Every Story But Mine


i am 23 and singing to a girl
who does not love me-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
a pretentious witch
who has never fallen in love
but can pretend
and shamelessly exploit
the theoretical heartbreak anyway.

i am 48 and clawing at a nicotine noose
that only seems to cling closer-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
and smoke may look good in black and white
but cigarettes make my eyes water.

i am 34 and burning the slippers
of a husband who left me-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
and the burning plastic would
only serve to poison me.

i am 9 and aboard a train
and the man kisses my hand-
-but that’s not true i am 18.
and kindness can be a disguise.

yours truly,

[idk man do I even need to sign-off? why am I making this harder than it has to be]


A Cliche Shaped Hole In The Universe

It’s a little thing that sets it off.

A tiny ripple setting off a tidal wave;

wave after wave after wave of hate.


But see the thing is, you have to stop. At some point, you have to stop and be kind because no one else will. So, at an early age you learn to do without. You learn to do without the words of encouragement or support when you can’t ask for them but need it most;  to do without their seals of approval because sometimes they don’t get it—they won’t get it—and it’s not their fault, or yours—some things are just unfortunate like that; to do without the need to talk it out or let it out,

the need for a presence.

And eventually you stop needing those things. Maybe that makes you seem insolent to others; cold, unfeeling.  But it took you a lot of time to deal with the disappointment of not having those things when you mustered up enough of you to feebly ask for them; it took you a lot of time to learn not to need those things, so it’s okay. It’s not their fault, you know that so you don’t blame them or resent them for it. They can’t help the way you turned out.

You learn to be enough for yourself, to be your own support system, to have a mini-you bouncing around in your head doing headstands and shaking pom-poms to lure you into a sense of stability and confidence. You become your own person, and you’re okay.

More than okay.

But like I said, tiny things set it off and out pours the hate. All the chips and cracks  widening into gaping chasms full of loathing. So, so much loathing its pathetic. And you sit in your pool of pathetic  and breathe in the fog and choke and gag, all the while the loathing gathering in momentum. And then it slams into you, the gigantic blob of inky dark exploding all over the walls, seeping into your fractures and settling in deep. And you hit yourself and slap and kick and punch, trying to get it out, but only succeeding in bruising yourself. You stop to take a breath.

And then you think hey, maybe you deserve it. You’re such a cliché.

So you drill in deeper into your bones,  create new chips and cracks and scratches that widen as the hate grows, the inky ball of dark getting bigger and bigger and heavier and inkier; hovering, waiting for the right time, the most devastating time to slam into you again.

But see the thing is, you have to stop. At some point, you have to stop and be kind because no one else will. You are enough. This is your skin and your bones and your blood coursing through your veins.

And then you prop up mini-you again, and pluck out all the knives you stabbed through her heart and dust off the glass pieces from the bottle you smashed into her skull; you wipe off the blood and the tears and the hate.  You apologize and she smiles and you’re okay.

More than okay.

Delightful!—she yells out while cart-wheeling inside your head.



Yours Truly,



Study Burn-Out. And Battling It

Listicles have always fascinated me. They’re fun, precise and satisfying. The times I have written lists haven’t always been the best because I normally write lists when everything is all too overwhelming and I need some semblance of order and control and detached rationality.

But I got up at 5 today morning for no apparent reason and I was in the mood. And my dad gave me this talk yesterday about overworking myself and becoming a workaholic later on in life like he did and how he really does regret it. So, um, here:

Signs you’re dying inside. Drowning amidst hydrophilic molecule heads and bond angles and Newton’s laws and coherent sources and revolution volumes and radians and argumentative essays  and integration and vector forces and kinematics and primary and secondary alcohols and Tollen’s reagent and translocation and Pascal’s triangle (or whatever it’s called) and parallelogram laws and killer cells and memory cells and tuberculosis symptoms and AIDS incidence and STAHP. Stop.

