The stuff that kills you is what most of the troubled population advocates the usage of. Mainly because they feel horrible and need to compare themselves with themselves being in an even worse state, so as to feel better about the current one.

Some hundred gazzilion years ago, when I sighed upon the moment that would bypass my short-lived childhood, I made my mind up about what the rest of the population perceives as the feces of the life to come. I only made my mind of about it because it was widely held that there was quite alot of it.

So, I did good, did bad, continued to do both, though amongst other act of vaguely disputed goodness, however, all without minding their consequences. Life is a product, and one might as well consume it, I thought to myself at 9 years of age.

The gist of it then: I have been tricked, annoyingly, in a vaguely disputed manner as well. See, I had made peace with the fact that my consumable human condition is very much consumable and that at any one point in time, a figure, who’s spent a good amount of years of their lives making sure that they have the right facts of human biology while wearing white robes, will come along tell me that I’m either a) healthy and will die in ‘X’ amount of years, where ‘X’ is more or less the amount of years that most of the population of the same age is happily wanting to live up to, or b) diseased and will die sooner than later.

In a  nutshell, I could live with being alive, and I could live with being dead.

However, the news that was delivered to me in a vaguely disputed manner was not as ultimate as I had made peace with. “You are at risk of possibly developing … “, and then he continued to utter initials that I didn’t care what they stood for.

At risk!! Possibly!! Words that I allowed myself to use so I can get away with things I have to explain, and they are now used against me in the most horrifying way. The course of my life is already full of uncertainty as it is, and the last thing I would wish for is more of either, life and/or uncertainty, that is.

‘Shit!!’, I said, ‘and how do I live with that?’

Only it had to be silly and stupid but still very much profound at the same time. I figured that if I would be completely sober, I wouldn’t be able to deliver it, or, if I had, it wouldn’t sound profound enough. It wouldn’t even sound silly. It would only, quite definitely, sound utter stupid.

Luckily, I had friends who care enough about me, and enough to encourage me not to be completely sober while I would be promising a silly and stupid, but still very much profound, speech. Of course, what sort of friends would they be if they let me be only stupid? Well, of course they would be the stupid sort of friends.

So, it goes without saying, that my friends are, in fact, very intelligent. So intelligent, that they created the perfect series of situations and provided the right amounts of intoxicating substances and then they all left but one; the one whom I ought to speak with, the only who could hear me out, contain it, and promise me that everything is going to be just fine. I believed her and carried on to say this:

If one would take something (or to be exact, nothing) that does not exist, look at it, contemplate it, and think in many ways about it, it would become a whole world, a universe. It would become everything.

Only a few people that I met during the recent years that I shared nothing with, or, say, in between. However, for the ones that I did share nothing with, I befriended, I nourished, and I contemplated their presence endearingly everyday. Eventually, a world came about, shared between us. Some worlds stood out above the rest, some were satiated with life and gave it to others, and some I fell in love with.

What I hold dear to myself were not those people as such, but what the worlds we created together. And, as I live in those worlds, I live in them, in, say, a common continuum. I share their love and despair, their joy and sadness. What I am today is the product of their hopes and wishes, and the residual of their memories.

To all, and to the rest of us.

This morning I woke up and had a strange feeling that I had strange feeling about. I felt, strangely, that I was very happy with how my birthday went the day before, specially because I seem to remember that I’ve managed to give a silly and stupid but a profound speech, but I felt, strangely, that everything is going to be just fine.

Pulling out was not the problem, but rather a retreat, simply. Not only that I shifted my presence to one that’s to its own, but also did to what I thought and said. This was inevitable. Otherwise, I would think so obsessively of things I ought not to obsess, and say things that are going to be regretted either for being said or being heard. I didn’t know how to feel about things anymore.

I’m slowly pulling in now, very very slowly, though I still don’t know how to feel about things so far. Its very unsettling, to keep inside what one ought to let out. These things I ought to say are quite unsettling themselves. That is to say, if the sky told the earth of such things, the earth would feel so awkward it would fold inwards into itself. The sky, needless to say, would feel so awful about the whole thing and cave down into earth’s memory, never to be seen again.

The whole problem with awkwardness, which currently puts most my universal problems to effect, is a matter of diverted interests that are seldom willfully targeted toward everyone else but me. Although this is particularly one of my ever troubling matters (awkwardness that is), it is one that I favour to elaborate at a later time.

I apologize for the very few burdened souls that could, attempt, and willingly try to follow my line of thought.

