Consuming so much on social media is leading us to lose that gift of discernment that enables us to live an authentic life where one prioritises making conscious choices in regard to how we show up in the world. As time goes by, self-trust erodes and loses meaning, and in turn, we lose our creative identity.

Your personal aesthetic is how you express your beliefs and values. It is a peek into your identity. Which is why it matters what we let shape and it. As humans we have this innate predisposition to being overly concerned with superficial things and obsessing over minute details. However, expanding the definition of beauty past the superficial is necessary so that we don’t lose sight of what actually holds weight.

You watch an influencer and see them doing something: they exude this confidence for the camera. They smile where necessary, cry when needed, feign excitement when it best benefits them. They are well aware that they are performing for an audience, and they doctor their habits and mannerisms for theatrical purposes. They subject themselves to retakes where they weren’t assertive or confident enough, editing to chop out parts that aren’t as glamorous as they would like them to be.

Parasocial interactions seem to be at an all-time high, where the creator takes on a more dominant role than the viewer’s because credibility has been legitimised over time. You as the viewer then have this separate version of reality that you have given more meaning and importance over your actual existence, and strive to work towards.

I’m not immune to this ruse of being too glued to my screen to the point of losing sight of what I stand for and who I am as a person capable of making my own decisions and defining my own taste. Several times, if I’m being completely honest. Pretending otherwise would be hypocritical.

Because you haven’t really sat down with yourself to figure out what makes sense to you and what doesn’t, you get into monkey-see, monkey-do mode in the hopes of being just as confident. Your heart is in the right place but there’s really no way of dictating how some things will affect you.

It might stick, it might not, but the only way of truly knowing is listening to that inner voice and gauging. The problem comes in when you start ignoring that voice for reasons I would only consider borderline insane because why are you sacrificing your own comfort and sense of self just to look like someone else? Cosplaying beyond the purposes of a hobby or expressing appreciation for media is a slippery slope. Confidence should come once you feel aligned to what’s true to you, not spectating and copying. It’s only a matter of time before that voice is silenced after ignoring it for so long and you’re left with this hollow feeling in your chest wondering why nothing feels right anymore. You see yourself as a shadowy figure that is profoundly unworthy and deeply absent in your very presence. You walk the streets in borrowed flesh; blind obedience to the algorithm becomes your second nature, and your silence makes you complicit in the pointless performance as well as your own erasure.

Stuck in this state of half being and no weight to your days, your inner world isn’t yours anymore. You now believe that that hollow feeling is routine. You’ve turned your internal alarms that warn you about losing your core into this passive immemorable noise that you ignore, impairing your awareness. It’s important that you keep this voice alive, keep it yours, keep the channel open, clear and direct by stepping away from the screens to get closer to your life.

The irony of saying this on a screen is peak comedy. Am I naive to want to find my way back in the same place I lost myself? Maybe, but I lost myself in the frenzy of consuming, and I’m finding my way back by creating more of what I actually want to see. It isn’t the same place if I’m not doing the same thing.

A strong self-image requires acceptance. It is a prerequisite that you have a self that you wholly and truly trust and believe in, one that you are not ashamed to ‘be’, but one that you can express in totality without feeling the need to conceal. In the real world, if you haven’t figured out who you are, you will find yourself in situations where weaknesses you are ashamed of are used against you, to bend your will, make you anxious and insecure, hostile to those around you, and with a stifled creative expression that will eventually run you mad.

Thoughts can’t be formed in a vacuum; you really can’t escape the power of influence. It would be foolish to ignore that we are all borrowing from one big creative bowl. But it takes time and courage to curate. In my pursuit of running back inwards, I was re-introduced to some lovely notions I now religiously live by.

Planting a seed of curiosity within yourself about yourself, and tending to it by feeding it time, attention, space, active care, enthusiasm, structure, and excitement. This also involves building collections of things you like, and with time, you will notice certain themes emerging and your personality thriving. Love that personality, commit to it, and always be responsible for it.

Keep a journal: document your experiences, write what disturbs you, what keeps you up at night. Be willing to split yourself open and lay yourself bare on the blank pages. The paper is always patient and waiting, always generous to offer up space for self-revelation, to give shape to your thoughts. It’s less about perfection and more about patience and honesty.

