First entry for this challenge
First entry for this challenge
It’s reading and rereading the last message we sent you when we don’t get a reply because “Ummmm…was is something I said?” “Did I offend you in any way?” “I should probably apologize for wasting their time because they’re too busy, and I’m not.” Yes, it’s over thinking.
It’s a lot of uncontrollable over thinking. It sounds like paranoia. Somehow our minds could create the most bizarre connections between things. It’s like forming a conspiracy theory about things that could or could not be. As crazy as it sounds, sometimes our theories turn out to be true.
It’s feeling guilty even though you didn’t do anything wrong.
Anxiety. It’s not being able to eat despite feeling hungry. It’s the collywobbles, but even you don’t know why they’re there. It’s telling people that you have gastritis when you really don’t. Do you really want to explain your mental illness to your friends who are enjoying their meal?
It’s feeling disturbed when things aren’t in order because you have OCD tendencies, too. I mean what if something goes wrong because it wasn’t at the right position in the first place?
It’s caring too much, then pretending not to care that much because some people don’t like the clingy you.
It’s “overreacting” because you’re scared.
It’s an illness that people mistake for insanity, when it really isn’t. It’s an illness that makes you feel like you’re having a heart attack whenever it strikes.
It’s painful. Heck, it’s pain itself. It makes your chest burst when it peaks. It makes you beg for it to stop…to just stop. It makes you cry, it makes you horrible…and it drags on for days.
Sometimes it paralyzes you, and you stay in bed not wanting to get up. Sometimes you have to get up, and you put on a pseudo default happy face so you don’t have to explain to anyone how conflicted you’re really feeling inside. Sometimes it’s insomnia because your thoughts won’t let you sleep, and you end up popping a sleeping pill you’ve been hiding under your pillow.
No, we can’t turn it off and be “normal” like you when your patience has ran out. Believe me, even we are trying to be patient with ourselves. We only ask you to understand us. We’re sick, but we don’t use our sickness as an excuse.
It’s not just wanting a hug, it’s needing a hug because damn, you’ve never felt so safe and comfortable in your life. It’s needing a hug because after all the chaos happening in your head, that’s the only thing that makes sense right now.
I’ve given up wishing for you
I’m going to stop searching for dandelions to blow
Stop staying up late waiting for the clock to hit 11:11
Stop looking up at the sky at night to see the first star to appear,
Or wait for a shooting star to whiz across
Stop wasting my coins on wishing wells
Stop blowing fallen eyelashes from the tip of my finger
Stop wishing for you when I blow out the candles on my next birthday cake
I’m done with all that because another girl did the same thing,
She got her wish – you.
-Poem originally written on November 30, 2015 in a notebook labeled Compositions for the Imaginative Minds.
How paradoxical it is that the person who makes the butterflies in your stomach do triple back flips, who makes you feel uneasy, and who triggers your anxiety is also the same person who can calm the storm in you and make it all go away.
I stare at them, not in a creepy disturbing way
I stare at them observantly
I study them, absorb every detail, take mental notes
I was curious, and this was an opportunity
to look at them without getting caught
Bothered by the question whether they were black or brown
It was a mystery that I was so eager to solve
It was a puzzle that I just had to piece together
After all this time, this was a chance to finally find out
My method was on-point, direct
I start at the corner of his eyes
The part where he won’t catch me staring
From that angle, the outline is midnight black
I begin to make conclusions – they are black
I talk to him, he faces me
The afternoon sun casts its rays
The light indirectly flood his face
His eyes illuminate revealing its true color
No, I think to myself
And it’s not just any kind of brown
It’s definitely not the dull type of brown
It’s the shade of brown that makes you stare in awe
It’s the tint that makes me forget that my favorite color is green
His eyes are my new favorite color,
And they’re the fondest things I see
I sit beside you, half listening to your words
I sit beside you, gawking in wonderment
Astonished by the galaxies in your eyes that are windows to the universe that is your very soul.
Boy meets girl
They become close friends
They hang out a lot
They share secrets
Boy meets girl
People start teasing them
People think they’re a couple
People become inquisitive
Boy meets girl
Girl doesn’t mind
Girl evaluates friendship level
Girl starts having indescribable feelings for boy
Boy meets girl
Boy has no intentions of dating girl
Boy places girl in the friendzone
Boy develops awkward relationship with girl
Boy ends peer assumptions
Boy eyes another girl
Boy approaches this girl
Boy tries to make his move
Girl is hurt
Girl feels sorry for herself
Girl misses her boy best friend
Girl is all alone
Boy meets girl
They were only meant to meet
It’s that moment where you want to write about something but you can’t even think about a topic. You stare at that white screen with a blinking line, and in the end you close the program. Or you stare at that clean sheet in front of you with a modern quill in your hand but not a single subject comes to mind. I wrote this post just to fill up the blog gap.
I admit it: I feel a bit nerdy confessing I collect stamps.
I’m not sure how it all started, but I think it’s my father’s fault. He used to travel a lot for work, so he had friends all over the planet. And occasionally these friends would send us a letter, like this one:
Within a few years I’d amassed maybe a dozen such first-day covers, and I’d saved several hundred stamps from my father’s correspondence. (I especially looked forward to Christmas each year.)
Before long I was saving my allowance for the local stamp-swaps and mail-order offers. I’m sure I got swindled a few times (I was only eight or nine). But still, it was fun.
Then my collection sat idle for a few years, largely forgotten while I attended college and married and started a career. It wasn’t until last year, in the aftermath of The Great Flood
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Our telephone rang so I picked the receiver up. Nobody answered at the other end. I placed the receiver back down and continued to watch the Azkals’ game against Laos. A moment later, the phone rang again. The call was from an agent of a so-called ‘Utama Electronic Company‘. I have never heard of this company so the word SCAM automatically entered my mind. Knowing that only our telephone company would have access to our telephone number and information, I decided to “play-along” to know what she’s got to offer. She asked me when we got our phone, I told he that we got it this May. So she said that they were giving out rewards for twenty phones that were connected this year. She said that I needed to present two valid IDs at the designated claiming center at the second floor of a building in this city where I live in. I had to look for “Green Top” and an agent was going to give me my reward item. Ughhh, that’s the building where there are a lot of ‘agents’ standing outside, telling passers-by that they have a gift certificate/reward that they can claim for free AT THE SECOND FLOOR OF THAT BUILDING. They gave me this “special code” to use when I claim the item. They asked me where I live and what my name is so that they could record it. I gave fake details, of course. When the call ended, I knew that I had to verify the company’s name and details. I surfed the internet. Articles about the company and the company’s call being a scam appeared.
I knew it! The next time you receive a suspicious phone call, listen to your gut and put the receiver down. Our telephone comes with a ‘Caller ID’ feature. If the same number pops up when they call, don’t pick up.
by Thomas Hardy
“Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? — planting rue?”
— “No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
‘It cannot hurt her now,’ he said,
‘That I should not be true.'”
“Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?”
— “Ah, no: they sit and think, ‘What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death’s gin.'”
“But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? — prodding sly?”
— “Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.
“Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say — since I have not guessed!”
— “O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?”
“Ah yes! You dig upon my grave…
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog’s fidelity!”
“Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place.”