Deception

Actors should give normal people some credit too, come to think of it. Every day we put smiles on our faces and joke around and act completely normal amidst the emotional wreckage we feel inside. We joke about things even though they hurt us. No, better yet, we joke about things because they hurt us.

It’s saddening to think how every day we wake up to be anything but ourselves. Every day we wake up to suppress all the negativity and pain and pretend like happiness overwhelms us when in fact, we’re grieving and saddened and broken. Every day is merely a play. True enough, the world’s a stage and we’re all actors. But I question who we are acting for. Are we hiding ourselves from others or are we hiding from ourselves?

Whether it’s one or the other, one day, everything will be just too much. It’s very hard to keep yourself together when all you want to do is to fall apart. There may come a time when breaking down and falling apart will no longer be a want but a necessity— falling apart to save yourself from completely losing yourself… falling apart to stop yourself from falling into a downward spiral… falling apart to regain your sense of self and direction.

Because even if we do so well in pretending that we’re okay, that corner where we suppress the tears and frustrations that are battling with our self-composure will inevitably be released.

It’s like holding a ticking time bomb inside our minds, only we don’t know when it will blow. It’s quite frightening actually. We try to distract ourselves, to keep busy, to find different emotional outlets but one day, everything will be too much. Even if we keep repeating to ourselves that we’re fine, that we’re not hurt, that we’re not breaking inside, that if we just ignore the pain and focus our attention elsewhere, the ache will go away… well, those are merely lies— deception of the hardest kind. 

No matter how many times we repeat lies, they will in no way develop a sense of truth. We will still feel the constant stabbing in our chest… that slight tightening of our hearts, that small tear in the corner of our eyes that we’d give anything to hold back. Despite all the distractions we pile in front of us, our brains are just too remarkable to fool. We can be writing or singing or dancing or sketching but in that far corner of our mind, we’re still thinking of the thing that we want to suppress. And it’s infuriating— how much effort we put into wanting to not think of something we are so unwilling to forget.

I don’t know what sense I find in this, but to me forgetting this would be more painful than suppressing it. And that’s the problem— unwillingness.

Whenever I ask myself why, a wall keeps coming up. Sometimes I find myself not wanting to suppress the memories anymore and just let them be a constant stream of thoughts.

Because I guess trying to remember would make you seem more real.

Because I guess remembering would make it seem less like a dream.

Remembering would make every moment with you more real... every touch, every word more concrete. Because I guess in trying to remember what it felt like to be with you, I would be proving to myself that it wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t made up. Every brush and every touch, every whisper, every kiss, every hug, was not a trick of the mind— that I was indeed living in reality no matter how much it felt like I was living in a dream.

I don’t even know why I’m trying to act like I’m okay. Who am I acting for?

For them? For you? For myself?

One thing I’m sure of—I don’t regret anything. I knew what I was getting into. I knew the possible repercussions. I knew that somehow, maybe, it would end like this. But still I hoped that it would be different. Nevertheless, I don’t regret whatever happened. In fact, I’m somehow thankful it did. Because once upon a time, you were what I needed and wanted… once upon a time, you held my hand and made me feel like in that moment nothing else mattered… once upon a time, you made me happy and I felt right— you and I felt right. Given another chance, I would pick the same choice over and over again. No, I’m not a masochist nor am I a sadist. It’s hard to explain but with what happened, I learned, I grew— hopefully into a better person— and those are the important things, I guess.

I may be hurt but I’m not pointing fingers. Hurting is part of reality. Hurting makes a person human. True, I still miss you (and that just sucks) in all aspects of the word, and even though there’s this constant ache, I just don’t want to let the tears flow yet. Because the tears would just seal my state of mind and I’m not sure how long it will take for me to build myself up again.

It’s difficult to tell anyone any of this not because I’m afraid that they won’t listen but because I’m afraid of their judging stares and their painful words.

And right now, I don’t need telling off. I don’t need people telling me things I already know— things I already knew from the start. All I need is someone to be there for me… because you used to be there for me and I got used to that. Now that you’re not, though, I’m finding it a little difficult to find my sense of balance again, a little difficult to break the habit of going to you whenever I need some comfort. I’m surrounded by hundreds of people every day, but I still feel more alone than ever. And even though this sounds so cliché and cheesy, it’s the truth.  

Although I smile and I laugh, I feel like my eyes are telling a different story. And although I try my best to hide it, sometimes I tend to wonder… who cares enough to see past all these pretenses? Who knows me well enough that they’d look past my amused glance to hug me and tell me I’m not fooling them but have enough respect to not ask for explanations?

I guess now, all I can do is to wait for my control to falter… wait for the tears to fall. Maybe then, I could feel better.