20160926

A day has 24 hours.

Today, I spent 4 sleeping. More , if you count nodding off without realizing during the 3.5 hours of lectures.

1 was spent walking, wishing I had a vehicle so I could hurry to the next location without getting drenched by the sudden rain, 1 spent boiling water for ramen to eat while working.

6 hours was spent working, trying to save for a concert that I probably won't attend, saving up for lasik surgery while destroying my eyesight in the process, saving up for my mom and though she would see red if she knows what I do to myself, trying to earn money so I can prove something to the world that doesn’t care.

1 was spent washing dishes using soap from home and my roommate's sponge and listening to music so I could have a song stuck in my head instead of chanting “I wanna die.”

Around 1.5 hours (I’m not really sure, didn’t exactly try to keep track) was given to homework. Stuffing fancy words into an essay and reading the textbook aloud while walking in place, because I realized that my legs felt like jello and standing up made me black out for a second that felt like eternity.

I took 1 hour out to complain to my friends that I’m too busy, 0.5 to read my professors’ messages and other important emails, hoping all this would make things clearer.

They did not and I’m down to 5.5 hours. I’m not done with my essay and I’m not done reading the book and I’m not done with the pile of work I so happily and greedily agreed to doing.

This is all my own fault.

I just want to do so much and I’m wasting time right now, writing this that I’ll delete later. Maybe if I don’t write this, I’ll have time to help edit my friend’s essay or look over my other friend’s CV. Or reply to my class leader about whether or not I want to participate in the gift exchange. Or watch the video my mentor sent me so I can become a better teacher and person.

But no, I’ll just and cry about the six feet deep hole I dug for myself. Pulling more dirt down as I claw at the walls. Hoping it’ll all be worth it. 

2015 some month, some day

Sometimes I read other people’s words and am suddenly overcome by the urge to write my own, but my heart is drowning and my mind is too waterlogged to create comprehensible words. Other times, I reread my writing and realize that, be it a poem or a story or a school essay, they are nothing but cringe-worthy. The words are desperate for attention – the tortured letters and halting syllables and flowery language so hard for one’s tongue to wrap around are just crying to be seen and caressed gently. But if you read them, you will be disgusted by how I flaunt my misery. Sadness is something branded in the heart but unable to be expressed, someone once said. And yet my sadness and confusion and anger is painted in neon black, splattered all over my body and I flail on the ground. I call the splatters “art” but people will look at it with skeptical eyes and scoff. And the ones who say they understand are pretentious and cocky, maybe – probably – most likely – just as I am pretentious and reveling in my “art.” But really, I am just sad.

I do not take criticism well. I am so self-conscious, always afraid of what people will think, and my self-esteem has been burning in hell since I entered elementary school. But I am so arrogant, always thinking, deep inside, that I am better than everyone else. It sounds contradictory because I am so frustrating, but maybe it makes sense. I hunger for recognition - any compliment gives me a high but it wears off quickly – and if I do not receive it, I will shatter into pieces of self-doubt and self-pity. I’ll make excuses for myself and become jealous of others and think of conspiracy theories and wallow in depressing poetry. And the more I do so, the more I hate myself and it’s just a positive feedback cycle, which means it is anything but positive.