A Well-Ordered Universe That is Not

It’s been months—long, frustrating months; and you have to believe that I’ve really been trying to conjure words to express something and to say something, but it seems as if words run away from me whenever I want them to come altogether and build magic.

Usually, when I write here, I find it especially easy because duh, a huge part of this blog is meant as a personal medium for me to immortalize things that happen in my life. It may sound brash, but that’s how it really is for me, at least. Once I don’t put a moment in my life down to writing, it would mostly seem like it didn’t happen at all.

And now as I write this, and as I try to think back to the days I left unwritten, I am overwhelmed by the fact that there might have been things that I missed; and there might have been things that I cautiously filtered in my head only because I wanted them to look nicer than they actually were. It was never a difficulty for me to recount events back then, because as childish as it sounds, I always had the fascination of life being a book that’s broken down into chapters, and whenever I thought about that, it became easy for me to cherish and to remember. It became easy to have a story to tell, because I always had the memories intact in my mind like air tightly packed in a thick balloon that’s nowhere near to popping out.

Books are the most important metaphor in my life—the character that always seem to find their ways back in the end; the plot that may or may not be cliché at all costs but still pounds tremendous impacts as it finishes; the diction that binds everything to make the readers know and understand and feel—and sometimes I wonder if that oblivious thinking is what leads me to feel like there has to be something better that happens every time. I wonder if that’s what makes me think that I can never have enough and that I will never be enough because there are always characters that are better and more deserving than I am. I wonder if my constant silent appeal for what I think must be changed in this plot is what makes me who I am at this point in my overrated, dramatic and complicated teenage life.

That’s where everything usually goes wrong, though, I have to admit: that point when we start to compare and try to see life beyond what it really is. That’s where everything goes wrong; when we start to complicate things and not just accept the simplicity of them.

But, like, isn’t there supposed to be more?

Isn’t there supposed to be something that is greater than all of what we have in this world right now?

As much as I believe that I’m going through a phase where I am totally getting confused on interpreting things—because anything now can honestly have a way out to win—I’d like to think that I really am just longing to find a constant out here; out there.

I am such a conflict, I am telling you.

I want to trust the norms; I want to see past through my perception that everyone must be different, the same way that I am, and just reach the standard everybody else is reaching for. But at the end of the day, I’d ask and wonder and question and with every answer that’ll form in my head I’d think it will never be enough. Then the next day, I’ll try again; and at some time at night, I’d come to accept and realize, and it’ll go on for weeks, but after those weeks I’ll start asking and wondering and questioning again and the cycle goes on and on and never ends again.

This is the reason why everything I’ve been trying to write hitches to a stop every time. This is the reason why I can’t even find the heart to begin a draft. This is the reason why somehow, of all the days in a week, Sundays are what matter to me the most.

It’s so hard to find peace, especially at this nauseating rate when I am expected to choose and decide immediately.

To be honest, it’s not all that bad as it looks like. Really, I tend to make big deals out of small nothings sometimes. I’m just saying that…

I don’t know.

And that kind of sucks a lot. Because here I am again, ending a write-up so badly. And with a big time flop.

And this kind of sucks a lot.

Because while I know resolutions are always found in books and series and movies and whatever that is fictional and can only happen in a well-ordered universe, I am beginning to accept—only now and a little later than I should have—that life is not a book after all.