Being aware, and being not so scared of imperfections because they are just as important in staying open to inspiration. Enjoy the process, derive as much pleasure as possible from it, and understand that shame is not sustainable in this pursuit of self.

One would argue that we are a collection of all the people and things we love, but where do we draw the line as we differentiate sentimentality from the laziness of copying? The laziness is abhorrent. Anyone in their right mind should not be so easily willing to outsource the power of action. When we pause and allow ourselves to get bored, really hear our thoughts and observe them, metacognition comes into play. To have thoughts is one thing, but it’s a whole different ball game to acknowledge said thoughts and observe from a point of attempting to understand as opposed to judging. Everyone is afraid to sit with those uncomfortable questions and feelings that prompt us to dig deeper.

The more stories you experience, the richer your memory becomes.

Focus on the sentiments inspired from the stories, savour the experiences. Be more present by practising mindfulness. Notice the room and watch how it lengthens. Do not be afraid of the silence, learn to embrace it once you realise that it’s not the same as nothingness. In the same breath, you will also realise that attention changes perception. Be more deliberate with your choices. Continuously question why you’re choosing a certain course of action, and stop when you don’t have a proper answer. This way, you avoid living on autopilot or outsourcing. The joy you oh so desperately seek is on the other side of effort; practice this long enough and it gets easier with time. Don’t be scared to try new things, choose that over the familiar. Haim Ginott spoke on the decisive element being you. Your personal approach is what creates the climate. You can be a tool of your own torture, or an instrument of your own inspiration.

Don’t let your hands and decisions be hijacked by habit.

Approach curation more consciously, be intentional with what you consume, engage deeply, and don’t be afraid to ask questions. Self-respect and self-responsibility require one to refuse to let others do your thinking for you. Tussle with the hard work by using your brain and respecting your instincts. A lovely quote I return to from time to time comes from Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre: “I have an inward treasure born with me, which can keep me alive if all the extraneous delights should be withheld, or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give.”

“Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting.”

I moved back in with my grandparents and tanked a six-figure investment. I contracted pneumonia, and got laid off from work all within the same month. Somewhere in there, I also lost 3 of my cats to a mysterious disease. Since all this happened, it’s been, to put it mildly, “an interesting time” in terms of how I’m living my life.

As much as life is all about enjoying the passage of time, I’ve come to realise that I have a love-hate relationship with transitional periods. Those in-between moments where nothing is defined yet, nothing is set in stone or has concrete meaning. That threshold, the angst of waiting damn near kills me. It all requires a certain patience and mental fortitude that I still haven’t built within myself yet. I move through life feeling like my existence is covered by a veil of melancholy that I can’t quite shake off.

I’m trying to build my tolerance for ambiguity, but it’s unnerving not having all the answers at once or having a clear roadmap. I always find myself rushing to escape the dissonance simply because I don’t yet know how to bear witness to uncertainty without letting myself be consumed by it, wholly and utterly. Mayhaps, escape was never actually the way out. Something about the only way out being through. Conveniently, I forget.

On days where the uncertainty of everything becomes too much to bear, the closest thing I’d liken the feeling to is when you’re in the hospital waiting room, pacing in anticipation, pregnant with worry in regard to news about your loved one.

The dynamism in that space is quite odd. Ripe, potent, brimming with doubt. I become too aware of my own thoughts as the gears in my brain turn.

They keep telling me to honour that space between no longer and not yet, because apparently that’s where hope and possibility lives. Easy to say when you’re not the one whose interactions with the world around you are happening through this sensorial and emotional bubble wrap: dull, cold, devoid of the essence of being.

Time goes by, as I sit here, on the threshold of two worlds, I’m trapped in a state of passive acquiescence. Void of all intensity, lost in the eloquence of silence. By and by, I am nowhere. I have left familiarity behind, and have not yet found another. A tragic adventure. I have departed, but not yet arrived to a place I can call home. I don’t do squat with my life, except romanticise and decay with indecision. There is this restlessness in my bones that only caged birds could understand.

In this in-between space, the air is laden with secrets no innocent heart could bear to know. Painful truths, necessary, inevitable. Truth doesn’t need to be pure to be divine. And now I’m compelled to look within, accept to lose this safety net I cling to so desperately in order to be reborn differently. I’m not particularly sure where I get the notion that change isn’t messy or painful, but it’s affecting how I show up in my life. Beneath the calm, that’s where the chaos lies. Transformation in its rawest form does not flee from the pain, but rather, walks through it. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the atmosphere is speaking to me, asking me to stop fearing the change.

