Maybe I’m just being silly.
Maybe I’m just wasting my time loving her.
Maybe she just does not fucking care about me anymore.
Maybe not even the slightest tiniest bit.

At this point, maybe if I were lying on the bed, dying, counting my last breaths, maybe she won’t even care about me anymore.


My days are okay.
At least I could say that they really are.
My works are piling up, and I have little time to do anything else.
I still read, I still write (like right now), and I still go out with some of my co-workers whenever I have the time.
I still drink couple times a month.
Alone at most, and sometimes with co-workers.

I said my days are okay, but not.. Really okay.

As you can see, I switched my daily post to a post that sums up my entire feelings – mainly about her – in one short post.
I know I already described this in one of my previous post,
But right now, I just want to tell you lot the reason why.
The real reason on why I wrote short posts every single day lately.

The truth is, I wrote a lot.
And by a lot, I mean a goddamn LOT.
I wrote every single thought and feelings that came to my heart.
They – those scrapped writings – were raw with my emotions.
Love, anger, yearning, sadness, everything.

I wrote how I love her, comparing her with cliche shits such as the moon, the stars, the sun, the galaxy, the universe. My universe.
I wrote how angry I am on what happened to her and on what happened to me and her, about those people that betrayed her.
I wrote about how I yearn for her, how I really want to hold her in my arms, bury my face in her hair, and never let her go anymore.
I wrote about how the sadness lingers inside my body, how it really is eating my heart and my soul from inside my body.
I wrote about everything.

But then, as I was done with my writing, after numerous paper spilled with ink, after they were filled with my writings,

I tore them all.

I scrapped every single one of them.
I threw them up in the air – those papers – all of them.
And I threw my pen away, I broke it into two.
I went mad in frustration, I was drowned in it.
I screamed, I screamed aloud like I was crying for someone’s death.
Like I was crying for the death of someone that I so dearly love.
At that time, a certain quote flashed in my head:

“One of the hardest thing you will ever have to do is to grieve the loss of a person who is still alive.”

Yes, I broke down.

The hardest one since more than half a year ago.

I knelt on the floor, with my forehead touching the floor.
I clutched the table legs, crying like a little kid begging their parents for some useless toys at some random display window.
I let out whatever it was that nested in my heart and mind.
I let them all out, repeatedly whispering the same single word over, and over, and over again like some madman in psychiatric ward:


Until my throat felt like it was stuck with something that I could heard was my own sobbing – that I can’t repeat that word anymore.

I looked around, and saw my own aftermath.
And I saw all the goddamn mess that I made.
Reaching out the torn papers, I took one of them and read it.
What was it? Some scribbles? Stupid words? I didn’t care about them.
I didn’t care about my words, and I didn’t care about my writings.
For few seconds, the world seemed to stop.
It was as if time stopped ticking for me.
And in that moment of madness, I was thinking,

“What happened to me? Why the heck am I doing all of this? What’s the real purpose of me pouring my heart out to my writings and burying myself under all my work if in the end, I’m back to square one? If in the end, I’m back to breaking myself down and grieving of what has happened to me? Why?”

Once again I looked at the scattered desk, and saw the mess.
All the books that I have, my favourite books, on the floor.
I looked at them, and again made another thinking.

“What’s the use of all these books? What’s the use of all this knowledge that I have, if I don’t have her? They say knowledge is power, and with power, you can do anything. Maybe they have to revise those goddamn words.”

And it was in those moment I that the thought came,
Creeping in like some master thief.

That maybe I’m just being silly.
Maybe I’m just wasting my time loving her.
Maybe she just does not fucking care about me anymore.
Maybe not even the slightest tiniest bit.
And that at this point, maybe if I were lying on the bed, dying, counting my last breaths, maybe she won’t even care about me anymore.
Maybe she’ll just scoff at me, and laugh at whatever it is that I am going through right now.
To be honest, me broken down like that was not solely from her.
There was something happened to my family.
Something that she already knew what it was.
Something that I can’t really say it here.
The point is, my yearning for her and her only, and that thing – problems with my family – brought me to a sudden, short state of insanity.

I sat on the floor, and covered up my face with my both hands.
And for the first time since more than half a year ago, I just wanted to disappear, away from anything, to another parallel galaxy where she and I are just okay, where everything is just alright.
Yet, at that time, I suddenly remember something.
I remember the thing that I’ve promised to her.
Heck, I don’t even know if she knew that I promised something to her.

I saw the tattoo on my wrists.
And it all came back to me.
My promises for her, the thing that I said to her that I won’t be defeated by mere depression, that I will stand up against whatever it is that comes to me.
And other promises that I made to her.
And I NEVER made empty fucking promises.
Promises are promises, and they are meant to be kept.
Just like when I said to her that I promised her, that I will always love her no matter what happens.

I went silent for awhile, once again staring at the tattoo on my left wrist.
I swallowed hard, took a deep breath,
And began to collect my books from the floor.
As I put them back and arrange them on the table, I, for the unknownth time, looked again at the floor and all the papers – all the mess.
I pushed my desk away,and sat at the center of the room,
And I began to read the torn paper, one by one.
And this time, I really took time in reading them:

“… Whose heart is full of such loving words that I am unable to express them clearly in my speech, that I need to write all down..”

“… Should I shriek? Trapped in the present, with her absence filling my days? No, I’ll roar anyway. I’ll roar my words of might with such love that..”

“… For I will love her even though she’s still tasted of heartache and war..”

“… Her words, the words that she wrote and speak, burn me like a forest fire. Oh they burn every part of me and lit my insides crackle. An eternal flame in..”

“… Don’t let them scar you, and don’t lie to yourself..”

“… You came and hit me like a hurricane – a total storm where I got no…”

“… Fools for love, a fool, foolishly falling in love, a true love where..”

“.. Cause I was looking at myself in the goddamn mirror, and didn’t even recognize who was that man I was looking at. Sad face. Sad eyes. There’s..”

“… Unconditionally, for all of her naked imperfections..”

And I wept. Again.
What the hell was I doing?
Why the heck did I tore up all the paper in that book?
Why did I do that ?
I collected all the scraps – all the paper in my hand.
I put them on my desk, and began to think on what I should do.
I instantly knew after few seconds:

I need to write.

And here I am.
Sitting down, writing things, my daily things that I should have written since days or even weeks ago.
That maybe I really need to write things instead of short, stupid posts.
That maybe I really need to write everything down.
No, no maybe; I really need to fucking write.
I don’t know what the hell it is that I was thinking that I ended up tearing apart one of my books that filled with my writings.
But all I know, is that I still remember everything that I wrote inside the book.

I think I begin to understand what Ernest Hemingway said:

That there is nothing to writing.
Because all I need to do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

And starts from today, I need to bleed more ink.




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