I took, or rather suddenly found, myself to the shore, believing I would find inspiration that would resonate along with chords I strummed and notes I picked. It was that time when the sun’s so awkwardly hinting its setting beyond and past the horizon. I stopped playing what I was playing, and this was because I felt I had a similar feeling some years ago.

I felt lost and not particularly bothered about it. I stared into space, shiftless, though looking for something within that particular void. I waited for something to happen, like I did that time a few years back when something did in fact happen, but nothing happened this time.

I had lost my loneliness. My loneliness that I shared with those who heard the trembling silience I held in my chest. I lost it somewhere along the way back to my old life. The life that I’m living now. When I had it, life spoke to me, the grass and the river and the trees and the air spoke to me. They were all boding a well and divine forthcoming presence.

She was wishfully and suddenly, then, at once, present, before my eyes. She filled the void I wandered about and wandered about me. She took steps towards me, she danced and never really walked. She spoke very lightly, sang for most of the time, and sat quietly infront of me. Most of our cherished conversations where when we said nothing at all. Life, around her, seemed to make way for a presence of uncommon grace. She played with daisies. She played with her long curly hair. She played and I played and she sang and I stopped playing.

That was a time when I still had my loneliness; when I was still lost. It was perfectly fine, for I was constantly lost and she constantly found me. I was always lonely and she always found herself company to me.

Now, though, I am surrounded by people. I am not seen or heard. I have not blushed in a while.

The sun has long set now and the sky’s a clumsey grey, hazey, and dusty, streching to the grey sea. For a moment I believed if I look up I’d find her before me. She wasn’t there. I took out the delicate remains of some years old daisies and washed them with tears of regret.

Instinctively, it served as a therapeutic exercise. ‘Has it come back now?’, I asked myself this morning. Admittedly, I for one am in need of self disclosure. It serves me right. However, keeping one online has always come with uncertainty to how I feel about it. ‘Am I uncomfortable with the fact that it is no longer inaccessible by anyone other than myself?’, I thought at first, but decided that it seemed ridiculous to think that most of my thoughts are more absurd than of anyone else’s. I don’t think they are, I know they are.

Online journals, anyway, feel listless. Paper (quoting a friend whom I’ve known for only one day), is alive. Starting sentences, commas, and fullstops meant a whole lot more, had a forceful effect, and the words made friends with the scribbles that lived near the edges. Packing a journal away, ink-curled pages wrapped themselves around me, contained my joy and my sadness and put me to peaceful sleep.

This, on the other hand, gets sort of out of one (hand, that is). I ended up with journal nostalgia when I had initially want to get some of the self disclosure that I was talking about done. This is really annoying because the matter is of obsession, and such matter ought to jump every other line of thought, and so brings me to a sense of self deception rather than disclosure.

Self disclosure: I would rather not have immersed myself into shallow rapids of a relationship hoping they would be deep enough, wouldn’t I? No, apparently, I willed not. One ought to know that the shallow rapids are dangerous, they swift you and they cause damage that is seldom repairable, yet knowingly, with the power of absurd silliness, I decided to have it. This has been widely regarded as not only absurd and silly but also as a really stupid thing to do. This opinion is more likely to be more accurate, I think. However, this is what obsession does, it gives you all, only momentarily, at once and in return of all of one’s other obsessions.

This one is tough, though. I need a stronger obsession to override it.

Now,
It is to her.
His hopes are of many,
His despair is of hers.
And to him it is only,
Forever.

Conversations were interrupted, thoughts were so as well, dreams are no more, and …

I can’t say I didn’t have my doubts. Being introduce to a little more than a dozen faces in under 5 minutes is not exactly doing me a fair introduction; I will have to embarrass myself several times now for having to ask for their names again, however, not one of them failed to return a smile and easy feeling that would go long enough to buy one another’s a cup of coffee.

Going back to university is absolutely awesome, though to work rather than study. Still, I never felt a stronger sense of belonging for any other environment. It even goes for when I’m in my lowest, that I would default to learning.

Those who congratulate me for my new appointment often miss the point and talk about how I took a decision to change careers. I didn’t change careers, I just started one. This is proving to be, understandably, confusing for the mass, since I’ve been of many skills. Some think I worked in IT, or teaching, or medicine, or in advertising, or in one or the other.

So there you go, this is as much as I’m ecstatic about my new job as, so much that I decided to pause the existential style of writing and adopt a dear-diary one. This, however, will not happen for a long time to come.