Personals

overused

It’s been a while since I last posted here.

I always start of my posts like this. If I told you before that school was crazy, well, it has been A LOT CRAZIER now. It’s been eating up my time, my energy, my financial resources and sometimes even slivers of my sanity.

But the thing is– everything is rewarding.

However, despite the crazy levels of fulfillment this devil of a job requires from me, I cannot avoid to ask myself so many questions about my competence, about how I fair with all the other writers that came before and will come after me.

As someone who chose something so technical yet so practical of a job, I cannot think as to what extent do my readers view my capabilities as a writer. I feel out of place and out of league in the industry sometimes, maybe because I just can’t get out of the thought bubble that has clouded me ever since I started taking things seriously.

I feel like I’m a burden to my mentors. A burden to my editors. A burden to my writers. A burden to the people I am able to work with.

I feel incompetent. It’s greatest now more than ever.

I think that though I extend help I wouldn’t be able to get things right and make my superiors’ jobs easier, as the way it should be. I feel like there has to be some more pushing, some more drive, to get me out of this.

Which gets me to another thing.

It’s been 10 days since my birthday. And after 6 years, this is the only time you were not beside me when I blew that candle (or took that tequila shot).

Well, celebrating a 19th birthday doesn’t merit anything grand, anyway.

The mere thought of you, being able to remember me in the only day I feel celebrated was the only thing I asked for. It was my only wish- yet it didn’t come. Maybe it’s true that not all wishes are granted- regardless of depth and simplicity.

I cannot muster enough will power to even say that I’m happy for you now. I know you love her, the way I wish you could love me. I know this wouldn’t change anything, and it is a known fact that you will not be able to read this either. But I just want to let you know how self-destructing it is to still love the same person for more than a hand’s worth of years.

No matter what, no matter how crazy or pathetic it is, it is still you. The man behind the drive that drives me, the man behind the drive that drives me crazy. The man behind all these years of putting up a strong facade, the man that I think watches over my every move– wherever I go, thinking you’re someone so omnipresent that there’s not one thing in my life that I can not associate with you.

Maybe people’s hearts and brains get overused. And to me it proved to be true.

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