  1. Exhaustion. Even if you take a day off and do nothing, absolutely nothing except sleep and loiter around, you’re tired. Always.

  1. Sleep Paralysis. This technically comes under exhaustion since it is usually caused by it. For those of you who don’t know what sleep paralysis is, it happens when you fall asleep or as you wake up. Your mind is awake and trying to get your body to move, but your body decides to throw a tantrum and not show up for work and is still in shut down mode. It is terrifying. Basically your body is in rest mode because it is too exhausted to even be able to move a finger but your mind is wide awake, calculating, planning, thinking and slowly going into panic mode because WHY AM I NOT MOVING?! That nightmare you have about running in slow motion while being chased by bloodthirsty monsters who want to gouge your eyeballs out and dip them in candy while you sit writhing in pain? It’s like that, except worse because this is actually happening. Hallucinations are also a thing for extreme cases.

  1. Lack of motivation. Perhaps you started out strong. Foolishly optimistic, steadily gaining momentum, finishing half a subject in one day and actually even remembering it. And then being excited about diving back into it the next day. Well no more o’ that darling, no more o’ tha’! It’s not that you dread studying; it’s just that you see no reason for it. It’s too—for lack of a better word–blah. Because you started out too strong.


  1. Disenchanted. With everything. That doesn’t mean you’re in a perpetual state of melancholy and that you find no joy in any aspect of life. You’re just neutral when it comes to most things because even though you have no motivation to study, you still want to (but don’t at the same time ya’ know?)   and all you can think about is how productive this hour would be if you were studying instead of making stupid lists no one even wants to see. And that takes the fun out of whatever it is that you are doing.


  1. Sleep deprivation. Because you foolishly stay up nights in wild hopes of somehow ending up actually studying. This of course leads to point #1: exhaustion.


  1. Cat lady behavioural problems. Except worse because you don’t even have cats. You sit in your room all day and honestly dread going out because it is such a waste of time and you could be doing so many other important things. Important things that you don’t even end up doing because #3. Your social life takes a turn for the worse and even your family starts thinking of you as a mythological creature whose existence they can’t entirely be sure of, and whose sightings are cast away as tricks of the mind due to them being extremely rare in nature. You hiss at sunlight. Your eyes have grown so used to the tube light in your room that it can’t handle natural light unless it is muted by layers and layers of rainy day clouds. No dude, seriously.

   Well with a name like Tiddles, it should’ve known she was never on them to begin with.

  1. Weight in your chest. You don’t actually notice it, really. Until it is momentarily lifted when you do something stimulating (besides studying, that is) like writing or dancing—and the relief is sweet and welcome until it settles back in without you even noticing. And there it sits until it is temporarily lifted again.

 Now of course these aren’t “scientific” signs or anything. Mainly just from personal experience.

Dealing with it:

  1. Relax. I know. I know how stupid that sounds and I know how impossible it is, but really, relax. It’s okay. You’ll do it.


  1. Do Something You Like For The Sake Of Doing It. Don’t think about what you should be doing or exactly how many minutes of your day you’re wasting, just do it. It’ll make you feel good enough for you to actually be motivated enough to work Best of both worlds.


  1. It’s okay to have a lazy day. You don’t have to be productive every minute of every day. You’re human. In six months the test you’re stressing about won’t even matter. Probably.


  1. Dance. Even if you’re not a dancer and mostly look like you’re having a seizure on the dance floor. Turn off the big lights, lock the door, put on the music and dance. Just jump around until you’re exhausted. But this time it’ll be the good kind of exhausted: the physically stimulating, endorphin-releasing kind. And you don’t have to worry about clocking in your workout that day while tackling studies. Honestly people, just do it. I really don’t mean this in the spiritual, soul-freeing sense (like, ew); your heart will beat faster, feel-good hormones will be released and you will actually end up being more productive that day because you’ve gotten all the restlessness out.

