“Every good party has to end”. But it sucks.

I am unsure how to start this blog, honestly. As I shared with you all before in one of responding to daily prompt of Daily Post WordPress, I used writing for containing my thoughts. That is one reason for me to start this blog post, but somehow my thoughts and feelings are going out all over a glass, I am still unsure how to wrap them all into words here.

Two of my best friends were here for the last week. I knew about this trip already when I left Finland, moving to France. And I think I am passing through the phase of adrenalin drying out.

It has also been more than a month I have been living in France. But everything passed by as if days have not been counted. I had my ups and downs, which is normal to each of us but amazingly good for me, because there are ups moments. Even so, the downs tick-tock still has its weights. I could sense myself withdrawing into my own sensitive shell. I could see myself being afraid to be against a big world out there, including my own family and friends, who do not understand me. Maybe there is no “being against” after all, you know. Then again, even knowing so does not prevent from failing in those battles, I fail to be in control of my thoughts. At the end of the day, it was just me being bitter at my own feelings and me sitting at the corner of the room dried out from exhaustion.

So, I was glad they came. I just didn’t think I would be so sad when they left, as something were taken away from me again. Over the past month, I suppose my accustom or effort of being on my own somehow works out well. I grew slowly another forgetfulness. I forgot how much I also enjoy being around my friends, all the laughter and joy besides the sorrow they might remind of, even though they have nothing to do with the cause, they were just there. Their presence here first felt awkward, the same tone of emotion when I started this post. I had stuff to say, but not sure where to address and how or if they would like to hear. Such awkwardness lasted for more than an hour, I would say, in Nice.

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The big main square in Nice, which I can only assume placed at the center of this city. Nice was nice, my trip was too short for me to describe just yet about it. Maybe another time…

Then, we had a dinner, and things took off. Dirty version of conversations and common thoughts, all the things you can only feel most comfortable to talk with people you love. A tune of excitement started to rise up inside me, as my friend said “There is a reason why we became closed friends“. Yes, we have been closed friends, we have been through ups and downs, they have witnessed me changing from one person to another person whom they might not even realise, and yet they still stay even though wall of distance appear naturally (or healthily?). I forgot, you know.

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Those are the two. I thought of keeping them anonymous, but well, why?

You look good. You look tanned. But this Mediterranean looks suits you“, she told me over the dinner. I smiled because I think so, too. I was glad that somebody also saw it, my improvement from my ability of holding onto the “ups” moments. It could be little desperation of approval, but at least the comment made me be certain of my decision to drop everything, drop friends and flee to a place, in which I hope to find my certainty (?). A question mark is there since I yet figured out what exactly I was looking for. Or it could be as my friend said, “you do know, you are just afraid to admit yet“.

Dinner led to a spontaneous going-out night. It was fun, and if this can make it more clear or whatsoever, it was literally fun. So fun that I woke up next day, in the same hostel room with them, opening my hangover eyes on a strange bed and couldn’t help wondering why I did what I did. The following hours, and the journey turning back to Mandelieu (they would come there later) were weird. I felt ashamed.

But what for, really?

I woke up next to people I see almost to my family, it could have been worse. I did not do anything reckless, as some other times. I simply loosened up, and allowed the joy bubble sucking me in. But I felt ashamed. I had not been socialising that much for the last month. Maybe, it was the alien feeling then. I hoped so.

When they arrived at Mandelieu, my thoughts were forced to stop. I needed to be a host. I lied on the bed that night with my friends, and the awkward vibe was lying in between us again. I kept wondering why, when I was brought back to many times before when we were so closed, and talked so deeply into lives we would never be control of. Next days passed by more easily. I was opening up again, if those were right words to describe. I talked, shared a bit, laughed, sometimes stayed quiet for resting my head from the unnecessary thinkings. Most importantly, I let myself being driven back to my life I flee from, my Jyvaskyla. In the last night they were here, I and my friend took an evening walk, towards those deep convos we used to have. There were moments we opposed to each other. I couldn’t understand why she said what she said, and most importantly, I couldn’t understand why I could not see what she saw. I was not furious, but I did think of withdrawing again. I was glad she didn’t let me. The ending note was reached by our agreement of “not trying to make sense of everything“.

