The Things that Follow Me Around

Some things follow me around. They’d appear out of nowhere, and they’d start talking about things I don’t want to think about. Things my inability to have friends, or to fall in love, or to believe in other people. I try hard to not think of those things. But to them, releasing these thoughts are easy, too easy in fact. With enough of thoughts like this, I’m forced to lay lifeless on the cold hard floor. These things would disappear; if I’m lucky enough that is.  But most of the time they’d stick around longer, and destroy the peace of mind I’ve tried so hard to maintain. Their voices are silent and nobody hears them talking but me. I don’t know why, but these things love to follow me around.

Sometimes they’d bring up small and unimportant things. But fuck me, even the most unimportant things become painful to think of when repeated over and over again. One small mistake, like forgetting to return a book to the library, could feel like stealing a whole rack of books. They’d bring up one small mistake I made, and then say that what I did was more than that. They’d appear, they’d torment me with my own thoughts, only to disappear without a trace. I hate myself for not being able to handle them. I want them to go away. Why are they so persistent on making my life harder than it already is? I’m starting to think this is a curse. What was I talking about again?

I apologize, but, they’re here right now. Even when I’m talking to you about them, I can’t really explain what they are or what they do clearly to anyone. They’re just too much. Too much. These things are everywhere, they can’t die. At least I think they can’t. I don’t know for sure about that, but maybe they can’t. Can they die? I don’t know. But I want them to go away, I can’t stand them, help me. I hate every waking minute I spend around them, help me scare them off. They’re scary. I didn’t call on them, why did they appear? Why can’t they go away? Who are they? What are they? These things are everywhere.

This is a mistake. Explaining them to you was a mistake. Maybe you know them, maybe they’ve been haunting you longer than they’ve been terrorizing me. But maybe you don’t, and maybe knowing about them would lead them to you. And I shouldn’t let the thought of their existence bother anyone else, but what else could I do? I’m sorry for bringing this up. They forced me to do it. I apologize, again, I don’t want them to come for you too. I’m a victim of their terror. Don’t be like me. Forget everything I said.

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The time I thought I was lonely no more

These few poems are some of the things that go on in
my mind when I think about you and what goes on between
us. They’re nothing great, I could write these up in a few
minutes, but the ones I post here are special. Writing poetry,
about you, is cathartic.

One of the poems here were written before I met you;
autumn tiba. I put it in here simply because I met you in the
summer. I also refer to you as ‘Rembulanku’, because you
bring light and serenity to a clouded and dark mind like mine.

 _____, I want you to know that you’ve done more
than you thought to me. You’ve brought life to this lonely
wanderer; and now I am lonely no more. Thank you.

We will all die, we will all be forgotten. As do other
mortal beings. But _____, your name, what you’ve done to
me, what you’ve given me, how you loved me; they’re all
going to be immortal through my lines of poetry.


Those are the few paragraphs that closed a book I once made. It was a collection of poems I made for, my then, lover. At the time I felt happy, although it didn’t last long. We went our separate ways and are now strangers again. The book was never talked about ever again, maybe it’s in a box full of other mementos and maybe it’s now just scrap paper somewhere in a landfill.

I learned that it was wrong for me to put my happiness inside another’s palms, unprotected and taken for granted, I developed a sense of safety. That safety was fragile and it could at any moment just break apart, when it did I became cold and cynical. The few relationships after this one was a roller coaster of feelings and ended either abruptly or awkwardly because of such cold mentality.

I was wrong to find consolation by creating a barrier between myself and Others. I kept people close, but never let them know me, the ‘true’ me, the self I suppress to become this lifeless shell which is devoid of meaning. I subtly broke off relationships with a lot of people, and I distanced myself from people I felt could hurt me again. I was hurt, then I sought to not get hurt by inflicting pain on others.

For a time I thought that to live a life so misanthropic was a safe way of living. Suppressing feelings of attachment, compassion, and familiarity once felt so right. I was wrong to think that way. It slowly took me over, my thoughts became darker and darker, I yearned for those feelings I reject to feel. Yet, I carried on like that. Until I met my current lover.

I decided to start again, to try and live life the way I used to live, even more this time. I started to let go of the past and change my pessimistic outlook. It wasn’t at all that easy, I had to ‘rearrange’ my thought process. I learned to care for Others again, not disregarding them as useless or only thinking of them as useful; I didn’t see Others as tools for me anymore. In the end I realized that I was just venting my self-hate on Others.