  I said lights off

  1. Go Out For Ice Cream. You’re probably supposed to be doing that English assignment but do it anyway. Nothing will make you feel better than frozen sugar and milk and diabetes on a stick. Even if you hate having to dress up, go out for ice cream. Taking the pack out of the fridge isn’t the same thing. Get out you lazy bum.

  1. Read. Every one once in a while, even if it is impossible to limit yourself to 3 chapters. You deserve an adventure after 2 hours of studying (even if 45 minutes of it was purely study breaks)


  1. Which reminds me: take study breaks. 6 minutes every 20 minutes. And do something nice in those 6 minutes, don’t just think about past failures and then feel guilty about the break.


  1. Make a schedule. Even if you don’t follow it, the act of making it makes you feel better about yourself and optimistic about your future.

 I’m in no way qualified to give out advice, but this has helped me and I wanted to make a list. Because they calm me down and help me process.

Yours Truly,


PS. The WordPress Gods tell me I’ve crossed 100 followers…whaaaaaaaaa–? Last I remember is being excited about reaching 30 subscribers. So, well thank you 🙂  I know I should play it cool and mature and act like it’s no big deal, because it isn’t and it doesn’t really matter how many followers you have–it’s about simply writing. But I’m still grateful for all you misguided fools out there actually reading this crap.

Addictions, Hopes And Dreams (But mostly, HEADACHE.)

You ever get that itch? When you see something, or think of something or read something, and you have all this rising in you, and engulfing you and you absolutely have to make something of it? A painting, or a story or sometimes even just a few pretty sentences. And then you sit and bask in their glory and soak it all in until you’re tired of it and it loses all meaning.

It doesn’t matter if it means you have to sit and stare at a computer screen in the near dark with a head-splitting migraine—you just absolutely have to do because you are incapable of peace until it’s out of your system. You don’t even have a proper story in mind; you just have to write something. It might seem like absolute trash to you a few hours later, but it brings you temporary peace. Complete and utter peace like you’ve never known before and will never know again in the future. It is completely yours for a few hours, until life settles back in and you busy yourself with the mundane. It’s like that tiny gust of cool wind lost amongst the warm air billowing around you on a hot, windy day. It could’ve almost gone unnoticed, but it doesn’t because it is what you focus on; you close your eyes and savour that tiny gust.  That tiny, almost insignificant mass of moving particles with a slightly lower temperature brings you peace. It is your escape from the normal, and it brings you peace.

We all need an exit door from time to time. Most of us think of the day that it’ll all be over: when you can finally make enough money to buy your own house, or the day you find a job in a new area so you can move away or the day you get accepted into a prestigious college and begin the first day of the rest of your great, glorious, relevant life. We look to the future because it is our tiny gust; our only reprieve from the hot, windy day that is the present. Our life right now, is the present. And even though re-gifting is terribly rude, it’s a present we can’t wait to give to someone else, so we can get another one. One more like the train set you had in mind for your birthday instead of the pair of socks you actually got. Everybody needs socks, sure. But we want a train set. A glorious, humungous, smoke billowing, fully functional choo-choo train that’ll take us far away to some exotic land where you never get old or fat or tired or poor. Where life is a breeze.

I have absolutely no idea where I’m going with this. I think that ‘where life is a breeze’ part was me about to return to the cool gust metaphor, but I don’t know how to. The head-splitting migraine mentioned above wasn’t a hypothetical situation; my head feels like millions of tiny, blunt nails are slowly drilling into my skull and moving on to my cheekbones, so whatever has been written has been written on auto-pilot and because of that itch. Normally, I would try to make a proper, insightful post out of it (or try to anyway) but, like I said, tiny nails are out on a mission inside my brain and I can’t think. Well, not the coherent type anyway (though come to think of it, coherent thinking isn’t really my style even if I am in full control of my senses). The above paragraph seems to be chock-full of metaphors that my mind can’t make any sense of right now upon re-reading, so I apologize if I’ve reached new and terrifyingly high levels of suckyness. I just realized I wrote suckyness. My brain can’t even come up with a proper word. And normally, I would just go off to sleep, but the itch. It won’t let me be!