It’s a dangerous place to be in, this threshold I keep circling instead of crossing. Not quite legitimate enough to stay, not brave enough to walk through. Unfortunately, I’m still circling. It’s grown apparent that doors don’t forever stay open, and I grow weary of my own avoidance.

I hated that feeling, I still do.

Whenever I try to write, suddenly words don’t want to make the journey from my head to the paper through my hands. I hold the pen, stare at the blank page while my mind runs in circles ironically trying to string something together and form a sentence. Then my frustration turns into anger and I’m holding my pen so tightly my knuckles start to turn white and my wrist tenses up. Why is my body working against me when I’m desperately trying to find a sweet release, unburden myself of all the emotions I need to work through?

Now I’m mad at myself, and there’s a cry stuck in my throat again.

I scribble on the page for a while, doddle even, trying to distract myself in hopes that I’ll get into the rhythm of it all and miraculously start offloading, finally get my thoughts on paper. Words escape me, but somehow my mind is still racing. Hours pass and i finally get a paragraph down, then another. I read through it all and it glares at me... the repetitiveness of it all, the lack of character, words devoid of feeling and meaning.

I’ve been avoiding the dreadful words because I really don’t want to admit it.

My hate runs deep for whoever thought it was a good idea to convince everyone that identifying a problem and naming it is the 1st step towards making things better. But I’ll bite.

I have writer’s block.

There, I said it. So how exactly does this help me really? The same way you go to hospitals for a routine check-up but somehow end up getting admitted, all while receiving a debilitating diagnosis that changes your entire life and the metaphorical trumpets start getting louder with each passing day . I believe ignoring things is nice sometimes. I’ve had instances where I avoided my problems and they miraculously disappeared into thin air, solved themselves with accurate precision even. I kinda wish I could delegate which problems I get to tackle and which I get to ignore and have them miraculously solved for me. Who’s to say my quality of life wouldn’t improve tremendously?

Ignorance is bliss, but in the same breath ignorance is no defence. You win some you lose some, the scales must balance, sometimes you’re the hammer sometimes you’re the nail, que sera sera.... I could go on and on, but i’m sure you catch my drift.

There’s also this voice in my head that keeps telling me I shouldn’t write because really what’s the point if it’s not a hit? What’s the point if people don’t immediately fall in love with my work? But then again I remember some artists became famous posthumous and there’s a chance I might be like them. Then the agitating voice is quick to quip in and point out that I won’t really benefit from the fame if I’m dead (how vain of me), the joy of it all and the ego boost will probably be lost to those closest to me. They’ll probably say things like, “I used to know Makena, she was really good at what she did. It’s sad no one gave her her flowers when she was still here to smell them”

Well first of all, fuck you for saying that since it doesn’t really make a difference when I’m a bunch of scattered ashes in my cats’ litter box, and second, fuck everyone else too. Like a pointed out, the ROI for me is non existent if I’m no longer breathing so what gives?

I admit I’m being a tad bit pessimistic. I could look at it from an angle of the lives my work might change. Maybe someone will read something I wrote and finally figure something out that has been nagging them for the longest time, accept a hard truth they’ve been trying to avoid, or even take the big leap they’ve been scared of for heavens knows how long.

All this is hypothetical really. I’m still alive, maybe I’ll be famous one day and I’ll smell my flowers and watch them die too. Or maybe a secret 3rd thing no one’s aware of. A partner stealing my work and passing it off as their own (RIP Zelda Fitzgerald, you will always be famous in this household), someone killing me and burning my journals which leads to none of my work ever being discovered. The possibilities are endless if I’m being completely honest. And making up all these flashy dramatic scenarios in my head is rather entertaining.

I’m avoiding pointing out the obvious here, but it has to be said. I’m a sucker for perfection (Kinda cliche, I’m painfully aware). I hate it when I try things out and don’t get it the first time. I hate that it’s natural order for learning curves to exist and most of all I hate that I can’t control all variables related to the pursuits I embark on. I was also cursed with an overly curious disposition which makes everything worse, but’s that’s a tale for another time. Many a time have these perfectionist tendencies stopped me from actually trying to learn new things because the thought of failing to me is a hell I would rather not subject myself to. Unfortunately, that’s really the only true way to see any true progress. Something about fucking around and finding out. The scientific process touches on the same, and as I type this out I’d like to imagine the fore fathers of said sciences watching me in desperation trying to deduce what screw exactly is loosened in my head.

