Stormy Weather
Hello friend, how long has it been? For how long have I been gone?
The last time I spoke to you, I was confident nothing would change — nothing drastic would happen. The usual summer twist that has been a common visitor for me since 2020 hadn’t shaped itself, and so I thought nothing would happen. But to my surprise, it came later than usual, and each time it becomes harder. How I deal with each strike is something I cannot put a name to besides abandonment and avoidance.
This time, unlike others, I tried speaking — in fact, I actually did. But true to my nature, I wasn’t surprised, because I already knew no one would care, because no one actually understands. I won’t speak of what happened here; I will only try to go as far as explaining how I felt and feel — or the lack of such — because all I’ve been doing is gradually postponing this to a further undeclared date.
Such actions are chipping away at my sanity as I gradually sink into whatever lifeline I use to pull myself away from facing my monsters. I run away, and I keep on doing that for as long as I can, until I put my mind at “ease.” I lie down and my eyes are shut; I can’t say I dream about anything, because I do not. I awake into a mental to-do list before I have to face whatever there is, even if only slightly.
I drown or I float without direction, because both are limitless — both are eternal if chosen to be. I wander into whatever rabbit hole I dig myself into headfirst. Doing so brings comfort in knowing I am not at the front lines, though I am, just trying to cope, reminding myself of a home I could seek refuge in. AirPods in, listening to whomever and whatever might just free me away from the now.
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Funny how I write about the past in the now, thinking of how I feel doing so at this moment. Actions that require human interaction make me more angry at the fact that I am not gone yet completely to a place that isn’t here. I remind myself “soon,” and I keep clinging to that hope — and that makes me even more anxious.
From past experiences, this much hope I summon usually comes with it being torn apart by some force of equal or exceeding anguish. This time is different, though. I honestly cannot see myself surviving past this if it fails, and so I think my anxiety is rather backed by logical emotions.
I cannot really connect with what is being written. I can feel myself blinking so many times it becomes tedious; it feels as though it’s my first time doing it. Walking, perhaps, feels similar to what an infant feels — but I can’t tell, because I’m not an infant in the sense of taking life as it is, but rather trying to describe what I always shied away from, perhaps for a reason. Feeling this much uneasiness isn’t naturally inviting.
I, for many times and for now as well, cannot fathom how people generally get to vent and actually feel relief in doing so. I have the sensation that replicates a shared guilt — for throwing one’s own mess into another’s pile that’s already full enough on its own.
I don’t expect any of what I wrote to be understood, nor to be seen as glamorous — it is not. Whatever it may indicate, though, is something of a discarded value — nothing more than a tombstone for a trial of giving in to sensations.
I don’t know what I’ll amount to after this storm passes, or if it’ll keep roaring in the background of my life, eating away at me ever so slightly for God knows how much time. But for what it’s worth, I’ll remember telling you about a stormy weather that once occurred — that I somehow managed to pull through — and broadcast to you, friend.