Out you demons! Out, I command you!…. Shouting in my head at my own head seems to make my headache worse…so I’m just going to mellow down and avoid exclamation marks for the time being…My desk is so cool…I’m just going to lay my head against the cool wood for a while…

…nope. Bending my neck hurts.

I’m sorry about all this. Auto-pilot. I have no filter right now. And I should be sleeping but I’m in the mood for adventure. I’ve never had adventure. I think that’s why I’m always restless. You can’t grow up reading Enid Blyton and Philip Pullman and Jacqueline Wilson and Ruskin Bond without blindly, completely believing that your own life will turn out like one of the characters. Why haven’t my friends and I opened our own crime-solving agency? Why haven’t I come across a lost twin or a dwarf or something. Why am I not secretly a ballerina who just doesn’t know of her talents but will involuntary break out in into a graceful and touching piece upon coming across a talking monkey? Why must life be so ordinary? And why, oh why must I be the one to suffer through this headache at this hour and still have a brain that flat-out refuses to just…shut down, and be quiet and peaceful and sleepy. I really want to be bald right now. My hair is weighing my scalp down and that doesn’t help any with the headache. I have heavy hair. And who even needs hair? What purpose does it have? For animals, since its thick fur, it provides insulation, but what biological use do we have of it?

Okay I admit,  she  might need it. But she's about the only person who does. I think. Wait, how many people run around with only their very long hair covering their bodies, again?
Okay I admit, she might need it. But she’s about the only person who does. I think. Wait, how many people run around with only their very long hair covering their bodies, again?

Speaking of unnecessary things, I don’t even know why I’m going into such detail about my headache. I can’t seem to shut up about it. I swear I’m not doing it on purpose…like I said, I’m restless. My brain flits from one thing to the next and right now my digits are typing out whatever is going through my brain. #nofilter. #wokeuplikethis.

That’s the downside to reading a lot as a kid. You can’t ever have a peaceful brain. It is temporarily satisfied as you sit and experience the same thrills and fear and sorrow and joy as the character, but as soon as you’re done, and look up from the book and come back to your life, you’re so incredibly sorry that the story is over because that was it. And you must now look for your next fix. Books make an addict of you. You read so many grand sentences you just have to make/read more. You need the high…

…and now I’m talking like a deranged drug addict trying to lure you into the dark side. Or the Dork Side, amiright? (Hardy har har.) But drug-addiction is no joke. Kids don’t do drugs. Unless by drugs you mean books or coffee. Because there is absolutely no way you can get through your life without books and coffee. Oh yeah, I know what you’re thinking. You think Life is going to be great, you think you’re going to have a life worth writing about. Well, I am one of you. I started the previous sentence with the intention of breaking your bubble, but I don’t want mine to be broken and I hardly think your cocoon of rainbow coloured glass is any of my business. Also headache. I am in no condition to be doling out life advice. So continue on with your beliefs. Maybe Life will be great. Headache.

Am I making any sense? I know this post started out as something else…I was supposed to say something…something touching and beautiful. Oh well.

Ahhh wait…there it is…my brain’s quiet now. (Sigh) I don’t want to wake it up—Oh dear lord I’m even typing super slow right now so the activity doesn’t stir it up (I have some serious issues.)—so I’m going to go lie down and sleep.

Yours Truly,

sc edited

P.S  I apologize for the use of hash-tags. You should know I’m not one of those young ‘uns who follow these nonsensical trends. #trailblazer. Damn you headache! I swear I never use hashtagsepleasedon’thateme.

