misgiving

I refuse to hear the truth. I choose to believe that things can go back to how they were like nothing happened. This was my greatest fear. And that horror has happened. How do you choose between the earth and soul? How do you survive a battle within yourself?

I have no regrets and I know I would take the same path if I come across it once more. But that does not give me comfort. What would? It is heartbreaking to tell a wonderful miracle as if it was a horrible tragedy. Yet the aftermath hunts me.

These days I content myself with the thought that I am working things out. I convince myself each day that all these efforts are not dire. I wallow at night as I bid myself goodnight. I have hope that I will survive this. I have hope that I can do this.

We do things for two reasons – because we want to and because we have to. This I did because I want to and more so I have to. And though we are aware of the consequences, we will never be prepared for the dismay once it occurs. All we have is the fulfillment that we got what we want and we did what needed to be done.

some mornings

Some mornings I wake up and ask myself, did I really think I can do this?

My heart is filled with thick, black smoke. I have everything figured out since I was 7. I knew what I wanted to become and I was firm about it. I made that decision long before adults would start asking kids “what do you want to be when you grow up”. I was a grown up even before I began growing. I have everything mapped out – school, work, career, family, old age, death.

Indeed all these things happened. Some did not materialize exactly as I thought it would be but overall, I was on schedule. I have thought about all the emotions I would go through as well and surprisingly, I was not wrong to any of it. I may have missed a feeling or two but otherwise, all is well.

Some mornings I wake up and ask myself, did I really think I can make it?

I walked out of the bright room into the darkness. I puffed a smoke of cigarette in the middle of the icy backyard of the basement of a house we call home. My lungs are filled with fresh air as I inhaled the tarry, dirty, smoke. It’s odd how I breathe better with smoke.

I went back to the bright room and I am just spent. I have lost myself in a matter of weeks. I make coffee but never have the chance to taste it anymore. I think of brushing my teeth but don’t remember doing it. I hold my hair brush in my tired hands but my hair remained a mess. Where did myself go?

Some mornings.. may be I won’t wake up no more.