Drama… drama.

Posted on: October 15, 2007

What am I doing with my life? I honestly don’t know. I am probably in that point where I should be certain about what I am doing and yet, I don’t really know which direction am I heading. It’s suppose to be simple and clear. I could easily enumerate all the things that I have right now and those that I would want to have in the future. I mean, I am living with my family, I have a job, I love my job (it’s different from loving where you are exactly), I love my friends at work, I love the things that I have at work – from the laptop computer that have been so “graciously” given to me (so that I wouldn’t have any reason not to do my job well…) to my little multi-colored post-its and to my overly abused coffee cup. They make me happy. Those little things make my day.

But why do I feel like sh*t these days? I feel like I have no direction at all. My everyday routine is turning into a vicious cycle – either I do or I don’t. Probably it’s the rule of life and I have to stick to it no matter what but this is the point where the character turns suicidal. If only I could put a bullet in my head, then I’d probably have nothing more to complain about. I am starting to sound so deluded and out of my wits but I really feel so low. Work is putting too much pressure on me and I need some time to digress. I need some time to be alone. I want to hide myself in a little cupboard on a one-way-ticket train heading somewhere far. Sometimes people wonder why someone who seems to have everything suddenly ends everything.

I have lots of dreams – I want to apply for scholarships abroad and continue writing. I want to write my own novel someday – chic lit, some Pulitzer-prize worthy sh*t or a self-help book, it doesn’t matter. I want to be published and be taken seriously as a professional journalist. I want to be my own captain or work for someone that is worth calling a ‘boss’ and not some stupid f*ck who thinks peoples’ lives revolves at the palm of his hands because he feeds them… sanctimonious pile of dung.

*This is probably my entry which has the most number of cuss words in it…

I am not angry. I am pissed off. I am frustrated and ‘am half-tempted to sleep and never wake up. How come it is so damn easy to smile when deep inside, you’re mourning for yourself and the death of your happiness? I can easily forget sadness when I see people and talk to friends and bombard myself with worries about what I haven’t done yet that needs to be done and what I shouldn’t have done. I forget the pain and the tugging feelings of brain torture, regret, heartache and who – in heaven’s name – knows. Sometimes, no matter how I love being around some people, I tend to pull myself away for fear of giving them the impression that I am giving myself away too much. Friends come and go but little do they know that a part of me dies along with those who killed my trust and respect.

I miss being carefree and being stupid not caring whether the world thinks I am just a gum on a side street, ready to piss the hell out of someone. I miss being invisible yet important and loved. I miss smiling for someone. I miss laughing for no one. I miss ME.


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