P.P.S I know all the whining about the headache made me seem like a baby–but it’s a continuous migraine I’ve had for two days and you don’tr really care so I don’t know why I added the P.P.S or even the P.S okay sorry I’m going to go now and  you can continue on with your headache-free wonderful lives and I’m not even using any punctuation right now oh god somebody stop me okay byeeee. Wait, should I click on the publish button or shouldn’t I I don’t know if I’ve let on exactly how big of a basket-case I am before on this blog and I don’t know if you’re ready for it are you ready for it are you ready for the punctuation-less ramblings of a rambling fool who cant stop the word rambling from being repeated over and over in her head right now and so is writing rambling a whole lotta times on here why no punctuations whyyyyyyyy okay byeeeee.

Nerdrangers Assemble!

So here we are now, 8 months since my last boards and 5 months away from my next. I don’t plan on going down the same dark alley as I did the last time I was faced with Very Important Examinations That Decide On The Course Of Your Life (V.I.E.T.D.O.T.C.O.Y.L) , so this time around I’m going to work dammit! And not spend nearly as much time on Pinterest and Buzzfeed (sniff oh the horror..however will I survive???)

I came across this blog written by a very motivated high-schooler with a penchant for awakening your inner over-achiever-optimist and so have decided to….


Join the A* Grade challenge.

a challenge

What is the A* grade challenge, you ask? (Yes, yes I know…let’s just pretend you’re actually interested in this personal update that has no impact whatsoever on your life and is doing nothing to alleviate your boredom right now)

Well it’s a challenge to score A* in all your subjects in the A Levels. I’ll be giving my AS Levels this year and the highest grade is A and I need to secure those grades to make sure I pass with enough credentials to get into a decent college and make something of myself. Unless I get A, getting A* in A Levels will be next to impossible since the final grades of A Levels is an accumulation of your grade 11 and 12 results. (Grade 11 being AS and 12 being A Levels)

Am I boring you? I’m boring you right now, aren’t I? Well my enthusiasm tends to fizzle out and I decided I would post updates to keep myself motivated. Public-shaming can be quite the motivator…even if you do have to suffer through more of these posts

So here’s where I am right now:

  • Colourful highlighters—-check.
  • Textbooks in place—-check
  • New notebooks to make notes of my own all over again—-sadly, check.
  • Extra notes off the internet—-check
  • Sticky notes on desktop to remind me to get back to studying—-check
  • Initial enthusiasm—-check
  • Pen, pencil, eraser and ruler—-check
  • Intense longing to just give up and go play Assassin’s Creed—–double check

Except for that last part right there, I think I’m pretty much set. Maybe this will help. It better help. All that I did the past 3 days was one chapter of organic chemistry and stare at my bio textbook and physics notes. I had started out this month with optimistic expectations of finishing one chapter from each subject each day…but well, that didn’t exactly work out.

And that was when I saw a new post by Sanam (you know, the previously mentioned motivational high-schooler?) and figured, hey! If it works for her, it could for me. And so was born the cyber-incentive, i.e, posting my progress on a social media. Which is exactly what I plan to do.

Anyway, I’m sorry about the snooze-worthy post, but I needed this to be out there. Even though no one cares.

Yours Truly,

sc edited

Inside Every Cynical Person, There Is A Disappointed Idealist

I’m one of those people who have always had a plan B. It might be for something as simple as what to make for breakfast, but it’s always there. Some/most people would say it’s a good thing—but it’s not. Not really. See, the thing is, I don’t have it so I can be prepared–no it’s there because I always expect Plan A to fail. Plan A might be the most wonderful, thought-out thing ever, but I still think it’s going to fail. It’s like I’m setting myself up for a life of settling so I don’t crumble under the sheer disappointment of not realising my dreams.

Things might be going great, but that always just seems to put me on guard—I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop; for something to go wrong so my life makes sense. For a while lately, things have been wonderful—and all I can do is sit and plan out what I’m going to do when it ends.