I agreed of “not being so hard on myself, and not running, and that I have done more than I can see“. And she agreed of “being so judgmental sometimes, she couldn’t embrace the differences, and that she was not perfect herself either, but she wanted to help“. So maybe I have indeed changed, or I have not yet let go of 1000 layers of emotions, or we are reaching a point where two closed friends start to drift apart in their world’s perspectives; I still felt wholly being there next to her. I forgot, you know, that everyone needs people.

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Our last time on Mandalieu beach

 

They left yesterday. Hearing their steps echoing in the wind, I wanted to cry. I know I would miss them for the next few days. I know I would tend to clean, to busy my mind out of such emptiness. Most of all, I know that I was a bit scared of loneliness, and my inability to fight inner battles alone again.

Starting of this post is difficult, as well as the reason to have it here instead of my personal journal. I got interrupted in this point here to go seeing a concert. I became a thinker again flowing within the music of Edith Piaf. I kept wondering why. It might have been that time was not enough. One week sounded enough for a holiday but it was not enough for me to share with them. I had trucks carrying loads of things and if I have to unload somewhere, there should only be while with them. It also might have been I like hanging around with people and not good being alone or strong as I wish I am.

So, when I came home an hour ago, watched Friends (as usual), the episode of “The one with George Stephanapoulos“, a bell was ringing in my head. These friends are my Magic Beans (if you are Friends’ fan, you will know what I mean; if you are not a fan, I am sure you might know the show and the episode anyway). And I would be so damned one day if I let them pass away now. At least, I would like to believe they would still be there.

I guess, behind all those imperfect words and long expressions, I just hope your reading this helps you see, it is okay to need people. I have been told, taught and reminded continuously, human beings are created for connections—a connection we should embrace, instead of blurring it. It does taste bad, the flavour of being misunderstood or being judged on; but I can see now it does not taste much better, the flavour of loneliness when you need [magic beans] the most.

The Shadow Years and The Shadow casting over readers

As far as I know, Hannah Richell has published two books: Secret of The Tides and The Shadow Years. I fortunately have both in my possession as birthday gifts from a friend who is also a brother to me. I read Secret of The Tides and even though I only have few pages left to finish, I have never actually finished it. The drama is so well-built that I sensed my heaviness built along with it. I took my time reading that one, rather slow, both because I tried not to rush into the “after-reading” feeling and because I needed breaks from that tragedy illustrated through the story.

I brought the second book of hers with me to France, and for the last few days, almost the same things happened again. I said “almost” as I actually finished the book this time. I even read the author’s interview at the end, seeing how Hannah said she was afraid she might not be able to drive off the “beaten path” of her first book. Even though both of the books orbit around one tragedy event which led people do towards paths belonging to “grey” area of the brains—quoted Hannah’s words herself—the Shadow Years brings out stronger pulling force inside me to search for the answers. When I finished it yesterday, I had to jot down my thoughts before they slipped away, and I rolled around on my bed still shivering a little from how I have been a part of the story, like a witness watching everything happening from the outside.

I must warn you, some spoiler alerts might be noticed soon, but I will try my best not to ruin your curiosity.

The story is based on a cottage, a still cottage placing almost in the middle of nowhere, but luxuriously being offered the finest beauty of nature all around. What happens in this still cottage is a time string connecting past and present events. One point, readers found themselves watching 5 recent graduated students in 1980 and another point, we will soon move back to a woman named Lila, living in London, who has just been in unfortunate event of losing her child. Reading about present event, I couldn’t help finding many resemblance and I am sure I might not the only one. The contrast Lila found between her urban life in London and her (a bit) spooky version in the cottage, is understanding for anyone under similar circumstances.

But stories about Lila is not driven factor for me. To me, Lila is a connecting dot, a result from all twisted events that happened. Reading about Lila calms me down, because what strikes me the most is the past.

 I marked notes throughout the book and when reviewing them, I felt as if I am watching a transformation of 5 young people—who are dreamers, who wish to not step yet into a so-called complicated adult and real world—to a point where each individual drifts off into their real form. Simon, a natural leader and a power addict. Mac, a silent guy who seems not to care about a single thing but also a person desperately need acceptance to be in a group. And Kat, the best transformation or revelation, I am still unsure. Only two others Ben and Carla I have found not going through major shifting.

