I havenât written in a long time...
In the grand scheme of things, we are nothing special. And yet we are something; we probably matter in one way or another. We tell ourselves that we are more than just specks of dustâthat we are enoughâand that we shouldnât be so hard on ourselves.
But we really canât seem to swallow the thought that who we are right now is not what we really imagined our present selves to be. That this is the culmination of the years that weâve tried and worked hard forâwhatever it is we wanted for ourselves.
We live in the middle of a paradox that binds us to anxiety and paralysis and depression. We are prisoners of our thoughts. We envy others, but we try to put ourselves above the rest to feel a second or two of superiority and validation. One selfie. One post. Two shares. Ten comments. We are counting likes to nothing. Compiling something that leads to nothing, but still controls everything. We are prideful, but we are trash. We think trash. We collect trash.
We read or tweet ourselves to sleep as if somehow tomorrow the burden will lessen. Whatever it is that can distract us from our thoughts: we embrace it like itâs the last drop of water on earth. Our phones are medicines that give us more sickness. Day and night. Night and day.
We bicker and judge more, and love each other less and less because we donât always believe in the same things. Or post the same things. Because our worries eat at the love we can give away. We connect with more and more people online but we destroy the real connections. We distance ourselves to the world because investing feelings is such a scary concept in a time when a single comment could wreck havoc, and a wrong photo could dismiss us from the circle of cool âfriendsâ and âlikersâ who patronize our existence.
We are impatient but we are unaware of the time that we waste feeding our jealousy, and feeling more sorry for ourselves. Everyday we live as if weâd never die. As if weâre so fond of saying goodbyeâto friends, to dreams, to fleeting love, and wanderings.
We daydream of adventures but we hide in our shells. We are a version of ourselves that we donât always like. But weâre afraid of changing. And we donât recognize growth even if it bites us in the face.
We laugh, we cry, and we agonize over the little things that weâd soon rather forget. We are fickle, we are boring, and we are sorry creatures that never know what we ought to value more. Why canât we distinguish the space between our needs and wants? We are too difficult to comprehend.
We are walking, ticking bombs with no ammunition. We might be breathing but we might as well be dead. We are tired and we always miss our beds. We are too familiar of feeling empty.
We are clinging to an invisible anchor, hoping we could go back to our old paradise of hopes and aspirations carefully imagined by our hearts when we were young. We wish we could travel back to days that are gone.
We are working hard day and night to know ourselves. To impress our friends and family who see potential in our tiny bodies. We give what we can and take what we ought is right for us, but still weâre unhappy.
There is a shadow that lurks behind us trying to blur our visions. We labor each and everyday, and spend more time with our tasks than with our loved ones. We exchange our precious time for a bit of riches, instead of laughing and loving and living. We are bound by the trivial things we donât really need.
We are focused but are still so confused; we are like prisoners of our realities. So we let our dreams die trying to fit in a world we think we need to impress. Our dreams turn to daydreams; our passions into far away aspirations. We end before we begin.
We are crawling in a desert praying for a storm. We donât know when we will be worn. We are prayerful but we are cowards. We donât want to be judged in the comments section. Weâd rather fade than follow sedition. We donât like what we donât know but weâre too lazy to learn. Because tomorrow, we think weâll never burn.
And the day after we continue to do what we do best: we just exist. We survive and we try to act that weâre aliveâwith our burning desires already dying in our chests. We canât be bothered by a single jest.
But maybe, we really are more than what I can imagine in this journal entry. We are not okay. But either wayâŠ
We could be worthy of bigger things, of brighter lights, of grander endings; that we are only bound by what we allow to hold us back. We could get hurt and we could falter, but weâre still allowed to stand up and dust ourselves. Even for an unclear tomorrow, for a shitload of promisesâweâll never know. Maybe we are not a sorry case. Maybe this, this shithole, is just a phase.
Note: Iâve been sucked in the blackhole of BTS and ARMY life. Itâs fun! Join us ;)Â #LOVEYOURSELF
