M.E.

I am a piece of scrap paper personified. I tend to bear scribbles and fine lines and harsh words, but at the end of the day, they all get lost in my thought. I write words but the true emotions remain unwritten. They seem to shy away from being read, disguised by hysterical laughter and happy faces.

I am trying hard in every imaginable trivial pursuit there is. I try hard to write poetry but to no avail. I try hard to dress up and put lipstick and blush-ons and all those good stuff to appear “corporate” but I always end up looking like a tragedy. I try hardest to put smile on everyone’s faces, to make them feel good about themselves because I came to terms with the idea that vicarious experience is still a valid experience.

I was nostalgic and is trying every effort to steer away from this habit. I tend to moon over the days gone by. Those days that either existed or never existed. And that made other people think that I am an angsty, nostalgic writer who can't get a life. I am trying to get away from being nostalgic because its both sorry and addictive, it eats up the happy part of you, making you feel like an addict who can't get a fix. Even though its completely out of character, I am trying to become a happy writer. Not that giddy-up superficial writer but that writer who knows very well that there's happiness in this world that has grown dark with self-insufficiency.

I am Obsessive-Compulsive, like everyone else, but a little different. I am right on the threshold of paranoid and clumsy. You can ask my friends how oc I am with books, dates, and planned events and they are also living witnesses on how disorganized I am with other things. I tend to forget to lock the door. I always forget my cellphone at home. I always stumble when I walk. But I always make sure that planned events happen, at all cost, even on other people's expense. I am just oc about setting expectations because I am never a fan of broken promises.

I am a daydreamer that even earth-back-to-czarina dialogues don’t seem to function. That’s how chronic my disease is. I always get lost and I always adhere to the exquisite feeling of steering away from reality, that in a split of a second, I am able to recognize my real wants and dreams. I just believe that daydreaming is coming close to making your own reality.

I am trying to reconstruct my idea of true love. Because my previous blog entries are blatant enough to depict how utterly embittered I was about my lost love. But I am still a little hopeful. Everything else entails right timing and cosmic proportion. But I won’t be waiting for a prince charming no more… because I am no Cinderella and I can never, under all sorts of circumstances, wear glass shoes, not even high heels! I am still waiting for that perfect timing.

I am a friend. And I am saying that loud and clear. I guess that I’ve become a friend too much that I find it hard to believe that some people forget, easily; that some human beings dwell too much on their selective memory that they deliberately forget and move on. And because of that I also acquired the habit of deleting friends. And let me coin the idea of selective friendship, which I now live by. This is about choosing genuine friendships that lasts.

I am underrated. And I am already getting the hang of it. And I am already amenable to the idea that you really can’t please everybody and that some people just find delight in letting you down. But I’ve learned that being underrated doesn’t mean that you can just sit around and let other people belittle you for who you are.

I’m not done with my dreams yet. Not even close. Even in a world of unparalleled uncertainties, where everything else seems to fall apart, I haven’t given up yet. There’s always a season for everything, so does the Bible say. And I firmly believe in it. I know that God won’t allow anyone to fall back without even trying to move forward.

I am a believer. Its true that I am currently in a state of a spiritual slump but I am trying to step up from this dilemma. I am too much of a sinner. I commit big and small sins every single day. There’s no point of denying that I am a lost sheep trying to trace my way back home. I have this fond memory of this little girl who attends Sabbath School Children’s Class, who prays every night, whose life is filled with simple joys, and I can’t help but want to be that little girl again. I believe that this will be a winding struggle but I am willing to try – harder this time.

I am just a person who knows herself too much. I know that I’m not smart enough, not pretty enough, not rich enough. I know all that, trust me. But I am still a person; I am still exhibiting human’s ability to feel, to hope, and to live just in case the world forgets about it. I am still a girl who tries to be happy, to love, or hopefully, be loved. I’m not hoping for grand entrances and shimmering spotlights because we can only see them on movies, and I am never a fan of mediated reality.

I am just as I am.