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I don't actually know what happened to me. All I remember is that after my dreadful seventeenth birthday, my life changed. The vibrant colors of autumn faded into a palette reminiscent of 70s films and eigengrau. I apologize for my lack of skill in expressing myself through writing. It's a complex task for me, as my thoughts quickly slip from my grasp. They vanish in a matter of seconds, especially when I multitask, attempting to write while engaged in other activities. You may wonder why I juggle so many things at once. Well, my foolish answer is that twenty-four hours are insufficient to complete all my tasks. (By the way, I'm currently in a state of oblivion.) Have you noticed something peculiar? My sentences lack coherence, and I have no idea why I write in such a disjointed manner. My brain is a jumble of unrelated thoughts, causing turmoil within my mind and leading others to perceive me as strange, often resulting in misunderstandings.
This personal phenomenon has been a puzzle to me. Why? Because during my elementary school years, I excelled with words. I effortlessly comprehended them with a single glance. I would often interrupt others before they could finish their sentences because I already knew what they were going to say. It was rude, but that was who I was. Now, at the age of twenty, I thank God. I have a feeling that I may not reach twenty-five or even twenty-three, although I've never shared this with my parents, only with my friends to spare my family from worry. I'm at a loss as to my purpose in life, and that is disheartening. What am I living for without a sense of purpose? Perhaps I have one or two, but they have yet to reveal themselves. But when will they manifest? Will it be when I'm on the brink of death, struggling to hold on to each breath, pleading with my heart to keep beating despite my exhausted mind? That would be incredibly frustrating. I dislike the idea of my life becoming even more unbearable than it already is. However, I am not the one in control. I am merely a human, powerless over my fate. My only role is to make choices, to decide, to feel regret, to celebrate, to commemorate, to forget, to reminisce, and to hate.
Life is like turning the pages of a novel, allowing the reader to explore what is written. The words remain invisible until you reach that specific page. Life is an undefined literary genre, a fusion of all genres. Comedy, drama, romance, action, thriller, horror, mystery, tragedy, fantasy—they all coexist, blurring the lines between reality and fiction. But how can we be certain that life isn't a work of fiction? We have no idea. It's possible that our existence is nothing more than a novel penned by authors from other planets. They may be amused by our struggles and suffering as we strive to maintain our sanity within the confines of our sinful world.
Literature used to be a dear friend to me, when my mind wasn't a chaotic blend of abstract art. It allowed me to feel heard, even if only the lined pages of my childhood notebooks bore witness to the range of emotions I poured onto them. I feel remorse for the ballpoint pens that endured the sweat of my palms. I am truly sorry for that.
Sometimes, I yearn to meet someone as empathetic as me, someone who chooses to listen and see the bigger picture instead of hastily judging and drawing conclusions. If I ever love someone the way God wants me to love His son (not Jesus—I love Him already—but the man He has prepared for me), I want to love a person who cherishes the purity of my character when I am alone.
Someone once asked me, "What distinguishes a house from a home?"
I already knew the answer. Before, my response was, "A house is merely a structure of walls, windows, and doors where one may find shelter. But a home is intangible. It is a feeling of comfort and belonging." Now, having experienced more, I have discovered a new definition of home.
We all have different personalities and habits. The most cherished version of ourselves, known to only a select few, is the person we are when we are alone. The angry, sad, blissful, and every other emotion we experience in solitude is rarely shared with others. We conform to societal expectations. However, when we are with someone who allows us to be our true selves, without the need for pretense or conformity, we find our home. Home is the person with whom we can be unapologetically ourselves, even unconsciously, just as we are when we are alone. So, let me ask you this: Are you aware that your truest self emerges when you are alone? Are you aware that the way you talk to yourself is rarely seen when you are with others? Are you aware that the version of you that exists in solitude is the rarest? If your answer is "yes," then ask yourself this: Do you have someone with whom you share that version of yourself? Do you converse with another person the way you talk to yourself when you're alone? If you do, then you have found your home. But if not, we are in this together.
The moment you find someone with whom you can be your authentic self, even in solitude, is the moment your home is established. But the sad question remains: Does that person feel the same way about you?
I often ponder these questions and ask myself: Do I have someone in my life, other than myself, who has witnessed the version of me that only emerges when I am alone? Do I have someone who knows the depths of my solitude, known only to God?
The saddest part is, I don't believe I have found that person yet. However, I hope that they will come into my life. But why should I be sad when I know I have God, who can save me at any time, in any place, even before time itself began.
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THIS IS THE UNPROOFREAD VERSION OF THIS POST:
I don’t actually know what happened to me. All that I remembered was that after that dreadful seventeenth birthday, my life altered from a vibrant hue of autumn into a palette of 70s films and eigengrau. Pardon me. I am not really good at this—writing stuff and expressing my feelings are way more complex to me. The first reason why I find it hard to scribe my thoughts is because I rapidly forget about them. Like rapidly, swoosh—forgotten for only three seconds, worst-case scenario is when I am doing another thing and writing at the same time. So, yes, you may ask why I do many things at the same time. Well, my asinine answer to that is because twenty-four hours aren’t adequate for my tasks to be completely done. (By the way, I am in my oblivion trance right now.) Have you noticed something peculiar? You see, my sentences aren’t actually related to each other, and I don’t have any idea why I write like that. My brain is merely like a complete mix-up of different things that I actually don’t know what they are. They are just there, disturbing the tranquility of my psyche, making my thinking process way more troubled and causing other people to think I am weird, which usually leads me to being misunderstood.
