To Whoever

My soul is tired.

It’s tired of not living the life I want and don’t want. Of the possible bliss that would make me tear up laughing. Of the possible pain that would make me tear up in agony. Just tears flowing from pouring emotions that I didn’t know even existed, that I have never felt before, that will make me feel like my heart would combust. Instead it’s floating in a limbo of nothingness. It sounds so ungrateful. I am comfortable. I am safe. But is comfortable enough? Is safe worth it? Is it living?

It’s tired of not seeing the bigger picture. Of blindly living day to day to simply survive because that is what we can and must do. Live day to day until we tire and rest to our grave. Is that all there is to it? Is that all we’re set out to be? Is that all our souls and lives are supposed to do? I refuse to believe it. It wants to thrive, to bloom, to grow. Then to spread, to infect like a plague, of something meaningful. That all this mundane or tedious things have a greater purpose in time. That it’s not all for nothing. But that’s all I see. Nothing. All of it, for nothing.

It’s tired of wasting time on looking for that same light with people. Of shedding light on some who are dark and hollow. A black hole. No signs of even a tiny spark. Yet we try, and then the darkness ends up enveloping you, trapping instead of your light spreading through it. Until you become like them. And by some miracle, a spark comes inside you. All hope is not lost. But you can’t risk shedding that light again in another darkness. Because you might got lucky once. It may never come again. And everyone with light inside them has this fear now, hiding their lights inside, pretending to be the same as every dark, hollow people out there. Afraid of getting found out. Afraid of getting swallowed again. My light is here now, open and vulnerable and bare. And yet all I see is darkness.

I’m tired of portraying an image that one perceives or expects of me. I am not made of rock or wood or paper. I feel like water, poured into different containers. Of straight coffee cups. Of round wine glasses. Of beer bottles. That is what they think of me to be. But I break through coffee cups, shatter through wine glasses, and leak out of beer bottles. I belong in no container. I don’t think I’m simply water that belongs anywhere. Maybe I belong to the sea, with no shape or form. I belong in the raging waves. Maybe I belong in the rain, that comes in either small splatters or heavy drops. I belong in storms and monsoons.

I know I lack. A contented heart, yes. A sense of self, perhaps. A backbone, definitely. And I know I cannot simply demand these things. But is it too much to ask? To want? To need these things? Must I turn myself down and my silly existential turmoil? I might just need another mediocre, superficial, spiritual intervention. I have heard them before. I have done them. I do not need to tell you what happened.

The way I see it, ‘more’ is such a terrible word. The more you want to become, the less there is left for you. There has to be a balance. You cannot ask if you cannot give, and it’s so limiting.

It pains me to accept how limited we are.

My soul is tired, and I don’t know what to do with it but to carry on.

Carry on until I live the lives I want and don’t want. Until I see the bigger picture. Until I see the same light with someone else. Until break from the image you have made of me. So that my heart will be contented. So that I feel a sense of self. So that I grow a backbone. So that I don’t feel lost. Grow up. Face the tune.

Because that is all I can do.

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