As I write this, I have been awake for 20 hours now, and counting.
I cannot sleep.
I know I will probably regret writing what I am about to write, and will also probably take this post down as soon as I feel better about things, but right now this just has to be let out.
I have not been feeling like myself lately. My mind has been kinda fuzzy. Okay, A LOT fuzzy. Some days I don’t feel like functioning at all, but I know I need to. I also know I can’t be breaking down like this, because people expect me to be coherent. Heck, I expect me to be coherent. Work is piling up and deadlines will not be moved just because I don’t feel like functioning.
In all honesty, I do not know what is up with me. Could this just be fatigue? Burnout? I know I spread myself out too thinly last semester, and barely had any rest during the sem break. But that is life, is it not? It is one thing after another; it waits for no one. Saying no to something so imminent, so available right in front of you feels like committing a violation of some sort, like submitting to a kind of laziness you just cannot afford to have at this point in your life. As a young adult trying to start out in life, I feel this most intensely now. Things are happening left and right, and I feel pulled in more directions than I care to even look at right now. I need to breathe, but it feels like there is barely space even for that.
But that is not the worst part, I suppose. There are more things I could say here, certainly, but admittedly I am more careful here. This page is no longer as anonymous as I initially intended it to be. So forgive the guardedness. This is not how I would write if I knew no one would be reading.
Nonetheless, I want there be authenticity here, though it is bound to render me more vulnerable. So let me end this passage with an excerpt from my Journal, the one thing I’ve revealed most of myself to, the one thing I’ve felt safest to be honest with:
· • ·
“Every day I still think about it. I feel like a long, complicated novel in a world that would rather read 5-page, vibrant picture books. I am not flashy, my edges are torn, I have the feel of dust between my pages, and I reek of the smell of forlorn books, unopened for ages. I have a long and distant past; the prologue is mostly boring and contains nothing that would give the reader any idea on what will happen in the subsequent chapters. The plot is still a work in progress, and difficult to understand. There is no sense of completion at the end of every chapter. There are characters long dead that keep popping up in random pages, confusing readers even more. There is no clarity whatsoever; most times, there is only a blur.
I keep missing people…A lot of my life has been spent hoping to cross paths again with people in my past. It’s like I am moving forward in the hope of rounding back to the same place I’ve passed by before.
There is a lot to forget,
more than what is actually there to remember.”
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