01.01.2016

01.01.2016

I didn’t realise I sometimes turn to the mirror to laugh with myself while watching something funny. Isn’t it pathetic? I have been doing that for god knows how long, and I didn’t realise what it means. Huh, not to say that I know exactly what it means now. Is it loneliness? Is it just me, loving the way I look too much? Have I been living on my own for too long and started to find comfort with nobody else but myself? Not that I even feel comfort… just, I guess, familiarity.

I have been thinking about unpacking my suitcases from 2 months ago, again. There are things I still left in there. When the thought came, I suddenly felt this giddiness, almost childlike happiness, as if I was going to discover something new from home from the already once unpacked luggage. How unrealistic is that?

The new year has arrived, and I am glad I spent the moments it came with the people I care about, despite it being via Viber. Grandpa is there, Grandma is there, mum is there.

I have been putting off writing about this, because I’m afraid what kind of feelings would come with putting it into words. Sadness, sorrow, jealousy, guilt, hatred… but I am afraid, longing would be there as well. But every time I hear about somebody having Alzheimer’s, my heart sank. I would feel sad for them, as I used to, but it would be immediately followed by gibberish of defensive thoughts. They don’t come as something comprehensible; they are just there, defensive. Defensive, because Alzheimer’s reminds me of what his grandfather’s had, and how I knew but could not – did not – care. It was like all the things he did to me was too much for me to handle, that I stopped being able to care, to worry about what he himself is going through, and I just couldn’t stop all the hurt and hatred from within me to come out and poison someone. I have been tired for a long time, exhausted, but I was stupid enough to still believe in people. Believing in others and allowing yourself to get hurt over and over again, that is for the strong and brave ones. That is not something a small fry like myself is capable of, over and over again, and yet a part of me still stupidly chooses to believe.

I wish it were different. I wish, and wish, and wish. Something this small, and yet I couldn’t get over it at all. I’m falling back down to the pit… wait, I never got out. I thought I did, but perhaps I never really did. I have never been able to remember much, and sometimes it concerns me, sometimes it makes me feel special, but sometimes I blame it for the reason I am always such an empty person. I can’t remember, is that why I am never really here? I always feel like I am somewhere else, and I feel like I’m gradually disappearing. Is that a feeling, something that can be felt?