the art of not knowing

a journal entry, nov 3, 2024. 9:35pm

I sometimes sit and wonder if two versions of myself exist. I always attribute my character to one of a walking paradox; a human without depth, confused, weird. I do or say things with no means of understanding why, without letting myself think before my mouth forms words. Maybe it’s to get people to like me, I’m not sure.

I consider myself useless in most cases—quite a harmful way to describe my character. At times, I’m productive, or strive to be, yet spend the rest of my days doing nothing, tormented by the guilt of doing nothing. Yet, even with all this, I still want to be viewed as reliable, to be the type of person that people can count on, striving to do nothing to establish such a cause and I’m left to sit the confusion that is my mind, left to rearrange the chairs, only to look back and find it scattered once more.

I’m quite the ambitious person, which is ironic because when I’m about to embark on something, be it a passion project, a research paper, or creative writing, I’m excited. But this feeling of adrenaline only lasts for a few days before I’m saddled with this sort of vast emptiness that now desires to be filled with something new. Now, the empty checklists in my notes stare back at me, drafts upon drafts lay in my computer, and I’m threatened to continue them, to fulfil the narrative that I’ve built for myself, then later end up shying away from it. This makes me fearful of my future, and this applies not only to me as a person but how I treat people.

With people, they tend to slip away. If they are not right in front of me, or currently present in the phase of my life, I forget them, and slowly, the idea that they were even present begins to erase itself from my mind. Like wiping at a chalkboard: blurry but writing is not there anymore. This is somehow a blessing as well as a curse. A blessing for those who have done me wrong. I am unaware of their existence entirely, and a curse, as sometimes, this makes me feel like a bad person, because I don’t reach out to the very important people in my life. Like my mom, for example.

I fear that I am a failure. I fear that one day I won’t be granted the opportunity to make, I or my mom’s life, a lot better than it is now, but in the middle of that doubt is that constant reassurance that I’ve been through a lot in life to not be able to reap the benefits one day. Maybe I am just trying to gaslight myself from the fact that I will forever be stuck in this circle but isn’t that what most of us do? Delude ourselves that the problems we face that are not of our making will yield some benefits in the end? Even though it might be delusional, it still gives me this reassurance and forces me to stop worrying, to calm the storm raging in my head.

I won't say I lack in all aspects but in the same vein, I do not bear that light that outshines all. I am simply not blessed. Simply deem my thoughts and my doings as irrelevant, not enough. With that, I still strive for this disillusioned version of perfection I am not even sure of, still striving to be something, even though I am not sure what.

I am always ridden with so much jelousy but not the type that makes me green with hate, but the realzation of how unfortunate I am to be born in a world that treats me unfailry but do I sob over the fact that I wasn’t granted the same opportunites as my peers or do I try as much as possible to create that opportunity for myself? The answer is simple, but, as with life, it doesn't come that easily.

What does it mean to love someone? I find myself asking this question sometimes. When I think of the word “love” I think of my mother; the ability to sacrifice everything you have for them if they asked, to cry whenever you see them hurt, the spike in your heart when you realize there might come a time they won’t be there any longer, the need to cherish the beautiful memories, the fun times, the happy moments shared. For them to have a piece of your heart, and hope, or know, or feel, that you have a piece in theirs. Does this definition of what I view love as apply to those I don’t share the same blood with? Strangers. The person I might potentially spend the rest of my life with. I’m not sure.

Lastly, I’ve never once viewed myself as pretty. There are moments where, yes,I would look at a picture of me and view it with this sense of pride but that is insignificant to the number of times I’d look at the mirror and instantly turn away. Glossing over my flaws, wishing I had the looks of those girls I see on Twitter and TikTok. Given as I have the face of two people who couldn’t love each other so of course it’d be ugly. But I want to learn. I’m trying to. Trying not to cringe whenever I hear my voice, to beg my friends to delete any unaware snapshot they have of me, trying not to claw at my face, at the dark scars puberty caused, trying not to obsess over being too fat, not thick enough, not enough ass, too short, too loud, to expressive, too insignficant, too ugly. I’m learning to be my unapologetic self. To allow myself to be free. To allow myself to live, even though I’d convinced myself that living isn’t worth it.

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Welp! You’ve breeched your way into my thoughts. I wrote this entry late last year when I was feeling too much yet feeling nothing at all, and as a result of that, I decided to write down everything that was bothering me, hoping it would help fill the void. I’m not sure it did, but here we have it anyway.