Another thing I’d like to point out is I don’t necessarily care what my audience ‘want’ to read when I write. I also don’t think I have a niche because like I mentioned earlier, my overly curious nature prevents me from settling into just one thing. A blessing and a curse. I’m also not particularly pressed over word counts.

It took me a while to get here. Back in high school I went through some traumatic experiences. A teenage girl seeking validation from anywhere and everywhere, not being secure in who she was and how she saw the world, it can do that to you.

In the process I learned that self trust and self worth are pillars I needed for myself and nothing could really replace that. I had to unlearn the habit of looking outside of myself for evidence of my worth, for proof that I mattered. I stopped writing to please others, always wondering if my words would rub off the wrong way on people, censoring myself, over filtering. I looked within for answers, I started writing what felt good to me. I’m deserving of hearing my own voice, and if others relate to what I have to say, that’s fine. If they don’t then it’s really none of my business and they can go look elsewhere. I’m choosing to take up space organically, because no one’s going to do it for me. I might be overly weird at times, but who am I to close a door on myself and conclude someone won’t relate?

So, just to be clear, yes, I do care, but I also couldn’t give a rat’s ass if you asked me to. I’m not into animal cruelty anyway. This is where you laugh because of how funny that joke was. Or don’t, whatever floats your boat. Humans are complex in that way: two opposing truths coexisting within them, and the majority of our lives is spent trying to accept that and live with it. But so many people struggle with it, so they start picking silly fights with other people. Or the guilt and shame they inflict upon themselves eats them alive from choosing to live by what society deems as ‘acceptable’ as the only gospel truth. One size has never fit all, and I hate clothes that try to make you think otherwise. I also hate the man I dated at 19, but that’s not what we’re talking about, just thought it would be something nice I could mention in passing.

One thing I wish I would be good at though, is expressing my happiness with as much intensity, passion and vigour as I do my sadness. I remember talking to a good friend of mine about this once, and he told me that maybe it’s a good thing I don’t, that way I’m forced to be more appreciative and intentional with my good days, more present. It felt nice having someone reassure me that I didn’t have to share every single thing with everyone. It doesn’t make it any less real if I don’t necessarily document it.

I’m staring at an overly bright screen trying to figure out how to close this off, and I hope you’ll be staring at an equally bright screen reading this. My night routine is a non-negotiable for my sanity. The order matters too… Dinner while I watch YouTube, take my vitamins, oral care, skin care, journal, read, then toss and turn in bed till I fall asleep. Today, this is my journal entry. I’m not particularly sure how I’ll feel about this months after I realised I posted something so vulnerable and out of the ordinary as compared to my other articles (debatable really), but I’m sure it’ll serve for good entertainment.

I’ll hate myself tomorrow morning for staying up so late, for lying to myself that this is actually what I was meant to do when I know damn well that it’s a pathetic attempt at trying to procrastinate, perhaps spend more time with myself before having to do a time skip in the name of sleep just to deal with tomorrow’s load of bullshit. I’m not particularly a fan of being a live, so please, humour me and excuse my language.

Hopefully my next piece will be a bit more structured. A bit less all over the place. Maybe somewhere in between.

As much as I’m often in the mood to be forgotten, it’s frightening entertaining the thought that there’s no guarantee I’ll be loved. I want to be someone’s favourite person, and I am well aware how selfish that sounds. But I’ve also found this endless comfort in hiding. I love to be alone. Solitude has always been kinder to me than most people have. It’s my second nature to stay in a corner and watch others. I enjoy my little observations.

There’s this one man I once loved. I still do, although I prefer to deny it than live with the fact. Sometimes I miss him so much I can hardly stand it. I wish I knew how to quit him. I’m still searching for a phrase that will release the pain, anger and sadness that’s pent up in me. Most days I hide it well, but on some I come undone, my soul shattering with the strain of trying to pretend that I’m over the turmoil. I can try to decorate absence however I want, but i’m still going to feel what’s missing. I still perform autopsies on conversations we had together, my memory tapping a gun to my inner skull, demanding I bring back the dead. They lied about time bringing relief. This grief feels like an amputation.

