alive

I’ve been too much preoccupied living my reality I have forgotten to pause, reflect and realize. My thoughts became so full, crowded and heavy that caused me unnecessary anxiety.

I’m in that moment where I am living mostly what I have prayed for. I prayed for a career that can sustain living and my hunger for growth. And yet, I sometimes feel like an impostor in front of these blessings. It felt like I’m pretending that I know what I am doing. Choosing a path out of your comfort zone is scary. It made me question my self and my ability to make an impactful difference. Sometimes, I even ask myself if I even made the right decision. And yet, I am still reminded that I prayed for this and it won’t be given to me if it would lead me to nowhere.

I have never prayed for relationships with people. Yet, it was still given considering how I have sustained and dragged through solitude. It was something I thought I never wanted but it was definitely something I needed. I am held and guided like a scared kid going through the door during the first day of school. I was surrounded with supportive people with good intentions, who understood the struggle, who shared the laughter and the sadness of being in a gloom-persisted land. They were my sunshine and because of them, I was able to sustain my own warmth to radiate to others.

I am still afraid though. The future still makes me anxious. Big plans, though possible, still seemed too out of my reach. I may have lost my reason why I kept choosing the struggle of living in the first place, I have found meaning by focusing on smaller goals I have been wanting to achieve. And I pray that these will be enough to keep the fight in me and why I should always choose waking up everyday. I have to remind myself that I have received these precious blessings and I am still worthy of everything else that is coming for me.

I manifest to be filled with that sense of gratitude, that even though life is pain in the ass, I am blessed and I am worthy to keep my space.

Psycho

First post I made for my current institution; why I wanted to but can’t just easily leave despite being unhappy.

“I’m starting to notice the growing number of moments when I question where I am as of the moment. Whether I am supposed to be where I should be. And if I am, why am I not feeling happy. 

To determine such, I have found myself looking back to the roots of my dreams. And found a (my) heart aimed to serve. A passion rooted at home, nurtured by a profession, but tested in an institution.

An institution founded, managed, and sustained by determined individuals, whose visions and dreams are greater than own-self. Whose desires too strong to discern that thin line of right and wrong. With a workforce emboldened by their own passion yet pushed by lucre provisioned with control by those seated at the higher hierarchy. With varying personalities placed in a stressful working environment, one can easily see the darkness of each identity. Where one oppresses the other to reach a higher ground; where one questions another’s ability just for the sake of feeding an almost depleted ego; where one engage in dirty politics to win favor of those with power mismanaged and used for personal gain; where people challenges your knowledge, your skills and your right to be where you are. 

These are just some of those I encounter each day. And despite the tasks placed on my shoulders, I never settled to other people’s judgment whether I am worthy to be in a place like this based on whether I was able to do what they’ve asked me to do or not.

Yes, it indeed is an honor to be accepted to a place where the knowledge gained through years of studies be applied; and conclude that written papers and thick books doesn’t encompass the learnings acquired during these daily experiences

But there are just days like this I even question myself, my ability, and sometimes, my sanity. 

I am already tired.

But I am still holding on to that one single passion I started with. Far more important than the monetary gains I could have. Far more important than those travels I could have made to feed my wanderlust.

I am holding on to my place with a strength derived from a belief that I am making a (good) difference to the lives I encounter each day I stayed in this institution. And quitting, though possible, isn’t quite the right choice because I have wanted and waited for this spot, for this chance; unlike those who got their spot like a graduation package. I’ve been giving my best each day even though it seems that it isn’t always enough.

I know that I am not the only one who’s been swimming in the sea of mediocrity. And I know that soon, these creatures will rise above the surface and let the glory of excellence shined by the sun bathe their fins. Because one’s strength as a nurse (doctor, medical technologist, pharmacist, social worker, other members of the health care team) isn’t and couldn’t just be determined by a grade, or a shift, or a task. 

As long as we have that passion to serve, with the guidance of the Great One, we will find that inner strength we need that hopefully would lead us to that moment of contentment and pure happiness.

I am tired. But I still believe.”

Rava

Amidst the warmest of the night yet the coldest of the scene I have found the right moment to look within and be susceptible at the inner turmoil I brought myself in. 

I have aimed for the perfect plan yet unable to execute needed actions to achieve what I have been wanted to achieve. As I take each path, the more I gather things that hold me, making me take them into considerations in every step I make.

I am lurking on a swamp full of hatred and negativity. And the negativity I’ve been dealing within me since makes all things worst. How I wish to unbind myself with the vines that stiffens me and burn down the connections I had with such. 