I found my breath ascending and descending the closer it comes to an end. I understand what Hannah tried to deliver to readers, the “greyness” in people but I still cannot wrap my head around it, how a broken heart and lonely soul can lead Kat becoming someone else. Or maybe deeply it is never revealed until her dream got stolen away. Kat is a representative of a shadow, of dark side and Freya is for the opposite. But for whatever darkness Kat has endured through, she became a survivor, a too rational to be mad survivor I would even say. Freya, the late outsider stepping in, has been protected not to go through childhood tragedies, only found herself later going through an adulthood tragedy which she is never prepared for. 

I think on some level, readers can guess some details happening about the final truth. Maybe, that is why the author plays with our mind a little, make us be impatient a little more until the very end to untie all mysterious knots in our heads. I recalled myself having goosebumps at the epilogue part, of a truth only could be best described by Hannah “the dance of shadows on the surface of Kat’s brain“. A twisted truth coming out of a knotted situation, in which nobody could see how to undo things or where to fix, certainly not Kat. 

I had to tame myself reading as slow as possible. I know this is going to happen: me being startled by the ending and my emptiness after a good book being read well. I didn’t want to rush, because it was so easy to fall into the trap. If you let yourself suck in, you can’t stop, you will be urged to keep searching for answers behind those shadows. 

This novel’s story is amazingly haunted, and I am sure it will remain so for me in at least couple of more days. The cottage, the landscape, the place at the end remains the same but nobody is sure how much secrets it contains. Finally, there seems to be a reason why Lila kept feeling being watched.

Some Friday nights are more quiet

Having been living in a small city for long, then moving to a similar calm & small city,  in a residence locating at a quiet area, I have forgotten how to live in big cities.

I used the word “forgotten” because I was born in one, in a city which has much much more people, traffic and activities. 18 years living there, my life is attached with the presence and close gaps of human around. Air is polluted even. I later spent 6 months living in London, for which I grew love. I formed attraction to those crowded stations and to the people the world might assume being cold. Nights in my city and nights in London are one of my favourite memories. The laughters from people sitting at restaurants or pubs, the breezy wind touching your face, the lights being on the whole night, all those combined make those nights alive in an urban way. I have never compared much London or Ho Chi Minh City with Jyvaskyla in Finland; as I’d like to think deep down I am still a city girl—born with noise and lights and dinner nights surrounded by friends. 

Today was my fourth time being in Cannes. Mandalieu La Napoule is not far from Cannes, so my chance of being there is in fact the highest. But today was my only second time actually walking further outside of the train station. Original plan was me being offered a company and a ticket to see Cannes Film Festival (you know what I’m talking about, it is probably all around your social media pages). Plan was changed at last minute, partly because of me. It was okay, I felt a bit relieved. I was in no mood for having a company, not to mention a company who might not communicate the same language. So, I was alone in Cannes. I wanted to see what the fuss was all about this film festival.

Cannes today was different and surely much more chaotic. I didn’t feel the French touch in the atmosphere as in other cities I went to. Cannes wore a glamorous but serious outlook today. Getting off the train station, people will be faced first with polices everywhere. Then, cars and stop signs. Following the crowd, you might walk towards where the film festival and red carpet is placed. Along the way, you might see all people dressing in suits and dresses with amazing makeups, filling in almost every restaurants or pubs. You might pump into few people with professional cameras or filming equipments. You will see many people wearing tickets over their necks, some look rather relaxing but some look focused and busy, carrying many things at the same time, speaking to the phones or holding salad boxes for dinner and walking urgently. You won’t distinguish between locals and tourists, because even the locals wear different outlooks. However, you cannot help but noticing the contrast corners, where there are workers cleaning public toilets, picking up trashes or simply sitting patiently inside a shop with their eyes staring at the crowd outside. You cannot also help but thinking there would be many other people who did not even bother about being inside the festival as they have to work, and festival time seems to be most profitable. Well, at least these experiences were what I had.

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Along the way to Cannes
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Random but beautiful port I caught
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The harbour near Film Festival Venue in Cannes

But really, I forgot how to live in a city as such. I kept everything into myself. I could sense my face appearing grumpy to others around but I couldn’t help it either. There were so many people backwards, besides and behinds. They all dress so nice, it makes me feel smaller. They all have groups to be in with, it makes me scared of going into a restaurant alone and sitting there to look at the streets. I have been puzzled of what caused this forgetfulness.

