Surface

When a person looks at someone, all he sees is the surface. Some people are intuitive in the sense that they are able to see pass the facade. They are able to see the truth and the heart of the matter. But somehow they can’t see it all.

And it’s a scary feeling, to be vulnerable, to know that somebody might see the real you. What’s scarier though, is that they see something in you that you try so hard to hide but you know it’s futile because they can still see it.

If they knew how deeper it runs, how it was so much worse, how the things that they are seeing are just the tip of the ice berg. If they only knew, how you are not the person you seem to be.

It’s just the surface. They’ve barely scratched the surface. The murky waters kept them from seeing what’s truly underneath. No matter how you are bursting to correct them, to tell them that they are wrong, you can’t. You simply can’t.

Because somehow you want to think that what they said was the truth. You want to believe that they’re right, you’re somehow wrong. And perhaps, there is some reality to what they are saying.

They don’t know how hard you’ve tried to change yourself, still trying, still improving, still looking and still working. It’s the depressing part, isn’t it? The part where you’re trying to show who you are, how much better you are right now but somehow they see but don’t understand because they don’t know and you can’t let them know; and you feel that they will never understand.

What they’re looking at is just the surface, and the only way to let see more is to either clear the water or let them wade in and swim through your depths of personality. The first option takes a lot of effort and hard work, but they wouldn’t really notice it unless they were paying attention, and the second option . . . . is just something unacceptable until you learn to trust them and hope that they won’t ever take advantage of what they will see in you.

They won’t be able to reach the bottom unless they’re willing to swim through the cold and harsh waters.

Death of a Dream

I convinced myself that I was over it. That it could not bother me anymore; that I am in a happier and healthier place. There is some truth in those statements. But it’s just now that I’ve realized how I wasn’t totally over it. There is still something inside of me that refused to acknowledge things. It’s like a wound that just closed and scabbed, and it refuses to go away.

There were times that thoughts were buzzing in my head. Did I make the right choice? Is it wrong to chase something that is an illusion, something that wasn’t yours in the first place? Is it wrong to give up on a dream that you foolishly held and wanted since you were a child?

In the first place, why did I even start to dream on it? It was because of various factors, but mainly because of peer and family pressure. A parent has so much influence on his child that whatever he does, the child would want to follow in his footsteps. It is a mistake on the part of the child who never tried to find where she could and will belong to comfortably. The child was so adamant on proving herself to her parents when there was nothing more to prove but be a happy and content daughter of theirs. Was it really her dream or is there something else?

The thought that there was no chance to achieve that dream disturbed her greatly, but she learned how to cope, she learned to love something that was given to her. An opportunity to reach for that dream once again presented itself. She was hesitant and confused, but there was nothing much to lose if she tried, they said. So try she did.

Once again she was in agony, over the loss of something familiar, something she was good at. But why was she good at it? Was it because she loved it or she tried so hard to be good at it? Or is it all an excuse? Years and months she agonized over her decision. Time decided to test her and she ultimately failed.

The dreams she held as a child were nothing more than an empty promise. There was a chance that she was given to fulfill her dream; she could have fought hard and held on. She could have pushed and pulled with all her might. The fear and anxiety overcame her and made her believe she can do nothing but just stare after an empty wish. The fear of losing, the fear of failing ironically made her lose and fail.

Whose fault it was it? The teachers? The subjects? The system? The classmates? The lessons? It could have been partly their fault. But it’s truthfully not.

I killed it.

The dream, the illusion, the vision that I had in my mind; I killed it over my desperation and fears. It was a hard road that I was unwilling to undertake because I could not take risks. I could not live with myself if I failed after trying so hard. So killed, I did, in order to have an excuse that it was my own doing, it was my decision, and not the situation that refused to have me. I killed it to prevent it from anyone or anything taking it away from me. And with killing my dream, I killed something more important. Something died within me that I’m afraid to revive again.

Over the time, there were things that would remind of my failures. Things, people, or events that I would see and be bothered with but I would smoothly gloss over it. I’d notice it was there, but I never faced it totally. The reminder that I had today was something great that I had to acknowledge it, something that I have to face wholeheartedly. I have to face the fact that I won’t have the chance to experience what they experienced. I won’t be able to achieve my childhood dream.

This is a decision that I made. And I can’t go back on it. I already told myself that I’ll move forward and never look back. I now acknowledge the reality that when I gave up something that has caused me grief, I also gave up something that could have given me happiness.

Somehow, I can’t blame myself for grieving over it. It was still my dream, no matter how it could have changed over the years, no matter have I’ve dislike it when I was there, no matter how much it has caused me tears and fear every night. No matter how I’ve convinced myself that I was just deluded, jaded, fooled, and every adjective you could think of, into dreaming it, it was still mine.

There are five stages of death.

Denial. Ignoring everything related to the glaring truth that it was over, that it’s gone.

Anger. Cursing out the world for its harshness, beating yourself up because of the mistake.

Bargaining. Praying and wishing that time can be turned back and that mistakes can be corrected.

Depression. The bleak darkness which is watching over your shoulder, reminding you of what you did.

Acceptance. There’s nothing else to do except move on and learn from mistakes.

I already went through the first four stages. It was exhausting and mind numbing. And now at the last stage I can finally let go. I’ve stretched it too long, abused the time for feeling this way that I have unconsciously stopped. Oh I’ve tried, I’ve worked, I’ve moved, I’ve lived. But this should be the last time that I let myself feel the burden of something that I did in the past. I can finally accept. It’s time to move on.

There’s no way to go but forward. With one door closed, there could be others that are waiting to be opened.