It’d been years since I last writing. It’d also been years since the last time I was being honest about how I’d felt.
People always said that it’s a good thing to be busy. You’re seen highly if you’re busy; people liked to make a big deal out of nothing. However, that’s what I’d been doing until now. I’d been so busy that I neglected my own feelings. How long had it been since I didn’t try to bury them in and confront them honestly?
I’d never trusted any label such as ‘dramatic’ or ‘oversensitive’. I’d always believed that my feelings were valid, that no one but me could say nor understand how I felt and so I had the rights to say it out loud. However, lately I’d been doubting myself. Was it all true? Was I not oversensitive? Was I not dramatic?
Being aware of yourself was great, I agreed that you should be aware of what you’d done, how you felt. I’d say sorry if I was wrong and I’d expect apologies when someone did me wrong. However, it didn’t always go that way, did it? When the other party — in their twisted mind — thought that they didn’t do anything wrong, I was left with the only option: maybe I was the one that’s in fault. Was I?
I realized that it was the beginning of my death as a writer. I started to numb my feeelings, my thoughts, my hopes, my losses… because maybe I was wrong all along. I no longer had the confidence to write about anything. Since then, I began to live ‘realistically’, ‘normally’… if there was ever ‘normal’ existed in this world.
I didn’t know that it’d kill me. It was crazy; I started to bleed on people who didn’t cut me. I didn’t have any other way to express my feelings, so I bled on those around me. I wish I had remembered having a place where I could be accepted, no matter how foolish, awkward, or wrong I was.
This was the place, our place. I guessed, at some point, we all forgot about the place because we’re so used to our ‘normal’ lives, forgetting that perhaps we’re not meant to fit in the definition of others’ ‘normal’. Perhaps I was made to be dramatic, to feel everything deeply, and to live my life the way I wanted it to.
If that’s the case, it’s alright — I could live with that.
Rainbow Ride 