sometimes i'm too scared to be me.
i wonder if it's because i try to please everyone. i try so
hard to fit in that it wears me out. i'm too afraid to let
others see who i really am in fear of being called boring,
annoying, or whatever other negative adjectives that exist
sometimes i think i exaggerate my own existence. sometimes
i think i hold the world in my hands, that i can do better
things, that i can accomplish so much...when in fact, i am
nothing but a dot of color in this very big painting called
there are many things that i could have been. many things
that i can be. but i don't know if i have the guts or the
courage to pursue what i truly want.
i can only dream. it's all because of me and my weaknesses.
i want to be the person who doesn't seem to try and yet is
discovered and praised. i want to be the person who, like
picasso, can buy a house in exchange for one painting that
i have made.
i do not want to pretend to be cool or deep or
understanding and yet when all these are taken away, i am
nothing but another kid who does not even know her place in
i want to give light but sometimes i am not willing to
endure burning. how then may i give light?
someone asked, 'when was the last time you were truly
i didn't know what to say. i didn't know.
when will i be truly happy? i don't know. i see things each
day that pierce me. i feel things each day that i can't
fully comprehend or understand.
there are times when i would lie down in bed and stare up
at the ceiling and wonder...how many people are dying at
this very moment? and the answer would come to mind:
countless. countless people are dying at that very moment
that i was safe and comfortable in my bed.
there are times that i would smile and laugh...but the very
next minute i would feel nothing but sadness and despair.
it's because of things that i can't change, of things that
i can't have, of things that i can't be.
and there are times when i would will my mind to stop
thinking of such things. when i would tell myself to not
care about anything, to close my eyes and go numb. but as
incubus sung, the cold wind comes from the top of the
highest high rise.
is it because i take life for granted that i can not see it
in its full beauty and splendor? is it because i would
rather look at the black dot than at the whiteness that
surrounds it? is it because of my pessimism that i live in
almost constant sadness?
last night, someone said, 'he was angry at me because i
said that she should be careful of him. he called me a
traitor. it's because the truth hurts, candice. the truth
i could only murmur my agreement.
he went on, 'i don't mind him being mad at me. i want him
to realize his mistakes. someday i want him to thank me.'
i said, 'keep dreaming. keep dreaming.'
the truth hurts. there were times when people have told me
the truth and i could do nothing but cry and hold myself
back from screaming at them.
it's ironic really. we get mad at people who tell us the
truth simply because we do not want others to see the truth
and acknowledge it as true. the truth can be used as a tool
or as a weapon. for me, some people told me the truth to
break me down.
the virgin mary stands on top of a serpent. love, they say,
has two faces. it can either build you up, or it can
destroy you. sometimes i think my parents love for me have
i live a good life. i have a good home. i'm flying back to
melbourne on saturday. i'm now officially a law student.
and still, everything feels incomplete. still, everything
man is never content with what they have. and yet today i
feel like i love mankind. like maids and helpers, there are
people who exist for others. these people, for me, are the
best people. they are the ones that i love most. they are
the ones that i would like to be one day.