I rationalize this pessimism by saying that I’m just being realistic—that life is hard, and puppies get run over and the world is a horrible, terrible place with no space for optimistic fools. But it’s just pathetic because even I don’t believe that. Yes, the world isn’t the most ideal of places right now—and not everyone ends up where they wanted to—but that doesn’t mean you just drop out of the race and sit at home eating peanut butter straight out of the jar (actually, that sounds like a pretty great way to spend a Sunday evening…)

I always wake up happy. Even if my head and neck hurt due to the unfortunate placement of the pillow and even if my legs are numb from the cold because my sister hogged the covers last night. It’s not a conscious thing I do—I’ve always woken up like that. When I was a kid that was because waking up meant that I could continue reading whatever I had been last night before my mum cut that short by turning off the lights, or so that I could rush out to the balcony and just take it all in or so I could get an early start on a day spent building Lego towers and playing doctor on my Barbie. Now I wake up happy because that’s what my brain has been wired to do. Even if I’m still groggy from sleep, those few minutes before I gain full consciousness are glorious. My brain is not busy calculating all the different outcomes and impacts of the events of the day and deciding on the hypothetical course of action. The most taxing thing it is doing is wondering which way to stretch so the crick in my back is straightened out.

Expecting the worst—it’s not called being prepared, it’s just me not believing in myself or what I’m capable of. I wasn’t always like this. I was one of those annoyingly optimistic brats who laughed out in delight when it started raining even if it meant the long awaited basketball match had to be postponed. I’m not entirely sure what happened, but somewhere along the line I just changed. I had my whole life planned out—with no space for any mistakes—but now I have a Plan B to my plan B, at least, career-wise. I’ve never really been one of those self-assured, confident people but doubting myself I never did. Now, I seem to be second-guessing myself about the most basic of decisions and had decided cynical was the way to be. Because when you expect the worst, disappointment is hard to come by.

It’s hard to hold onto that confidence when everyone around you seems dissatisfied with their place in life. But I’m not them—you are not them, and it doesn’t matter if things didn’t work out for them. Because they will for you. And they will for me

And if not, I could always teach Literature to high school kids—seems like a fun thing to do, no?

Don’t stop believing (hold on to the feelin’)

sc edited

P.S The title is not an original, it is a quote by George Carlin.

Self under self, a pile of selves I stand

I was recently told that I’m distant. That when it comes to things which really matter, I keep it bottled up. I thought that strange because I always did consider myself an open book. I guess not. One of my friends was supposed to have been pranked on radio which was airing tonight and I had the FM on and was sitting here, waiting for it—it still hasn’t come on, but as I was sitting here, I suddenly got thinking about what came up during one of the talks between me and my best friend.

Truth is, in the past, I have been accused of being detached. The first time that happened I just laughed outright in their face, because I am the most emotional person I know! I am! I am incapable of keeping it inside; sooner or later it comes out. That is what I thought.

But I recently realized that it was the truth. I do distance myself—and no, it is not because of some pathetic, cliché fear of being hurt (though a friend did think it was). I have no reason to fear that. No, actually, and as stupid and teenager-ish as this sounds, it is because it’s just easier that way. When you tell people, they think that you expect them to help and so they start telling you all these things you should do, or how it’s all going to be better; and I see them trying so desperately to help me. And I’m touched. I really am. But I just don’t want them to be feel obligated somehow to give advice, because when I tell someone something, it’s not with the expectation that in exchange for me opening up to them, they should have all the answers—no, I simply tell them for the sake of it. It’s just me stating facts—like saying that the school football field is green.

And sometimes, when I do tell someone what is really going on with me, they tend to not like it. It’s a given that you have these ideas about someone—and I know I should not be surprised when they expect something specific of me, but I really can’t help how I feel. I should not be made to feel guilty about them.

For example, this blog. This is where I really, really, open up. And some people who know me in real life know about the blog and sometimes they read it. When they see the more depressing entries, they get upset and start text-yelling at me. Accusing me of depressing them too and wondering what the hell happened to me. They say I should just go back to being the happy-go-lucky, carefree girl—how everyone just wants that cheerful person back. But you see I never was that girl. And I still am that girl!

