I felt like crap yesterday.

For no apparent reason.

Of course, there is a reason. But I’m not telling you.  

Nothing really happened though. It was more like a dawn of realisation. Or rather, admitting the truth.

I admit that I’m good at blinding myself to certain truths and facts. I excel at handing myself plenty of excuses for certain states that I am in. I can probably make a living faking nonchalance at many aspects.

It’s perhaps a lot more braver if I can just step forward and admit to everything that I really am. I must clarify that I’m not pretending to be who I am not. I’m just denying who I really am and what I really want. If I can simply put everything down instead of carrying the weight on my lean shoulders, I can probably breathe easier and live longer. Unfortunately, it will kill me first to realise how much I am not who I think I am. Even though subconsciously, deep down inside, I know all that I’m not, but admitting to all of those is different. It’s simply pulling apart the wounds just as they are healing – they may just kill me. If you think that I’m insane enough to do this to myself, I shall probably just scatter some salt and pepper on my flesh at the same time, arm myself with a fork and knife, and just eat myself alive by slicing off my tender flesh piece by piece.    

Knowing something and admitting to it are two very different matters.

It’s perfectly fine if you read this and have no hell of an idea what I was rambling about.

You are not supposed to anyway. Why would I let you know my weakness when i would never say and admit to it myself?

It’s also perfectly okay if you read this and suddenly feel like you don’t know me.

Because why would you when I am me and I don’t even know myself.


On a sidenote, I’ve finally, yes, FINALLY, began to read “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time”. I didn’t want to read it initially because a friend of my sister commented that it was boring, even though I thought that it seemed utterly fascinating as the story was written from the point of view of the protagonist, a fifteen-year-old suffering from Asperger’s syndrome. I eventually bought the book when there was a one-for-one sale at a bookstore and now I marvel how I sometimes actually affect my decisions by what others say. The book has been a joyful read so far. I thoroughly love it.

I appreciate how the autistic boy felt towards people and the world. At times, it seemed not very different from what I would have thought sometimes. This part made me grin:

I think people believe in heaven because they don’t like the idea of dying, because they want to carry on living and they don’t like the idea that other people will move into their house and put their things into the rubbish.

He is someone who is unable to recognise and comprehend most facial expressions, has difficulty in understanding metaphors and jokes and therefore finds security in and likes factual things; while I am someone who is able to recognise and comprehend most facial expressions, has no difficulty in understanding metaphors and jokes (most of the time anyway) and does find security in and like factual things. Now, now, yet we are not that different, aren’t we? 

Humans are a lot more similar than different from one another. The world will be a better place to live in if we can just all recognise the fact.