But then I remember the magnitude of the betrayal. How he took me for a fool, took my love for granted. If I’m being completely honest, he wasn’t mine and I wasn’t his but he was so good at making me feel like we belonged to each other. When I’d first loved him, I wanted to take him apart, as a child dismembers a mechanical toy, to try and comprehend the inscrutable workings of the interior. I wanted to see him far more naked than he was with his clothes off. I adored how his mind worked, fascinated even, and I made sure to tell him this often. I adored even more the sparkle in his eyes when I did. I wanted his happiness. I also wanted to unzip my body and pull him into it, or crawl into his.

Him and I were always just a daydream I took too far.

I could smell the beginning of the end from a mile away, and I was tempted to fight for us. I could love him violently, if I let myself. We could have have had a good life, him and I, but he didn’t want to give it a chance as badly as I did. I worshipped the myth I made of him, all while he died, came back to life and found numerous other ways to avoid defining whatever was going on between us. He demanded unconditional love and complete freedom. That’s why he was so terrible.

You never really recover from that kind of unrequited devotion.

So, I did what I know best and gave in to the destruction. The relief was unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. All my devotion turned into something violent. The enormity of my desire disgusted me. It turned ugly. Shaped like two hands wrapped around my throat. My eyes became painfully open and I wanted to escape.

All that love I once felt, something sinister joined it. I hate rarely, though when I hate, I hate murderously. When he picked that fight with me, I wanted to warn him not to. Because when you start a fight with me, I play to win a war. The more hurt I get, the more venomous I grow. I will be wild, I will be brutal, I will encircle you and conquer you. I will avenge myself for the terror you caused me. I will be inevitable.

People speak of loving, losing and remaining kind, but my anger needed a place to live. So I’ve polished it and turned it into a knife.

There’s this graveyard in my mouth filled with words that have died on my lips before I could speak them. I’ve been trying to write a poem in which I’m neither a monster nor a martyr. My brain hums with scraps of the rhyming words, they’re scratched onto the walls of my throat. No one’s heard it yet, but it’s there and it wakes me in the middle of the night asking for a goodness I don’t think I possess. So I try to wash it down with some wine, trying to feed my impure hunger. A devouring hunger, a complete, violent passion, like a storm. But wine isn’t strong enough. It’s blood I want. “

I remind myself every day that there is happiness to be found outside at any time. Yet, I keep forgetting. I grow fixated on productivity, building deep grooves where work and life merge until neither is satisfying. The remedy is simple: Return outside. Return to presence, to awe, to wonder.

This is also the secret source of creativity that my work is based on. So, does this make sense now? Rest is beneficial. Witness. Observe. Reflect. Allow your senses to be fully touched. Take notice of the gentle shadows that pool beneath the oak trees. Puddles of sunshine spilling across the road. Run your fingers along the texture and grain of the bark and lichen, nature's braille. The symphony of birdsong, jittery insects, and tussling leaves require no composer. Here I lay, embraced by the finest teacher of all.

No computer, no desk, no measure of productivity will ever offer the gentle inspiration that nature so abundantly shares.

I sit and listen. But, what precisely am I listening for? Is it the wind blowing past trees, making the leaves whisper secrets? Birds communicating in a dialect I'll never understand? Why do their songs tug at my heartstrings if they aren't intended for me? However, there is something remarkable about their wild chorus, something so wonderfully arranged that I have no choice but to yield. I turn inward and listen, too. Maybe that's where the truth lives. Perhaps the truth lies somewhere between my breathing and the rustling grass.

Engine hums, vehicle horns, and electronic device chirps all disrupt this quiet. Our creations sure do make life easier, but oh how I wish they would learn to be silent.

Being one with nature feels like a warm embrace. I am the trees. I am the Earth. My bare feet sink into the soil, and I immediately feel grounded in ways beyond the scope of explanation. The air in my lungs flows more freely here. My inhibitions loosen. Being present in this moment is easy, although my thoughts continue to wander - but differently now. They flow more like a pure stream rather than a congested river. I am extremely grateful for my mobility and the ability to access areas that ease my load.

