If not every day, there are days like these when the skies look far too gloomy to look up and smile. Days where my hands don't feel like my own. When cars pass by, their interruption of the silence almost acts like a wake-up call snapping me back. Dissociation is something I do so much that I would be too overwhelmed without a brief pause from reality. Dissociating to me is grasping the remnants of my distorted sanity. Is it possible to be so attached and yet detached at the same time? For the lack of better words, this is how I feel. It feels euphoric to be with the right people at the right time- sometimes, it feels too unreal that my psyche takes a step back. I then watch the whole scene unfold through a camera in my head—ubiquitous faces, voices, people, movement- what was then so familiar now felt unsettling. My friends often laugh at me, "Hoy? Awa, wala na'sad ni siya naminaw," calling me back to earth was such a common practice they had to do that at this point, they have left me to be- lost in my thoughts and my world. 

Mingling with people has been proven to be such a complex task to accomplish too. I can no longer recall when was the last time I was present as myself. A gentle rage harnesses within my chest- why is it that I build countless homes in others and yet manage to leave myself homeless when alone? Slowly going adrift, slowly finding myself lost. I have many friends I fear losing- no, I know many people I fear scaring away- and so I become someone else. Don't get me wrong, I fear losing people, but I am an overused walking mirror that will shatter one day. With a few laughs and hello's, reused and recycled jokes; I slowly take mental notes of others' behaviors to fit them like a puzzle piece. I had been so desperate to grab onto someone to save the sake of me losing my ground, and yet here I am, slowly abandoning the old portrait of me. When I can no longer keep up with them, I prepare for their departure—an expected goodbye.

Reading the room was like reading without my -5.00 prescription eyeglasses. It was as if there was a humidifier spraying out an ‘abstract noun’ mist. Abstract nouns are bizarre. Intangible and unique to every individual, everyone owns their portrayal of what love, sadness, anger, and many more are. I've always wanted to properly grasp what these concepts were, but then again, they're something intangible. How am I to take hold of something that isn't there? How am I to understand something so complex? Since that thought had crossed my mind, I started to wonder. Do other people feel like this too? Nightly, I slump in my chair and ponder- were abstract nouns always this confusing? Or have I not seen enough for a young child to understand? Through the fire, I feel like I have gotten softer. My heart has become more considerate; I have learned many and seen many. I have failed many and brought happiness to plenty. I have grown- a strangely heartwarming and yet terrifying aspect of life to discuss. I’ve started to understand abstract nouns, slowly. Not even sure, but slowly.

I always thought I was strong. Maybe not physically, but I always thought I was mentally unstoppable. What used to be scornful faces and insulting words now fly over my head. I was stronger back then, though. I had a garden with a blanket of iris flowers. Whoever they were had trampled all over the garden I tended to. What was once there no longer blooms; I have stopped tending to this garden. What used to be a student that would daily be burning the midnight oil has finally gone to bed and slept. What used to be the pinnacle of an ace student had become the epitome example of a burnt-out gifted kid. What was once me is no longer. 

It haunts me daily—fragments from the past, the unnerving fickleness of the future—tethered by questions upon questions that wrap around arid memories of regrets. I feel so determined to breathe fresh air; however, my will and hesitation do the tango together on the dance floor. Maybe I should take the chance and join their dance too? Or will my cowardice decide to take front? Either way, I am a dancer- I’d like to show my moves. A freestyle of spontaneous decisions and not-so-well thought out choices. What a show.

The world has painted different colors as I've grown. Walking, and walking, and walking, down empty halls that echo in my chest. I have yet to find myself; I have yet to take a step and realize reality. It takes character and courage to face a ruthless world; not that many people possess those qualities. Many are afraid. Many want to hide and keep themselves silent for fear of experiencing worse. That demographic includes me. 

Though, one day- maybe I'll find myself. Maybe one day, I'll wake up to see the walls suited to my taste. I'll wake up in the morning early enough to experience the golden sun softly gracing my skin. Maybe there will come a day where my hands feel like my own, where the steps I take will have a purpose, leading to somewhere pleasant. A day where I am present in the present, not hollow. A day where I'll build a warm and welcoming home inside myself, for I wish not to hear my empty chest echo with a music box of cries no longer.

If there is a will, there is a way. 

I will try—every day. I hope you do too.