I guess what I’m trying to say is, she was a part of me—and still is—but that is it. She is simply a part of me. I am no single check box. I’m jumbled and upside down and like mirror-writing. There are sides to me no one ever sees—not even my mom who I love and trust with all my heart. And the reason is that, they just won’t like it. It is not fear of rejection—no I am simply sparing them. They have this image of me in their head and it is organized and the all the puzzle pieces fit and it’s all very neat. And I really do wish I was too, but I’m not. I’m contradictions and clichés and quirks and a bore all rolled—no, stuffed—into one.

When I say or do something which even hints at there being more to me, I see how they struggle to come to terms with it. They are not rejecting me, they are not disappointed in me—they are simply confused. Lost. They want me to be happy and believe me to be and normally, I am. Except when I’m not. But I can’t tell them about those moments because they get worried and sad…and confused. They want to help—oh how badly they want to help. They just don’t see that I don’t want help.

Yes I have cracks and chipped-off ends, but I am not broken! But they think I am because they simply cannot bear for me not be neat, and together and awesome.

I believe in working through things by myself. It might take a while, but I know I will eventually get there and sometimes I ask others for directions and even then, only if I see no light. But I normally tend to regret ever doing so, because even though they might have wonderful insights and really do help, in the process, they also get insanely worried.

I know this is extremely ungrateful of me. I can practically smell the tomatoes and rotten eggs you’re probably throwing at me right now, all the while yelling “You unfeeling, cruel ingrate!” and I am sorry.

Just another one of the things I regret about myself.

A person I used to know said that even though I talk a mile a minute, and about everything from the Rolly Polly show to Leonardo Da Vinci, I never really say anything—not about myself. He said that I trust people, and trust them quite quickly, but I still never voluntarily divulge any information about myself—and by myself, I mean myself—not what happens at school, not some book or show I found, not any fights with friends, but about myself.  This was way back in seventh grade and I never thought twice about it—after all, the idea of being mysterious quite appealed to me because that was something I was never capable of being. I was the overly enthusiastic girl who burst into songs or quoted from the Little Women or What Katy Did or even the Famous Five randomly (people never seemed to know I was quoting them…I suppose the quotes aren’t all that distinguishable…)

But yesterday, a close friend of mine said I am detached. And I was confused. Don’t I seem an open book to you? Aren’t I transparent? Do I not wear my heart on my sleeve?

Apparently not. But I don’t think I would be able to change that. Even here, this place which is supposed to be my…umm…man-cave (yes, I know, I am no man and definitely wouldn’t last in a cave overrun with poisonous spiders and snakes, but that my friend, is a minor glitch), I still cannot bare it all out. I almost did once, with one of the posts, but was so vehemently berated and yelled at and asked to just stop writing stuff like that because it “simply isn’t true”, that I swore I would never do it, because, obviously, the person just couldn’t handle it. I felt incredibly guilty. But then I realized that I am allowed to say things like they are for me—they might not be the supposed “truth” but they are my truth and I should not be made to feel guilty over it. People in my life, I love you, and this is not meant as some sort of offensive rant. I’m just telling you why I am closed off and am pleading with you to accept it for what it is when I’m not. You tell me you want to know me, and yet are so scared when a side of me you didn’t expect timidly peeps out. I love you and I know you love me. I know you want what is best for me and just want to help. But as I see you fret and wring your hands and look around for something—anything—with which you think you can ease my supposed “pain”, all I want to do is just undo what I did and somehow let you go back to believing in the neat, organized, awesome me. You have to understand, I am going to be okay. By myself. I can handle it. I am not broken—fractured, at times maybe, but definitely not broken. I can handle it.

And there are times when I cannot. But you should know, that these are few and far between and very, very, brief.