I'm also grateful for whatever divine hand painted this universe. The craftsmanship in every crevice: flora in unidentifiable greens, browns that vary with the sun, and surprising purples lying in shadows. From a distance, the tea estates I saw appeared to be a soft, rich greenish-yellow carpet on which you could lie forever. More than once, I found myself fantasizing about sliding down those verdant slopes like a child. A girl can dream...

Let us live like flowers. Wild and beautiful and drenched in sun.

The forest floor belonged in a fairy tale. Countless small plants form velvety patches that feel like fluffy pillows beneath my hiking boots. Sunlight filters through the canopy, heating the morning dew and causing mist to rise in delicate tendrils. For beautiful seconds, I remain entranced, watching the mist ascend as if on a voyage to meet the sun's rays and exchange kisses.

Birds fly over me, weaving melodies through the air. Their songs blend with the creaking of trees moving in the breeze, the gratifying crunch of branches underfoot, and the quiet pattering of drizzle beginning to fall. It's incredible: this choir, without a conductor, produces harmony more lovely than any human composition. What appears to be chaos is actually exquisite order. These are the noises I will hear in my dreams for many years to come.

The breeze whispers. Raindrops dance. Roses enrich the air. Pine trees cast unique shadows that alter with the sun. The grass here is a hue of green I have never seen before: seductive and vibrant.

Once more, I am called to remember that no desk, screen, or yardstick of performance can provide what nature does so freely. The environment merely asks for my presence in exchange. When I give it, I receive everything.

It's weird. It feels wrong being this happy when the rest of the word is falling apart. It feels like I should be sharing in everyone else's despair but I've been struggling for so long...

So why now, when I'm finally having my day in the sun you want to brand me as being selfish and ignorant, just because a majority of the world is bleak and unshielded, you believe I should share in that? Where were you when I was begging to feel something other than nothingness? Instead of holding my hand and telling me it will be fine you were quick to term my 'excessive' exhibition of anger and sadness as being too dramatic. The lack thereof was termed as my need to be apathetic and different from everyone else. Apathetic!?!? I struggled to stop myself from imploding from the intense sudden changes of feeling ecstatic one second to existential the next and you dare call me apathetic? Do you understand the violence that had to go on within me for me to become this gentle? How long it took me to accept that I will never be perfect? To alchemize my hurt into hope? Cruelty into love? How are you disgusted by my blood but still want to watch me bleed? I tried to make my suffering beautiful, my agony lovable; erotic melancholia, desperately wanting to appeal to anyone who would listen but none of it fulfilled your vision of justice. What is justice anyway?

… feeling hopeless for quite literally no reason and the lack of a reason only making one more distressed.

My throat is still raw from screaming to a god who was never listening. So don't you dare tell me anything about decorum. I will feel it as deeply and express it as violently as I please. I will devour without guilt... I was my first victim and now I'm my only hope. And no, I don't want you to fucking apologize. I want the guilt to eat you alive. I want you to drown in your thoughts like I drowned in mine. I'll keep on smiling as it all burns to the ground because it's my turn to be happy. I don't care if you call me selfish or ignorant or whatever other name you care to conjure. Having spent my entire life resisting the desire to end it, I will spend however much time I see fit laughing manically like a king at his jesters while I see others struggle with that godforsaken impulse.

not enough people talk about how difficult it can be to find yourself. i'm not implying that you're lost to begin with. i think the better term to use is discovering yourself. learning your body, mind, and soul... because as much as you've been you for so long, as you grow older you become more self aware and there's a need to know what you stand for, what your principles and morals are.

i've been trying to understand what makes me tick, what my boundaries are, what i want from this existence. as i began this journey it all seemed so easy. a question as simple as "who are you?" seemed simple but it quickly became clear that describing myself on two lines in my journal wouldn't cut it. i needed to work through tons of memories that resonated with me, that had shaped me thus far. traumas i had been subjected to and not fully worked through for some reason or the other. i had to come to terms with the fact that as much as my past was behind me and my future a playground for me to bring my wildest dreams to reality, there was no way to escape it. it was all a part of me and i needed to embrace it for me to truly understand who i am at my core.

defining myself isn't really a matter of labeling myself as one thing or the other. it is part of the process but not the finality. i think the goal with trying to know who i am is realizing that i am so much more than the restraints i place on myself with the limiting beliefs that may plague my mind on the bad days. opening myself to new experiences however exotic or risky and always keeping an open mind.