Back when I was a little kid, I always had this fear of doing something in front of a lot of people. I got nervous imagining myself behaving embarrassingly and getting “the look”—a glance people give you for being different or doing something not considered common. I grew up and tried and learnt to also grow out of that fear. Days like today, I realised seed of that fear is still under the soil and plant of that fear is never really dead. Maybe it was my needs of blending in. Maybe it was the fright of people’s eyes following me even though I know those looks don’t mean anything, just a meaningless act people do sometimes looking at the streets. Maybe it was both, but I felt overwhelmed and walked towards a beach side, which was much calmer.

I spent years living in Finland. I probably have talked about these many many times in previous posts of how I found the country’s silence rather shocking at first but then growing affection for it later on. Maybe it was too much of affection for that private space and quietness. Maybe it was me struggling determining my own identity. I used to be more extravert. I have never liked taking a personality test though, but I used that term as I did it once together with my group of best friends back then, it was just for trying. Anyhow, I used to be more outgoing. There were periods me being more quiet, but I did jump back to being outgoing, talkative and enjoying companies. Nowadays, I do not know who that girl is anymore and where to find. Socialising requires much effort these days, or even just being surrounded by socialised people. Maybe it was the frustration of being unsure what to do next: walking towards the crowd to see Film Festival and proving to myself I do not need any company to survive, or allowing my fear of attention to blossom a little; but I walked towards the beach.

I sat there for a while.

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Processed with VSCO with g3 preset

This forgetfulness tires me out, and leads me doing things I don’t wish to. People’s eye contacts towards me, I found irritated. People’s waving or talking towards me, I just walk away ignoring. What is up with my will for human contacts? The moment I walk away, I feel bad for treating other humans in such way. What if they need help? I have always blamed ignorant people, now I might become one. The city life, chaotic and unpredictable, leads me to be so doubtful.

So, I craved for books. So, I took a bus and went home. Along the way, I thought of an Austrian proverb I pumped into earlier this week (sorry, I did neither remember who wrote it nor could ensure every words here would be exact):

He who does not know who he is, can say anything.

The Train

The story is beautifully written, and I would excuse myself from saying additional words besides many other possible reblogs, and you should experience it yourself.

Ann Cavitt Fisher

Train compartment,Copyright habrda / 123RF Stock Photo

Life, love, and death on a trip from Amsterdam to Paris.

The train picked up speed as it left the station in a little town not far from Amsterdam. We passed so close to a row of houses I felt I could touch them, all neat, all the same. Lace curtains hung in each window, and a dusting of the recent snow still held on the roofs.

The sun’s rays sparkled on the window, refracting light into the cabin of the train. It was cold. I pulled my coat from the seat next to me onto my lap to stop the draft on my legs. My gothic architecture book lay open to the chapter on St. Denis. Reading in French seemed more difficult than usual, and I found myself going over the same paragraph again.

When the cabin door opened with a jarring SNAP, I gave a rabbit-like start as a man stepped into the compartment…

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You and me, are we different?

I work with this card game diversophy®, created by someone with high experiences in intercultural management and diversity. I wish to major in progressing my study knowledge about this field. I have read a certain amount of articles and books about diversity (maybe just few comparing to many people). So, when I saw daily prompt for today was “diverse“, I thought, well, that would be something I needed to write about. But, the moment I sat down in front of my computer, I was stuck.  I was triggered of whether I had actually understood the word ever.

Let’s search on Google “diversity“, I said to myself. I did. Here were top ones I found on the first page:

  • DIVR (Diversity Recordings) is a Label Record dedicated in releasing & supporting artists from all over the world.
  • the quality or state of having many different forms, types, ideas, etc. : the state of having people who are different races or who have different cultures in a group …

  • https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diversity_(politics)

    In sociology and political studies, the term diversity (or diverse) is used to describe political entities (neighborhoods, student bodies, etc.) with members who …

  • gladstone.uoregon.edu/…/diversityinit/definition.html

    Definition of Diversity. The concept of diversity encompasses acceptance and respect. It means understanding that each individual is unique, and recognising …

I did not click onto any links there. Why? I think all first few words have already told us enough, or at least me (well, except the first one, I did not have any knowledge about such). They told me one core point: society includes people from different background, who have different opinions/lifestyles/personalities/characteristics/beliefs/and so forth but that makes each individual unique. 

I have come recently many articles about self-identity. Possibly, originality of this term is from Western culture, which is now developing strongly among young generation. We might get annoyed hearing we “are the same as the rest“. We want to hear we “are different in our way“. We wish to be seen among a big crowd. We are afraid of simply blending in. In fact, I come from a culture, in which “blending in” would not be considered as bad. Following a beaten path sometimes might be wise. Because if the rest of people are doing a thing, why not you?

