Why can't I cry? How much I want to, how much I need to, the tears won't fall. And I had long given up thinking about the reason behind it.
Sometimes I just wanted to cry because I felt so happy. So happy that I swear my chest's ripping open in an attempt to keep it all in.
There were times I just stared at the pieces of paper, different sizes, colors and shapes, sketched with various absurdities that I had always been accustomed to call my art. Many people tell me they love me for those. Damn. No matter how much flourishing appreciation reach my ears, no matter how much love they show for those sheets of paper, the awe that's supposed to inspire me—I can't seem to appreciate them. Ok so, I do, but it isn't lasting than I want it to last.
Same for the written work; they say—no, I say that I'm a better poet than I am an artist or novelist. Because in poems I can show how I feel. It's amazing how thoughts turn beautiful with the proper blend of words. Those too—many people appreciate my poems. But it's because these poems manifest my feelings, feelings that won't come out in actions and words, only in letters. Beautiful letters that people love, people love to feel—because people love bitterness. I, for one, am definitely full of that. I do not know where most of it fruited from, but it's there.
Why do I not love what I am supposed to love, appreciate what I am supposed to appreciate?
Or maybe I'm just not capable of loving anymore, is that it?
I feel so heavy inside.
This pain that has long been kept, accumulated and damaged my soul more than I thought it could.
Yes, there are people who love me—say they love me. But in a sense, I do not trust that they really do, at least not completely.
Now tears are welling my eyes. They blur my vision as I write. But I doubt they'd fall.
The air that I breathe now seems thicker. Colder. Sharper. Piercing me to the very core. In that empty core.
What had I become?
I had always said that I'm happy with what I am now. But times like this—when the crickets would not sing their evening song—reminds me, slaps me with the fact that I really am not.
Yes. I am not happy.
Not a bit—not a fiber of my being is happy. Maybe I just pretend I am. I don't know. Though sometimes I honestly feel I do. Is it just to fool myself, perhaps? Or a reason, an excuse not to want to change anymore?
I would look at one of my friends' work. Stare at it for long moments, drink the image and its exquisiteness. Exquisiteness that I was told many times I possess, but I didn't believe in any of them.
Drink the image until I spite its beauty.
Because maybe, in the back of my mind, I knew I could never be as good. And to think that I'd always openly admit she's better than me.
What a hypocrite.
Pretending to be kind and humble, when in reality, they're all about falsity. Then goes feeling envious and dwelling in self-pity afterwards. It's funny how simple things like this make you think a lot about yourself.
Could I not believe in what people say they see? Could I not really believe in their appreciation and love for me?
Ah, I know why I can't. I cannot believe they do because I, myself, don't think so.
Like there is something always missing, behind the coal and ink, more profound than the effort I sweat and sacrifice for their nativity.
And it all goes back to me. Something would always be missing until I find myself.
I had believed that I knew who I really am, knew what I really wanted, knew what would satisfy me. And I still believe I do. But I don't. How come? I don't know. And that just proves that there are a lot of things I don't know than I claim to.
Confidence and self-esteem—one minute I'm reeking of, another I'm fatally lacking.
Who am I, really?
Does it really sum up to this one question?
What did I do to deserve this confusion? Nothing's left but this confusion—there is no pain, there is no happiness, there is no anger. For I am still the walking statue that the world moulded me to be. All I did was be the best person I can be, and they did nothing but eat that life from me. It ruined me completely. Now I'm thinking that the damage is already beyond repair.
They're welling again.
Still not enough to fall. And even before they do, they dry.
I didn't do anything wrong in the first place and I hurt more than anyone could ever know. Why am I supposed to be the one to suffer all the time?
And what can I do? I can only write about it. No one cares enough to listen, moreover to try to understand. But I know no words can express me. Not a thousand, not a million.
Would I be able to get over this at all?
I am wasting before my very eyes and I could just stand still and watch. There is one thing I look for, one thing I do not know, but it had always been missing.
Is it hope, the capacity to love, what is it?
Because until I know what it is, I'll forever be empty.
The truth hurts, does it not?
But here's the better question—what is the truth?
The truth is I do things that I want to do for the sake of sheer pleasure, eventhough how temporary, without no particular goal or motive. Because, I just want to. And freeing myself from the prying eyes of everyone else, I believe I am free.
At least I did. Now I'm crawling back to where I first started. From nothing.
I gave up believing in dependence a long, long time ago. I do not need anybody, I can help myself. Because being dependent obliges you to surrender your trust. And that, I do not want to give, for I know how it hurts to be betrayed. Directly or indirectly. It comes to a point that you expect too much than you should—and when your dependence, when your trust fails, you hurt. Very, very badly. At least in depending solely on yourself, you got no one to blame, and you do the very best to meet your expectations, because, naturally, it's for yourself. You don't hesitate—like others could.
Is it truth that nobody loves me?
Or is it that I refuse to see?
Or is it nobody really does?
Being a hypocrite again, I say I do not believe in relying on others, but asking these questions anyway.
I need help after all. For someone to give me answers.
Is it reality that I am but a lost soul, walking aimlessly on a wasteland of false hopes to kill time and wait for something that would have meaning?
I only go in circles, like I always had.
Hurts having to be lost. Hurts knowing that you are lost. Hurts that you and what you believe in falter before your eyes. Hurts that you are misunderstood more than most of the time. Hurts having to have no choice.
But still, what hurts most is that no matter how painful it is, no matter how tired I am, no matter how tired I am of shouting and shouting words that nobody seems to hear…
The tears still won't fall.