The whole process of being taken hostage by one’s own subconscious… It won’t fix you, but the days will have a point then.

finding myself means being more in touch with my desires and expressing them with intensity so as not to inhibit said expression. it means respecting myself enough to do something with my ideas, lest I’ll grow grey and old and wish for my greener days when I had the energy to explore my whims and desires as freely as I would want to. it means being more in tune with my feelings as well as acting as a catalyst to provoke others to do the same because that's the type of energy i want to surround myself with. it means presenting the most authentic version of myself in every interaction i find myself in. it means taking the time to sit with my emotions and act accordingly, never rushed. it means being present in the moment to notice when i'm giving my power away and call it back to me before chaos ensues. it means adopting a level of objectivity and self-awareness and giving myself the time to do so because i recognize that it does not come oh so easily.

should I be worried that my muse in writing has shifted focus? it used to be unrequited love. miserable, I know. that's really all I can write about. my pain and how badly I ache. I had a problem with that in the past; I always asked myself why I couldn't express my happiness as passionately as I did my sadness and despair. I took solace in the weird phenomenon of the best creators being deeply troubled, I found community in my most vulnerable state, the thing that eats me alive: my madness. but I digress.

I went through an acute period of the infamous writers' block, and then finally, when I picked up my pen again, there was a change of pace. at first, I ignored it for a fluke in the timeline, a short-lived transition in what I wanted to express. but it stuck with me. clung to me for dear life and consumed not only the pages of my notebook but my thoughts as well. what bothers me the most is how ready and willing I am to speak about it despite how self-absorbed it makes me sound. egotistical. narcissistic. vain even, but the laws dictate that there needs to be balance. the scales have to be centered somehow. *side note, I'm a Libra sun and the symbol for my sign is a scale. how fucking ironical

this thing I ardently write about all while expressing my disdain and derision over it, this thing I want as far away from me as conceivably possible is the same thing I crave in a way that leaves me hurting. it leaves me crying into my pillow in the dead of the night as I ask myself whether I will ever get to experience it in its truest form devoid of all pain and bad circumstance. I drown in a sadness so deep and dark that I sometimes struggle to breathe. a while passes, and where I lay my tears of sorrow, tears of deceit now gather here, for how can one feel 2 polarities to such an extreme? but again, I've always had a thing with feeling everything oh so deeply. this shouldn't be surprising, Makena. it's who you are.

this is the one time I've spoken about this thing I loathe but also crave with equal measure without actually putting a name on it. I'm so quick to announce to the world how well I can do without it, even go as far as presenting an indifferent front to everyone who cares to listen. but behind closed doors, I'm worried sick over how I'll get it, and in the same breath, why I don't seem good enough to do so and keep it even if only for a short while. it's crippling. I want this feeling gone. but then again, what will I muse over if not my desperation and forlornness?

verily, I hast not yet revealed the nature of my curse to thou. should you kindly request, mayhaps, I shall extend an invitation unto thee, allowing for the sharing of its secrets and the dispelling of the enigma enshrouding it.

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Tread carefully where shadows dance and whispers tell their stories. Let your steps be light, your senses sharp, and your heart open to the unknown. For mysteries exist within this hushed zone, and the route ahead may be unexpectedly beautiful or fraught with danger.

Always wanting to spend time alone, but then it gets to a point where being in isolation feels like the voices in my head won't just let me live my life how I want to; I'm sad for no reason, I'm afraid I'll die lonely because I lack the capacity to make friends and keep them for long periods of time because of my inconsistency. I've somehow managed to lie to myself that I’m working on it, that I'll make myself a better person; more reliable, but with the little progress I make, I take another 10 steps back...

These same voices are now telling me that I'm unlovable and unwanted. I cry about it, scream into my pillow, indulge in disruptive behaviour to try and escape my pain, numb my emotions, and destroy any thoughts before they can materialize.

Time passes, and I find a solution to my problem: people. That's what I've reduced them to, a mere solution. I only call when I need something. I only text back when it suits me. I only have time for the people I claim to love when I need their love, attention, and affection. To be completely honest with you, outside of the unnecessary and tiring niceties (on my part at least; I can’t speak for anyone else) and false pretenses of interest and camaraderie, they don’t add much value to my life. at least not any that I'd consider worthy of my time or consideration. That sounds very "you think you're better than everyone," and what about it? I will not make any attempts at denying this. not now, not ever.

