As I stated before, I find myself bored yet again,
so I am blogging, I feel a headache creeping in, the point behind my eyes ache
and my shoulders feel knotted, I feel strange about putting up my problems here
but, then again, this is my blog and for once people, just listen.
Sometimes I feel that even when I am in a crowd
people tend to not hear my words, literally, either they ignore me or just
forget my presence. I’ve long grown used to it; maybe there is an air of
something about me. The same something that makes people talk to me and tell me
things they wouldn’t usually tell, and I listen and keep those whispered,
laughing spoken, tearfully confessed tidbits to myself, because they are
precious, should they be colorful pieces of cloth, I’d store them in tiny glass
bottles and hide them in a treasure chest, because the human condition
fascinates me, it is an enigma, the beautiful dark blots, the glaring whites
and the multitude of grays in between. I would gladly be your scribe and your
chronicler, let me embrace your mind and your memories, what these ears hear or
eyes see, this mouth will not speak, nor this hand write.
For all those beautiful people who have confided in
me, thank you, you are all precious to be, thank you for giving me your voices.
But this comes at a price, there are so many things
that I yearn to speak to tell, sometimes even I wish that there is someone to
hear my words when I fall into those bouts of sudden depression, no one really
knows about them except once person, one really close friend who I managed to
confess to. I am eternally grateful for her; she is one of those people whose
existence saves mine. For she is the only one my tongue will loosen, not my
parents nor my siblings.
For those who know me close and are my good friends,
even those who just hang around me would never know me being depressed to such
an extent. I’m always laughing and smiling, and making awkward jokes, even when
I want to cry or just fall to the floor and hug my knees, I might get angry
occasionally, maybe pissed off sometimes, sometimes nervous and confused, but
no one ever sees when I am depressed, I’m too good at hiding it, but there is a
book that I keep, one that I write in when I feel like the dirt beneath my
feet. It is filled with a story of a man, trapped in a dark room, starving and
drowning in the darkness. The story starts and stops over the various periods
of depression, I feel like I should burn it sometimes, it is a memoir to the
darkest parts of my life. But then again I keep it, it is the truest part of me
that I can think of, and I do not want to lose that.
I can say without any hesitation, I am like a leaf
in the wind sometimes, yet sometimes this wind is a gale that threatens to tear
me apart. Responsibilities and Expectations, I want to groan and turn away but
they catch me, responsibilities hold me to a path made for me, studies and
jobs, where I am today, and expectations hold me to my word, expected to hold
on when the path is not what you want, expected to get good grades and become
the provider. Expected to smile and get on with my life when I want to scream and
cry. I am expected to hold back my tears and swallow my cries of pain and just
move on.
It just gets hard to move on, but the thing is I do,
people rely on me to not break to hold their hand and to high five them and to
tell them it gets better, so I do,
because I genuinely care about you, and I know the importance of have someone
to be your soundboard, this is why no matter how much I am sick inside, and
tired, I will always be there to answer your calls, to give you the pat on your
back and the hug. It is the reason why I hand make each birthday card,
anniversary card and just strange cards for my friends and family, because to
me you are all special and you deserve to be differentiated from the masses on
that one day, you are special to yourself.
I am not asking for special treatment, I am not
asking for anything, for once, just listen and keep my secret, bottle it up and
hide it away in some secret place.
This is my confession, this is my story.
Thank you, dear reader.
For listening or rather reading my words.
Forever yours,
The melancholic M
