words the pictures couldn’t speak

Scrolling through an archive of 10 000 photos that have been lazily maintained earlier today, i couldn’t help but to scrutinise the ‘me’ in every picture, expression and behaviour. Hunched back, an unhealthy mass, forced smiles, eyes trying hard to conceal a lie. For all the streaks the pair made, it was a pretty darn good job they did in hiding the iris and pupils.

there was so much to dislike – how silly i looked, allowing myself to soak in negativity and sadness, and granting others authority to make a fool out of myself because i couldn’t take myself seriously, either.

i think that makes me sad. photos trashed one by one, and permanently deleted, it seems like i was struggling to throw those memories away too. what a waste, because i might’ve been an equal with others if i could substitute a happier, better understood, self in all of it.

memories thrown away, and an aimless spirit drifting in an abyss; so, let’s just say that between 2012 and 2014, i was dead.

they always have those essay topics on what your XX years old self would tell the younger self, and this is so apt right now. because i want to snap the crap out of my disillusioned, fallen, teenage self who didn’t know how to pick herself up after a hard thud tripping over a hurdle in life. i’d have like the younger self to know that it wasn’t i who was insignificant, but rather, the things around me. (although, i still am insignificant) i’d have liked my younger self to know that i should’ve focused on studying rather than using the intended time for revision to beat myself up mentally half the time.

back then, i felt so hopeless everyday. like all i woke up for was to fill myself, to the brim, with bitterness and self-doubt. everyday was a battle between giving up and drifting with the current.

i’m not saying that i don’t do it anymore these days, but at least it isn’t the current by ‘default’ routine. i look forward to reading, to drawing, to dreaming of travels, to continue with meaningful exchanges, and somewhat aimless intensive mugging, along with the occasional uncontrollable anxiety pangs. there may be things to be happy for, and unhappy for; but, what is there to be sad about, really?

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