Somewhere along my high school journey, I began to question: well, why should I?

Maybe that was the moment I packed my bag, heading towards a long continuous journey of finding myself, my so-called identity. Yes, I do not want to be seen “the same as the rest“. I do want to hear I “am different in my way“. I do wish to be seen among a big crowd. It is not because I strive for attention. But I strive for differences. Days after days, months after months,every single time I meet a new person, hear a new story, share a new piece of myself to them, gain a new piece of them to me—is every single reminder of how life is diverse. What’s the fun of growing up in a place where everyone acts the same? Real fun and satisfaction come from moments I find a similarity among sea of differences; “Oh, that person thinks the same as me! Amazing!“.

Days after, I might find out that same person has a whole different perspective on food selection (for example), or on sport hobbies, or many possible other things on the list. However, there is still that one similar common, connecting us and we are still able to keep our own differences. Sometimes, I do forget. Sometimes, I do jump to a conclusion anyone around me should act or think the same as me. It usually takes me hours or days for dragging myself back to the starting point, where I attempt to think: maybe they are different.

I also don’t like judgment. This is not to say I myself have never judged or kept bias before. Stating I don’t like judgement is actually a sentence I still teach myself living daily. I take some moments before or after I form any biases: if I have a right to tell them why their differences are bad? Being diverse is not bad, being different is a privilege; but how we act towards them can come in a bad form. I don’t think I need to tell you more what those bad forms can be, worldwide news might have been already both upset and sufficient enough to you.

Anyhow, in society also exists people like me—who are addicted in differences. As I say, life is diverse, all-good or all-bad world might remain too unrealistically simple to demand for. So, besides the news about terrorism/migration “crisis” (there should never be a phenomenon called migration crisis, but that is another topic) you might have heard, I will also tell you: even if I am no where near yet in re-finding my own identity, I would never change my embrace of diversity. And I think whatever makes you feel unique, you should not let such be buried, you should not let a burden of sameness onto yourself. Because at the end of the day, people being looked at from an angle far away, are all human with bodies and faces—and that is already enough of sameness in my opinion.
Diverse

Raison D’être

was the first words I read today.

Okay, actually it’s not true. My first words to see when I woke up was “Snooze”. 

Anyway I usually don’t go to WordPress in the mornings. Today I did and saw the title on DailyPost. I have been really new with the whole blogging thing, but not writing. 

In many posts of mine before, I might have mentioned this story. I was bad at literature in schools. I was quite OK in primary school, but I guess it was because your mind was still free enough for free-flow creation. I got worse in junior high school and high school. It could be my incompetence. But I did know one among all reasons was how I acknowledged myself being forced to follow a pattern for composing, and how I was instructed to interpret a poem. I would never know if I would even be able to interpret at all without teacher’s guidance, but that’s the thing, I would never know. 

So I thought literature and writing were not my things. 

Towards the end of grade 10, I developed some mental exhaustion patterns. I was under many life change situations. And the fact that I am emotional, sensitive; just added extra strength onto everything. I stayed in my corner of the class. I didn’t want to talk to many people because they wouldn’t understand. But I did want their attention. I needed some attention. I needed people, especially my parents, to see how miserable I was, and give me a hug of empathy. I suppose I did get then, after going to the hospital twice as I was having severe headache, caused from exhaustion. I said “I supposed”, since I do not recall much, surprisingly, what happened but those high peaked notes. 

In grade 11, I had to rebuild my path in a way. I began to wrap many unspoken things inside. I wanted to be more happy. That was my day job. When nights came, some old ghosts returned and I got pushed to do something about it. I needed to unload. And I did them on Word Docs. That was when my writing started. 

That was a whole new writing habit. It was almost a diary but not so much. And it was not even perfect to be public. It was my words, the magical words which in a way, kept all my feelings within. They made me feel lighter. I supposed I found my most lotal friend. I started writing fictional stories, in which main characters were based on me. I gave up fake names, did some unrealistic touches, since back then, I got addicted to the power of controlling my stories. They were my stories, I wanted to give my characters whatever I felt like, or thought they deserved. As if I silently cried for such power in my real life. 