I wish to free myself of the inhibitions, the restrictions and the fear I’ve been nursing within. I wish to shake off the dirt and the mud and the grime I’ve let to get hold of myself. How I wish to dematerialize and be one of the great energy circulating around me. The enlightenment I’ve been seeking is there, I just needed to find the right medium to reach that guiding light.

I guess this is the fight I needed to take on my own. That despite the available help offered to me, I cannot. In the end, it will always be me and the way I managed to get hold of myself to pass through the struggles I had before. All I need is to believe and get back to my feet, stand on my own and start making things possible for the future I’ve always envisioned.

Dust

There were these people who seek happiness out of other people’s misery. Those who’d pull you down when you’re above, who’d push you down when they leveled, and kick you in the gut when you hit bottom ground. 

These people are too insecure with themeselves, so they attempt to cover it up by pointing fingers and sniffing your tracks hoping they could find something to point at. 

We call them crabs for they have this idealism that they decide who must be at the top (which mostly they find high regard for themselves). We call them trolls. They throw stones at those who pass by the bridge they never even own, yet to scared to have balls during confrontations. We call them haters, for reasons that their life must’ve given them so much to kill their inner kindness that they rely on their ability to breed hatred towards those who kept on playing the game of living.

Never mind these people. You don’t need them towards your goal. Being at the top doesn’t equate that you’ve succeeded . Their presence doesn’t got any use, not even a leverage, on your path towards success. Crush any obstacles, including those who bring you down. Behead those trolls so they could keep up with with that insecurity without a head and without some balls. 

It is your life, your challenge, your journey to find the sole purpose of living and success. These people are just bumbs scattered on the road that you can easily run through and crush, compared to the biggest challenges along the way. 

Put your head up high and just dust these boogers off.

Sunrise

Everything seemed like a blur. When I woke up and forced my eyes to open against the sunray peeking on the hole of a make-shift tent. The memories vague and clear at the same time. They seemed like a dream and the wounds I carry ain’t visible to the human eye yet too remarkable to be seen within.

I am on a piece of land where war just ceased with people I barely know but with faces too familiar to forget. Faces I believed I’ve seen in my dreams. Like this lady I strangled with my bare hands and this old woman I slapped and bumped her head against a concrete wall. The nightmares were all filled with violence I didn’t knew existed in me before. Of losing something important. Of inablity to breath. To get drowned of something intangible. Of rage and fear. 

It’s about  to end. The quest I’ve been set to surmount. I died. But I still exist. And I don’t know what part of “what I used to be” is left to live and tell the tale of rigorous process of change.

I still look the same but I feel totally different. Like the sun felt different on my skin. And my skin became immune to dust and dirt. My ears became deaf but more sensitive to natural sounds. My eyes see things differently, on how I discern things and people. And when I thought my battle strategy is the best of what I can, I still had a lot of growing up to do. That some attacks are more effective than the others. And an effective general strategy doesn’t always equate victory. 

In due time, I will not return with the same armour I left with but with a skin stronger than what I forged. That the war brought death and has killed something within me but nurtured life and gave me a chance to change something.

At the end of the day, I realize that those living-dead who rather stay the same will never be better than those who seeked death and found reason to live. 

Quiescent

I’ve been transversing between Will Graysons’ world, the reality I left my body with, and the dreamland full of woes and uncertainty that it feels also like reality.

Once I let myself get drowned with the idealisms and tortured thoughts of the greysons, I suddenly find myself swimming in the realms of dreams. Where I see vague faces and people. Scenarios I’ve been and possibly will. Where waking up isn’t necessary but much preferred considering the state I am with as of the moment. 

I removed myself from the orthopneic position I’ve put myself at the nurses’ station. I blinked once. Twice. Trying to remember the flow of disrupted thoughts.  Thinking whether there were new orders made, or whether there are seniors who’ve seen me dozing off and were just waiting for the right moment to give me a failing mark.

Anyway. I’m starting not to give a fuck. I’m sleepy and moody and irritable as always. It’s a blessing in disguise to find a place I could lay myself to rest after the war I’ve been through last month. Least I could once again charge for the greater fight that’s on its way. 

Twilight

She was thrown against the wooden wall of the place where I was settled in. The place was dominated by females and by handful of men with some I barely know including my father. 

The screams of pain and shrieks of agony was heard outside their room. It vibrated across the small space where all the guests decided to mingle. The sound of face being hit by someone’s palms and continuous bashing of flesh made the crowd fell silent and stare towards the shoji separating the onlooking eyes from the screams of tears.

