before.i.come.undone.

The pull of  pen and push of fate account for several journals I have made, attempting to stem the flow of seemingly pathetic tears and gush of repetitive emotions. I was supposed to benefit from the rumored cathartic effect of writing. For some time I thought the rumor is true, but I forgot benefitting is a matter of choice as well. For the longest time I’ve been negligent of writing, luring myself to believe the ink of my pen has dried up, and I’ve got nothing left to give.

But here I am, not really back from the dead. Benign immolation never leads to that glorified end. The prolonged agony of uncertainty is not that much different from the medicine being worse than the malady. Hence I’ve decided, what the heck, I chose to be here and I owe it to myself to make it easy on me, impossible as it may seem. So once again I succumb to writing.

I’ve decided to once again feed my journal with the day to day idiosyncracies that I am, with the absurdly exaggerated drama that is my story , with arguments blown out of proportions, with fears that’re constantly keeping me company, with moments that are undeniably real, with love that has never been right… with life.

I’ve been keeping everything buried deep within, like Pandora’s box threatening to let all demons go. And like Pandora’s box, I’m keeping the hope intact, and maybe now I will let it all out. Though even my words are unsure, and I find it doubly difficult nowadays to be certain of anything, I would be trying.

I owe it to myself to lighten things up, or merely speak up. Though I know I’d be talking to an inanimate screen and would be lending my thoughts to the keys of my HP, it is better that bottling it all up, and then blaming everything that comes my way afterwards.

Once in my life I really believed I’ve had the most soul-wrenching part of my existence. It was late when I realize how dead wrong I was. Once I thought the most difficult time of my life was over and done, never had I thought it was only the beginning.

I’m holding on to prayers now, waiting for a miracle amidst tests of faith…
I am hanging by a thread.
Breathing. Living.

So before I come undone, I am now turning to a dear friend, and once again embracing my pen’s ink.