Peak hours of my sadness | UST, 18:00

September 18, 2017

I wanted to tell you a story. Notice that the word is wanted, not want. I do not write the story myself but history does. I am nothing but a mere interpreter (or else, that’s what I believe in). It hasn’t been since for so long when things happened. Hence, when the story started. (To be honest, I cannot say that the “story happened” because for me, that would mean like it’s a start of my world when it definitely is not). There is a beginning, middle, and end but I do not know when these points start. All I know is that the story is still being written and it is my job to preserve its memory.

I wrote about (nearly) everything on my journal. I checked it again and I only have written 10 pages about it in the span of x months. I can’t really remember if all those were main about this story. I do not want to skim through the entries. I do not want to relive what’s in there.

They know about this journal. It’s the most toxic thing I’ve ever owned and I am aware of that. It does not contain promiscuity or anything related to it. I’d rather not talk about it.

I am in the biggest room of my house. It is partially lit by the gentle beam of the sunlight. My hair has not been brushed since Wednesday and I look like a sickly person.

It is 6:39.

My dad tells me that I (really) look like a skeleton. I’m not really sure what to feel about that. I have been eating on time lately and have been consistently doing ballet. I am exerting all efforts to be nicer to myself.

Here in this room is where I lie down on the floor for 2 hours when things go wrong. It’s alright to ponder about things and just stare at the ceiling, you know (even if you do it for 2 hours straight!). Whenever my dad sees me, he’d always ask me what I am doing. Instead of vocalizing my answer, I just give him a small smile and continue what I am doing.

Silence is a friend that doesn’t judge me in my most vulnerable state.


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