Then the shoji opened and a naked lady was pushed out and fall flat against the tatami flooring. Her eyes looked around the shocked people. Her hair was cut straight up until her jawline and her bangs filled her forehead. 

Her skin was surprisingly only reddish, considering the amount of hit she had endured inside the room. I was expecting some open wound or blood oozing out from it. 

Then a tan guy with big belly and empty eyes came out of the room and walked towards her. His head was shaved leaving almost a centimeter strands of black and gray hair. He dragged her across the floor and gave her a punch that landed on her face yet no drop of blood was seen. 

The crowd was quiet but you can hear disdain, disgust and revulsion mumbling into the wind but no words was said not only towards the ugly guy but also towards the other men occupying the room. Including me and my father and some few men whose faces I can barely remember. 

Then all the men stood up in the room noticing that our zippers were zipped down open, infuriating the loathing that these ladies had towards men. That unzipped metal ignited the guilt inside me, as if I played some part of battering and hurting women (though I never had any incidences of physical brutality against the female race).

All the men were shoved towards the room where the crowd, now all ladies of all ages, preferred. The woman with reddish pearl white skin and the ugly brute was already inside. 

Some tried to escape the unbreakable shoji with the belief that they never played a part of such crime. Even my father.

Then I tried to escape but the guards of my conscience in a form of women kept me within the room together with the lady and the brute. As if I needed to accept that punishment inside.

I had no choice but to play the game. 

She was already sitting on a bed, still naked, with eyes asking me to sit a foot beside her. Then the man with a stomach of a drunkard slid the remaining small cover of his decency down to the floor. He slapped the girl too many times, hit her in the stomach, tossed around the room from my non-blinking eyes, not believing the kind of brutality existed in such.

He forced her head towards his meat and forced her to give him some pleasure. 

And I was there staring directly at the lady’s eyes whose eye contact before never lasted for 2 seconds but now looks through my soul asking me, how dare me to witness her sufferring without doing anything about it. I look up to the guy, stood up and saw his eyes lifeless and dead. His chinky eyes just forbid me to do anything bad as he enjoyed the fellatio being given by the girl. 

“Do you have work?”

I heard her say that. Surprised to be asked by such, coming from someone whose mouth was full of that filthy pig’s wood and whose current situation can’t afford to ask such.

“I’m sorry. What did you say again?”

I’m asking you if you have work today..”

“Yes. I have.”

“What are you still doing here? Go.”

Then I woke up with the same question regarding my work bombarded by my mother outside my door. 

I took a deep breathe. Remembering the face of that filthy pig and the beaten woman as I answered.

“..Yes. I’m up.”

 

Palliare

For the sun always rise on the land where endless shrieks of agonies and despair never cease to exist. While some may see it as another reason to hope, another operation to surpass, another chemo-day; some may see it as new day without a love one. Without a wife. Without a son. 

And while some see it as another battle to win, another pain to endure, another day to cry; some will see it as a blessing, another day to live for the terminally ill, for the bed-ridden, for the newly-handicapped. 

That despite the darkness of the earth, the warmth brought by the sun is still palpable to the skin. The morning breeze is aromatic. The dawn tastes fresh.

Despite the rough roads, the failures, the stumbles and falls, life goes on as the sun continues to rise. It’s how you welcome each day with the purest heart and the kindest soul to love and care for people at their weakest moments that would make a difference. It’s how we see life in general and the positivity that comes with it that would make living this life a little bearable. 

Shine that inner goodness. Let that positivity infect others. You’ll never know, it could make a difference between quitting and fighting for just one more day.

Repugnance

I woke up feeling under the hood. My body’s a little sore. I am thirsty. I tried standing up. A little nauseous. Stretched a little. It’s 10am. The sun bathing my room with warmth. Bright rays reflected across the yellow curtain.

I looked at the mirror. Nine hours of sleep never gave justice on those dark circles under my eyes. Hair is grungy, still brushed up. Skin taut to touch.  Shoulders glow at the light coming from the window. Shadows formed against those Illuminated cuts.

I stared pass through the guy looking at me in the mirror. Feeling a little down on how he looked at me. With disdain. With distaste. I tried to react with arrogance reflected on my eyes. But with no use. I still feel like a shit. 

I stumble at the shed filled with random books and a music player. I picked some of the books up. Placed them back. Then there’s the photo that I’ve been trying to forget, now on the floor with its shattered glass. 

Then there was blood. Dripping on my fingertips. To a book that I loved. Opened to a worn-out page. Containing my favorite line.

“Slowly I am withering—

Flower deprived of sun;

longing to belong to—

somewhere or someone.”

Playful. How very playful.