It was not my daily habit. I continued them for quite long though. Here and there, whenever my heart shouted for air, I wrote. My stories never had happy endings though. Then I moved to Finland, during the first year, many many things changed. Among which was my break-up event with my high school boyfriend. It was one of the lightest breakups I have had, probably because I was the one doing it. This doesn’t mean it was easy. I suffered too. And I wrote things I could not tell him. I also wrote down things starting to change to me, outside me and inside me. 

But I stopped for a period. Because I was at the same time writing other bigger chapters. I was re-writing my whole life, and re-discovering my new self. 

I wrote again after London, the most influential event for me. This time, I did not write them as my stories, but my life stories. There were no more fictional characters, there was just me and levels of feelings after first time really falling in love. Remember, that kind of love which drove you madly, without even realising your true core anymore? If you have not had any, don’t worry, I assure there is no joy in the experience. 

Nevertheless, these stories, together with those fictional stories, were never published or shown to anyone. They were my dairies, except I did not write them daily or start with “dear diary“. They were my hobby too, a hobby I only share with few certain people; until the Tumblr blog trial and this blog. I couldn’t say it was not awkward at first, since showing people my writing was nearly telling them the most private parts of me. Even so, after years of writing, my need for being listened got curious. I started to wonder what it would be like to bring these unshaped and unpolished writing to a big community out there.

Here I am. So now, I have two writings, I have my diary and I have my blog. My diary is for deepest things in the bottom of my inner self. And my blog allows me to voice out my world perspectives. I try to keep my blog updated weekly, try very hard. Some weeks went easier, such as this past week, writing flow hit me and I opened my laptop, or picked up my pencil. I don’t have huge network of followers, but every single one who has followed me, I felt I achieved something. Writing is my therapy. Whenever a piece of writing is done, I can sense a satisfaction of doing something useful, despite me unsure how many people would have seen or even read that. I would put them on my blog still, and feel pleasant enough to hope 0,01% of all readers out there who might read my writing and have a connection. Because that’s what has happened to me often. I read other people’s writing, just to see myself reflecting on my own or being in the other person’s shoes. My emotions are evoked, and as sometimes writing can be an act of loneliness too (at least for me), I’d like to comment, let the person know “I hear you“or “God, I feel you!

Most importantly, writing is my freedom, is a world in which I don’t have to obtain this degree to be accepted and don’t have to sound smart all the time to be heard.

Raison D’être

Abandonement

…is when you wish Happy Bday to the person you saw almost every day, every hour, spent every night sleeping next to, for months; and all you recieved is “ty”. A “thank you” word was not even written in full form. Or maybe it is just an over-thinking reaction? 

…was when you went mad because the same person did not wish you Happy Birthday, and you waited hours before your anger—mixed with all the things you held back inside—exploded. You were told it was because of time differences and busy working schedule. You were asked what you wanted the person to do. You were not sure about the answer. 

….is when you don’t recall since when life has turned to be a club, in which people walk in to share same interests. And after many bonds, the beginning interests fade, they walk away. 

…was when you didn’t have a perfect last night to be with a guy. You weren’t prepared for the ending to come, but it did. You were confused how to react, lying on that bed with a cold backside the whole night. 

….is when you keep re-living the same night over subconciously until you grasp for breath because of suffocation. And consciouly whenever you see something with his name or any detail involving him. 

….was when you walked out of that door, hesitated before closing it behind you, walked downstairs but kept looking back, hoping for a miracle. “Please…

….is when life is too ironic: giving you a reason feeling alive and taking away. Because you were never meant to have it in the first place. But maybe it was you, not life. You decided. 

….was when you knew at the beginning you would never be able to replace that girl. But you blindly and madly fell for him anyway. You wanted to be the reason making him happy, as you would be too. You were told you made him happy, but that had never been and was not enough, especially the moment you walked on the plane. 

….is when you are aware you have people around you, but unsure who would actually give you a shoulder to lean on. You have learnt people promised, people cared at first, but then walked away. They have their own baggages and yours are not something extra they bargain for. 

…was when you kept wondering how he had been doing, felt unready to leave without knowing he would be okay. For months. Only to realise it was never reciprocated, except for his words “let him be” being echoed in your head. 

…is a feeling you cannot let go.

…was a wound never healed because you did not know how to mend. 

…is pushing you back to your own corner, away from the world. 

…was what you held onto, for strength to fight. 

….is a series of moments your trust got shattered into pieces. 

….and is yet a wall you wish to break. Knowing it is not who you are, but also knowing without it, you sense as if a part has been dripped apart. 

Abandoned