I'm a burden to others. no, never. That doesn't sound right.

I think everyone else is a burden to me. Yeah, that sounds much better. It carries more truth...

My narcissistic tendencies have once again managed to convince me that somehow, in all this, I'm not at fault and everyone else is the problem.

It gets to a point where the voices are unbearable. It's hard to concentrate. Nothing makes sense. My existence feels like it's not my own. Sometimes, when it gets too bad, I start wishing that I didn't exist, and that's when I know I need to pick myself up before I drown in my loneliness. Before the medicine cabinet starts looking pretty again and beckoning me sweetly in the middle of the night when it's peaceful, and I have a couple of hours before anyone notices that I decided to take the 'ultimate leap of faith'

so I crave the company of others. I meet up with my friends. (I call them that, but are they really? I think we've already established that I’m a master at the whole self-deception bit). The sound of their laughter is like music to my ears. The way they speak about life and the things they love, it makes me smile. The way she dances, the way he's so excited about his dog. The meals we have together. The silly little confessions. The bad decisions. the good ones. Suddenly, life is not so bad after all. I even managed to take a few pictures to document my happiness. and theirs. I look at them at a later time, and my heart feels warm. I'm happy now. I won't die lonely. These are my friends, and they love me. Just as I love them.

Then, just as I'm starting to love life again, everyone is so fucking annoying. The hours we spend together seem to drag on longer than necessary. Do I have to be here? What difference does it make? They don't even seem like they'd miss me if I left.

His dog is ugly. The way she dances is funny. I don't like her makeup. It looks cacky. She's not as pretty as she thinks she is. His girlfriend is only with him out of pity. Remember the pictures? They aren't beautiful anymore; i’m disgusted by them. Everyone in them is ugly. His smile is too wide. Can't she keep her fucking eyes open. Who told her her tongue needed to be out in every single shot? yuck. And what's up with him and the hand poses? every fucking time??? She needs to find new clothes. His nose is too big in this one. Everything they say sounds dumb and baseless. If you could just shut the fuck up for a few seconds, Tamara, that would be lovely. There's too much noise around me. No one understands things the way I do. Everything they say sounds dumb and baseless. How they breathe irks the living shit out of me.

I think everyone is a burden to me. Yeah, that sounds much better. It carries more truth...

I want to snap their heads off, gut them, and feed them to the dogs. but I can't without having to suffer the consequences of my actions. Drawn by an unseen thread, I retire inward, seeking refuge and shelter in the hushed chambers of my own being, which I have grown accustomed to. There, beneath the cloak of solitude, a fragile peace awaits, yet whispers of imperilment linger in the stillness.

rinse and repeat

Nobody

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I think I found a language to speak of the things that haunt me; the thoughts that keep me up at night. it's a language that's mostly incomprehensible, mainly because I still can't make sense of most of these things that i speak of. even as I let my thoughts out into the world, even as I finally find the courage to let the words I always thought I'd leave unsaid see the light of day, I've still not received the closure I'm always desperately looking for in my solitude but adamantly refuse to admit in the presence of others. maybe it's the shame that I feel due to the fact that I still feel for you. heavily for that matter.

I never thought I'd see the day where shame and love share a space, but here we are. they say where there is love, there is always room for pain, so I think that explains it. I hope this grief stays with me for as long as I'm alive. to me it's not a suffering, but unexpressed affection that I didn't get to give you, love that I did not show or tell you how deeply i felt it and how utterly consumed i was by it...

I can turn you into poetry, but I cannot make you love me. I consider my attempts at romanticising your existence quite silly and pointless. but I'm still choosing to do it boldly and openly. what I'm not willing to share with anyone is what I wish would have happened because I fear people will think I have this obsession with you and I don't think I have it in me to deny the fact if someone pointed it out. but you are not mine to begin with so why am I claiming you?

these things I'm not willing to share with anyone, I cannot describe it to you as i think it would not make a difference. these private thoughts and feelings—how I want to be loved by you, hold my wrists gently, smile at me softly, kiss my palms, want me. I want you to want me and I don't know how much longer my poetry will substitute this unexplainable ache I have for you.

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