I learned to love myself. It’s not that easy when most of your life you’ve been blaming yourself for things that went to shit, even when you didn’t have the power to change the circumstances or outcomes of anything. So I learned to do so slowly, without rushing changes to happen.

Which brings us back to the book, especially the book’s closing paragraphs. At the time I gave the book, I felt that I was the same as the book, and object to be given or received, I didn’t only give her a collection of poems, I gave her myself. She accepted the book, but rejected me. I couldn’t accept that. I thought that if I gave an all out effort to make her happy, I’d be happy. But I am not an object, and I didn’t have to go to such lengths to make someone happy. If I saw myself as a subject instead of an object, maybe, the outcome would’ve been different. Because in the end she was alright with the abrupt end of our ‘relationship’, yet I was broken.

I hated myself too much I started to hate others, yes I was broken but I felt comfortable being broken, that’s confusing enough isn’t it? Without letting people close enough to understand me, how could someone try to help? Yes, that delusional state of moderate misanthropy was strange and confusing. I’m happy it’s gone now, well it decreased drastically at least.

I learned my lesson, and now I’m trying to cope with the residue of a failed experiment. I’m still very much pessimistic, yet I could hope for better days to come now. Trying hard to be happy and all the while grateful for life.

Now all I regret is making such a naive cheesy closing for that book. ‘Bring light and serenity to a clouded dark mind..’  I mean come on? Really? Oh well, it’s in the past.

Separation and Midnight Thoughts

           Knowing that this separation would probably be forever kills me. In my mind, a naïve one, I thought that I’ve found a safe haven for my thoughts; yet I was wrong. To whom do I owe the honor of this awakening? Her, I owe it to her, and I owe her a lot for each and every enlightenment I’ve had.

            Separation is a hard thing to say, yet separating seems to be a harder thing to do. Imagining something that tastes as bitter as this is easy, but when a concept realizes itself into true hard fact, that’s even harder to swallow. But the truth isn’t too bad for a writer. It fuels his mind with ideas, albeit living with the truth hurts more than writing about it; although it makes him melancholic.

            Melancholy is a beautiful word, or at least my definition of melancholy is. A feeling of depression so deep, it encourages you to think more than feel, to create beautiful lines of poetry instead of breaking the first thing you see in front of you; but most of all it keeps you sane in the wake of being left alone to fight your sorrows.

            But I’ve won most battles now, I feel stronger than ever. A young woman made me this way. She could build so much in such a small duration of time, I sometimes think that she was too good to be true. But she was real, her love was real, her caring was real, all those beautiful feelings I felt were real; it felt more real than God. But that is life, like a Stephen King novel, we never know what’s going to happen next. She and all the life she brought into my life were real, so were the differences we have that forbid us to stay together.

            Being happy alive is hard for people who don’t have many earthly desires, much like me. I’ve had a few in the past, a few really strong ones, but now they’re gone; disappeared. Being realistic would be the death of me, it clouds my mind with pessimistic thoughts, but it also confuses me because it makes me strive to fight those thoughts; is confusion really that bad then? I don’t think so. Confusion needs to be taken care of, and clearing your mind from confusion would take effort. Maximizing your potential to do so would then remind you of how strong you really are in the face of confusion. Then does that make confusion good? No. It doesn’t make it good or bad. It only shows that any obstacle you’ll face is nothing frightening when you realize how powerful you are.

            But is being powerful enough for someone to completely rid one’s self from the hopes that they have? Hopes that would never come true, one that would make even the strongest man on earth fall low to the ground, sob, and feel like the sky itself is falling on of him? No. It takes more than strength. It takes compassion; something seen as being the only weapon that the weak and ignorant have against the hardships of life. Yet something seemingly weak and useless is more powerful than any army that once made empires crumble. A thousand armies of war hardened men could make you the new king of Rome, but could not make you forget the tender hold of the hands you could no longer hold. But realize compassion and it could make you smile, while she gazes a familiar gaze you once were sure was only for you, towards another pair of eyes. Beauty that you could only see when you’ve let lust and desire go.

            Am I able to see that kind of beauty? No. I still have high hopes that I could not rid of. It’s harder to practice than to preach. It’s hard for me to let go. I am a person that holds on to something a little too hard, then thinks too much of it when its gone. If so, is being realistic or is it over thinking that would be the death of me? Maybe one of the two, maybe both; for now let’s just leave it at that. All I know for now is that life is beautiful and that I’m stronger than before. I don’t need to worry too much. And she’s happier now, and that makes me happy too.