This personal phenomenon has been a conundrum to me, though why? Because when I was around—maybe—in my elementary school years, I was extremely good with words. I could easily comprehend them with just a single perusal. Often, I interrupted other people before they could even finish their sentence because I already knew what they were going to say. That was rude of me, but that was who I was. And now, I am already twenty, thank God. Well, I thank God because I have this feeling that I may not reach the age of around twenty-five or even twenty-three, and I never told my parents about that; just my friends because I don’t want to worry my family. Now, I am already twenty, I don’t know what my purpose is yet, and that sucks. Because what am I living for without purpose? Perhaps, I have one or two, but they haven’t arrived and been known yet. But when will they be shown to me when I am already dying and forcing oxygen to stay in my lungs and pleading my heart to pump even though my brain is already petered out to function? Well, then, that will be so irritating. I don’t like that, and I don’t want my life to be worse than it already is. But who am I to decide? I am just a human who has no control over my fate. My only job is to choose, decide, regret, celebrate, commemorate, forget, reminisce, and hate.
Life is a complete turning of pages of a novel so the reader will be able to peruse what is written, and the words are invisible until you truly reach that page in reading. Life is like an undefined literary genre or better to say a complete mash-up of all genres. Comedy, drama, romance, action, thriller, horror, mystery, tragic, fantasy, and fictional but always been a fictional but not a fiction. But how can you tell it cannot be a fiction? We DON’T HAVE ANY IDEA THAT THIS MIGHT JUST BE A WRITTEN NOVEL OF SOME AUTHORS FROM THE OTHER PLANETS. And they are cackling because we are suffering and struggling in these satanic shackles of sins, yet still striving to keep our sanity.
Literature has been a good friend to me before when my brain wasn’t a mixture of asinine abstract art yet. It helps me feel heard even though only the ruled notebook of my earlier middle-grade years could hear those variety shows of feelings. I pity my ball pen because of the sweat in my palms that he was bathed with before. I am guilty of that crime. I am extremely, truly apologetic right now. Sometimes I wish I meet someone who can be as empathetic as me, who chooses to listen and look at the bigger picture and not just easily judge and conclude. If I ever going to love someone the way God wants me to love His son (I mean not Jesus but the man who He prepares for me), I want to love the man who treasures the pureness of my character when I am alone.
Someone once asked me: What is the distinction between a house and a home?
I already knew the answer to that. Before, I responded, “Well, a house is only a structure of walls, windows, and doors where you may find your home. But a home is an intangible thing that you feel and find comfort. It is the belongingness.” Now that I have experienced something even more, I find a new definition of a home again.
We have different personalities. We have a variety of customary behaviors. And the most treasured personality and version of ourselves that almost only one knows is the persona of us when we are alone. The angry version of you when you are alone, the sad you when you are alone, the blissful you when you are alone, every emotion and state of you when you are alone are rarely shared with other people. We conform. And the moment you are with other people that you believe and have faith that you unconsciously don’t need to conform anymore, that you don’t need to put up a customary behavior anymore, that’s the moment that you find your home. Because home is the person you are with when you show who you are without reluctance and even unconsciously when you are alone. So, let me ask you this: Are you aware that you are the realest version of yourself when you are alone? Are you aware that the way you talk to yourself is rarely seen when you are with people? Are you aware that you have the rarest version of you when you are alone? Then if you answer “yes,” then ask yourself this: Do you have anybody you share that version of you with? Or do you talk to a person the way you talk to yourself when you’re alone? If yes, then you found your home. But if not, then we are in this together.
The moment you find a person to whom you find solace in turning into the version of you when you are alone is the moment your home is finally established. But the sad question is, “Does this person feel the same thing with you or about you?”
I always wonder about these and ask myself: Do I have a person in my life other than myself who has already seen the alone version of me? Do I have a person in my life who has known the alone version of me that only God knows about?
The saddest thing is, I think I haven’t found that person yet, but I hope they are going to be people. But why sad when I know I have God and He will salvage me anytime, anywhere, and even before the creation of time.
*I am an aspiring writer since I was 10, but I only have the great ideas, not excellent and coherent writing skills. I don't know what happened. I was once great at handling words, but these years...*
ReplyWe must be physically and emotionally available, and living life, being out there, participating in hobbies, classrooms, volunteer opportunities, sports teams, and when we least expect it we will meet the person who completes our home. However, this person is for your journey on earth, and with no guarantees, so you must always have a purpose greater than yourself. Best of luck.
Courtesy notice: the following includes a reference to a book that contains writings over 2000 years old which are mostly parables about human nature, both vile human nature as well as moral human nature, parables that are meant to teach us to learn and grow, including the teachings of Christ Jesus. No religion required, and better yet: no public displays of devotion required, although the former and latter are admirable if practiced freely out of one's own free will and without the threat of being beheaded. Some bullies will label this "trolling", so "change the channel" now if of no interest to you.
1 Thessalonians 5:11
Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing.
Mark 12:28-31
And Christ Jesus said the 2 greatest commandments are:
Love God first and foremost.
Love your fellow-being as you love yourself.
From following or not following these, all good or evil cascades, respectively.
Love...that powerful, invisible, intangible force that cannot be denied; even atheists live and die by it.
Mary, Mother of Christ, intercede for us with your prayers, now, and always.
And after our worst deeds - never forget God forgives us when we repent through Christ Jesus.
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