Something Mending -- VOL 1

42

11:49 am, Wednesday, 11, September, 2023.

These past few months have been a rollercoaster, a mindfuck-ery. I am tired, yet go on, like everyone does. However, there's a bit less of you.

Yeah, and it feels good, to have a bit less of you.

I am done with the Guilt, the fucking guilt, the way I hated myself for being in pain and bleeding on everything, bleeding on you, I am done with the guilt, because I know everything works out in the end.

I am done with the Pain, because I got tired of the pain, the heart wrenching pain, pain that takes my ability to breathe away. I am tired of the pain that placed its hands on my shoulder, I've shrugged it off. I am done with the pain, I no longer want to bear your pain.

I am done with the Grief, because I am tired of the grief's consistency in my life. God, this grief made a home in my ribcages, it settled there, lived on every food I ate, every drink, every joy I found in the people I love, in the moments, in my victories. The grief delighted in it, it wore a new face, and disrespected the word - Grief. It wasn't grief but a monster who swallowed all my happiness, and delighted in the misery that quickly followed, it never ceases to remind me that I am alone, that you are gone, that perhaps, I am not living my name, not as worthy, as enough as I thought.

I am done with the Tears, because I got tired of the way I cried, endlessly, consistently, consequently, suddenly, and truly -- if there any other words to qualify it, I cried that way. I cried my eyes out, I cried my throat and tongue out. I cried and cried and cried, all the time. It was sudden, the grief will tickle it way into my throat, then my nose and eyes will pick it up, and cry. I cried with my whole body, it shake and rocked. I cried badly, and begin to find God, because he ought to help, right? I cried till I started to console myself, which only reminded me of the one who should be consoling me, and there you go, another big fucking tears.

I am done with the Pity. Pity, it was maddening. Everyone's pity and mine to me. Do not look at me or ask why I walk home alone, don't you dare ask why I listen to NF all the time, you better not say how lonely you think I am, oh, you mean you can't comprehend how I get joy in staying in my room all day. Do not fucking pity me for how everything turned out, don't. I see it in your eyes when we bump into each other on the road, or when I catch your eyes in the crowd, or see you in a store. Don't you dare pity me, I chose to wear this cloth, I will sit and revel in it.

I am done with pitying myself. Oh jeez, I made too much noodles, forgetting it's just me. It's morning again, and I'm waking up, alone, within this four walls that feel like a cage, and so far from home. Here I am, sick, but still cooking for myself. It was easy to pity me, because you were gone, easy to dwell in the emptiness, to wallow in self loathing, you were gone, but I am done pitying me. I chose to wear this cloth, I will sit and revel in it.

I am also done with the Hope. Hope is a slow poison, it cemented me in place, I was trapped in limbo, holding on to Hope. I spit it away. Hope doesn't work here, in this situation, there's no home for it. It broke me, took my heart and tore it. It told me ---  “Wait, hold on, have faith, she's coming, you will dance in the rain again, take mindless and gist about boys, just you wait, I said she's coming.”

Naturally, like the fool I was, I waited, and waited, even when I wilted, I still waited. I am done with the Hope.

I am done with Holding on. There's a poem I saw that goes along the line -- most thing I've let go gas claw marks. See, go, leave, I let you go. Holding on? That should be my middle name, there are so much claw marks, do you not feel and see it in your sides, where I dug my hands into, and held on. Holding on, I held on to a rose, blinded by the flowers until it drew a similar red with its thorns.

Some days, you wake up, and you just know. Just like I know I'll write till the day I die, just like I know that I really like rice, like I know novels make a part of my world, that's how I know I'm done. Loving was like breathing, easy. Letting you go wasn't easy, but it has led me, to the easy part, like breathing.

Go, there's a bit less of you, lesser every day, now.