Like a heartbreak.
You can't control who you like. You just fall. You don't fall if you don't trip.
You don't move on if you don't walk. You don't live on if you stop breathing. And you won't begin to care about much if you stopped thinking. Sometimes I try doing that. But I think so often so much as I breathe. Every second. About you, about Muay Thai, about myself, about my future. Maybe I'm not like Gandhi or Obama trying to make a world a better place with every thought and idea. But I'm young and I haven't solved my own problems. I haven't pursued my dream of an internship at Seventeen. I'm lazy and seek no interest in fashion. What's in trend, the shops sell, and I just buy. Like a blind consumer.
Most of the time, I am blind. Not physically in reference to my spectacles of high degrees but blind. In life's decisions and whatnot. I hardly got anything right. Down to the people I liked. They were strange, weren't society's average, not quite your 'next-door' person. No wait, they weren't strange. They were people who had stories to tell. They didn't have your everyday joy, their faces had tints and stains of pain, mouths that have strained trying to smile. Eyes that have been dried after hours wasted of crying over a broken heart, a twisted mind. Hair that has been messed after running a comb through it, trying to look perfect. A brain overworked, trying to be perfect.
There was a point I thought typing in double I's were cool. Messing your aLpHaBEtSs looked hip. I never typed q's as g's though. That one, as much as I messed my alphas, grinded my gears. It still does.
I like stories. Not gossipy stories. Okay maybe some. But I don't like complaint stories. I like stories. Not fairytales but true stories. Stories that make you think even after The End. Stories that make you try to fit yourself into it and give yourself some sympathy. Then it makes you sad soon after because you think of the person you love that doesn't quite love you back that much. But you try to stay happy.
And when you sleep at night, you cry. Because it hurts so much, rejection. Waiting for nothing. Everything clumped together just hurts. The expectation from your parents, your academic dreams, your inferiority, a lost friend, your ugly face, a dead person. A failure that you committed, a mistake you shouldn't have made. Something that you said, or didn't say this time. Everything, like pen and paper, just comes together. It sticks, and it's hard to pull it apart. Your hands get caught in the mess. It hurts. You cry. Sometimes the tears weaken the grip and you feel better. But it still sticks. And the only lubricant to pull it apart is the person you want to love you back. But think, if you've waited for months and the memories you've shared are still fresh. And the person loves someone else.
You know you need to move on.
But there's glue on your feet, from the tears that you've cried yesterday. Somehow it's glue today. It probably dried up. You try to get up, walk on, look away from the past and move on. It's hard, it almost seems impossible. And somewhere along the way your friends come. They have glue on their feet but they've pulled through. They help you up and then you're free. No more dried tears, no more broken heart. Then there's the person you loved again. No more feeling. But here comes another... you fall for.
You get stuck in the gutter.
Upon words you begin to stumble.
Your life
Your feelings
The time
In between them all you try to fumble for something you've always wanted.
Properly being loved.
But here's the irony of the most intelligent beings on Earth:
We always want things we can't get.
And the best part is that it happens again and again,
and we just, never, learn.
Fin.