Existence is pain
Scissors. Smoke detectors. The moon. Cool breeze. Phone calls. Nighttime. Darkness. Lying on my left side. Lying on my back. Lying on my right side.
A door closed. Locked door. Empty slot for the AC unit. Books. Batulao. Window blinds. Labyrinth on the ground. Chapel on the hill. Tagaytay. Hiking shoes. Mount Taal.
Emergency texts. Midnight checks. Vios. Bear hugs. Baby back ribs. Dental clinics. Passenger seat. Church pew.
Clouds in daylight. Clouds at night. Reflection of the moon on the river. Huts. Caliraya. Beautiful, tall trees. Sitting on the grass. Hugs from behind. A stolen kiss. Holding hands. Hands on the shoulder. Long drives. Chasing sunsets. Pink sky. Collecting sand. Bolinao. Waterfalls. Lighthouse. Windmills. Ilocos. Weavers. Pottery. Charity.
Eyes closed. Tears. Comfort. Cappuccino. Starbucks. Philosophy. Kierkegaard. Mickey mouse. Eucharist. Chalice. Eyeglasses. Smirk. Pink pen. Calligraphy. Counting sheep. Sheep and shepherd. Doodles. Purple ink. Cuts on the forearm. Looking down from the top floor. Music. Songs. Lyrics. Broadway. Lea Salonga. Gary V. Demi Lovato. Cameras. Goosebumps and chills.
White linen. TV on the wall. Round glass tables. Heart-shaped frozen glass. Lemon scent. Cigarette smoke. Water. Mirror. Dyed hair. Golden boy.
Everything is a reminder of something I want to forget.
I can’t even do things that relax me without having a panic attack first: whether it’s getting a massage or falling asleep, watching Captain Pike or looking at the night sky, getting myself an ice cream cone or asking for help.
I keep dying. It makes me wonder why I’m still alive. Is this what PTSD feels like?
Please find this. Please save me. •
A door closed. Locked door. Empty slot for the AC unit. Books. Batulao. Window blinds. Labyrinth on the ground. Chapel on the hill. Tagaytay. Hiking shoes. Mount Taal.
Emergency texts. Midnight checks. Vios. Bear hugs. Baby back ribs. Dental clinics. Passenger seat. Church pew.
Clouds in daylight. Clouds at night. Reflection of the moon on the river. Huts. Caliraya. Beautiful, tall trees. Sitting on the grass. Hugs from behind. A stolen kiss. Holding hands. Hands on the shoulder. Long drives. Chasing sunsets. Pink sky. Collecting sand. Bolinao. Waterfalls. Lighthouse. Windmills. Ilocos. Weavers. Pottery. Charity.
Eyes closed. Tears. Comfort. Cappuccino. Starbucks. Philosophy. Kierkegaard. Mickey mouse. Eucharist. Chalice. Eyeglasses. Smirk. Pink pen. Calligraphy. Counting sheep. Sheep and shepherd. Doodles. Purple ink. Cuts on the forearm. Looking down from the top floor. Music. Songs. Lyrics. Broadway. Lea Salonga. Gary V. Demi Lovato. Cameras. Goosebumps and chills.
White linen. TV on the wall. Round glass tables. Heart-shaped frozen glass. Lemon scent. Cigarette smoke. Water. Mirror. Dyed hair. Golden boy.
Everything is a reminder of something I want to forget.
I can’t even do things that relax me without having a panic attack first: whether it’s getting a massage or falling asleep, watching Captain Pike or looking at the night sky, getting myself an ice cream cone or asking for help.
I keep dying. It makes me wonder why I’m still alive. Is this what PTSD feels like?
Please find this. Please save me. •