Too many.

I stood stationary in the face of these invisible barricades, believing in every single decree they placed on my writing. They made me afraid of my own voice and story, because of the imminent darkness that will be unleashed if ever my voice became audible and my story, told.

But heck it. 

Sometimes I wish I can see the future; or at least, the kind of future normal human beings see.

In 30 years, I’m going to become…
In 20 years, I’m going to have…
In 10 years, I’m going to be…
In 5 years, I’m going to get…

I wish I can see that; I really do. But I can’t. It’s funny how I find it so hard to even envision myself alive in 5 years time. It feels almost as if everything that I do right now are tiny secret suicide missions to ensure the advent of my death will definitely arrive.

I ought to be afraid. Perhaps I will when things become inevitable and irreversible. Yet somehow I find that all these beats being visionless and having the hopeless feeling that I’m just a messed up clump of… mess?

Some days, it just gets extremely tiresome to battle this mess. A part of me knows what I’m doing is wrong, yet the desire to self destruct overrules it all. The hurt I inflict upon myself are all justified with the reason of my meaningless existence and how I’ve caused more damage than good in any situation.

‘It’s wrong’, you’d say. I can even hear certain people reprimanding me of my thinking. But it’s a struggle that went on for too long; two decades long of propaganda, I’m not a superhuman who can just snap out of it so simply.

Argh. I’m so exhausted.

Really, how did I get so fucking messed up?

During the short gaps when I’m not trying to analyze my chosen text using both classical (ethos, pathos and logos) and modern (Toulmin’s model) rhetoric – essentially, my Communications assignment; my mind skips to the conversations I had with a few people yesterday.

I can’t actually be too sure how I’m feeling about those conversations, but there is one thing that I’d like to scream from the top of my lungs: LET GO ALREADY.

What is “holding on”? What does it really imply to “hold on to someone” (metaphorically, I mean)?

Well, IMHO, it’s to hold on to your personal idea of that person.

And so, if I say that I’m unable to let go of someone important to me, I’m actually saying that I’m unable to let my idea of that person go. Then what I’m actually trying to do here, is to be an ass (in terms of being extremely stubborn) and refuse to move from the realm of my own fantasy to the realm of reality.

I’m not saying that I’ve attained the ultimate “Buddha-stage” of what I’ve just stated; I struggle a hell lot.

What I’m trying to convey here is that, do you even know that what you’re holding on here isn’t actually real? And trying like hell to put an unreal template into what is already a fact isn’t gonna work!

Oh wells, after feeling like my heart had to withstand another hard pressed moment and my mind telling me to ‘fuck this shit’ with life, I came to the conclusion that I’m too much of a rebel for someone to hold on to me.

Perhaps it’s because I value my freedom, I reckon I’m rather opinionated and I really have a quirky way of thinking when it comes to life.

Honestly, don’t allow an attraction for enigmatic-ness and the temptation to obtain a forbidden fruit become the reasons for a refusal to see the truth.

Hmm, I’m starting to see that I’m really, really not so like-able at all.

I’d love to be likeable. Really. I’d love to. But for people like me, is it possible?

The Dinah who struggles with body image issues… The Dinah who has to resist getting a newer and sharper penknife from time to time… And the Dinah who has so much to hide and so little to reveal…

The path of the enigmatic, is the path I’ve chosen to take once again; revealing what I reckon as vital in conversations and keeping mum to everything else that I assume as unnecessary.

Only snippets, only snippets… 

Perhaps it’s fear; because I don’t think I’m compromising any part of myself to please anyone. Yet I choose to behave in such a way as a form of protection; safeguarding my shattered heart from any further disappointments and hurts.

But honestly, can people like me be helped? Can professionals really help?

Because, how professional is professional enough? And really, is the state of being professional merely an individual putting on a mask for a period of time, in front of a certain group of people?

As humans, we all judge. We treat each other according to the first impressions, judgements and personal stereotypes we cast on people. Can I say that professional help persons are any different? If they’re not, aren’t they just trying to put on a professional front whenever they face a client? And once the “mask of professionalism” is removed, can we really trust the goodwill and character of the person that is helping us?

When we seek professional help for personal issues such as depression, what are the chances that we will meet someone who is truly passionate for the job instead of being in that position merely for the affluence?

Will I be treated as individual, or will I fade into a certain classification of a textbook example?

Hmm, perhaps it’s trust issues that I’m having. But honestly, I’m not about to throw my faith into any person or organisation to have my problems solved.

And so, I choose this path of enigma, this path of not revealing, that even though it can be burdensome at times, but for now, this will do.

I miss yous.

Your smell. Your walk. Your hazelnut brown eyes.

The dancer with your dreamy eyes and the birthday wishes that never got through.

The cigarrettes, the smoke and the panda. The long night walks and endless talks that ended.

Something amiss whenever I dunk Oreos into milk or eat a Magnum ice cream. Those ugly huge umbrellas and free tea. The never ending debate on who decides where to eat.

One Piece.

The you with plastic boxes.

I miss you so fucking much, you’ll never know.

Perhaps it’s time. Time to let go of all the misses, of all the reason and excuses and to completely abandon all ties and hope of returning. That home will no longer be home and I just have to get used to it.

Maybe, maybe.

Because everyday I let the monsters eat away the part of my heart that started to decay; the part that misses you everyday. 

I carved the words on my skin
but the blood, it wouldn’t flow
no, it just won’t flow.

And the tic tac toe toe 
it stays on my skin
it wouldn’t go; no, it wouldn’t go.

Tomorrow morn, the scars will cry
for yester-foolishness was identified
that i know; that, i’ve always known.

Happy birthday, fat cat.

I miss you.

Caffeine; the artificial boost of energy. Maybe that’s why, at 1.40am in the morning, I’m still not sleeping. But how and why does it have the capability to trap and unleash a whirlwind of thoughts within my head, I’d never know.

Or maybe it’s the stars; especially since it’s Mercury Retrograde on Mars right now, somehow stirring up lots of ‘lust and ye olde issues’ on my Aquarius Rising and leaving me to deal with all my Singapore misses.

Oh, the thoughts. Oh, the misses. 

I’m weary of the meaningless conversations and empty flirtations. It’s amusing to see how they don’t work on me anymore. Somehow, they just slip right pass me, taking with them only my energy and nothing else.

The fog is dissipating and it’s starting to become crystal in regards to who I’m missing, the probability of impossibility, how it hurts and how I’m fine with that pain and honestly, how I’m okay with the improbable outcome.

Really, I miss the cow.