stripped bare

Archive for the ‘Insanity’ Category

Re: Your recent comment

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If you haven’t been intimately privy to my recent struggles, you have no right to leave those comments on my blog. If you really cared, you’d know better than to ask those questions. Don’t presume you know what you know simply because of the things I post. You may or may not know that Life is a vicious cycle that goes back and forth. Today I rule the world, but at night, I have to nurse my wounds.

I removed your comment and my reply from my blog, Long-time Silent Reader, because you could have been genuinely concerned and didn’t realize how insensitive you were, saying those things.

If you knew of the things I’ve been doing outside of my blogs, you will see that I have been actively trying to “give up and move on”. However, I admit I am holding myself back from greater things, but that’s only because I’m still trying to reclaim my Self that I seem to have lost. But, as you’ve observed, “he already has someone else now”, so what is the problem again?

One day, perhaps, you will see me posting happy blog entries about my newfound happiness, or sharing photos of every meal I have with my new man, of every thing he has bought for me, of every time he holds my hand in bed, and maybe, even of every time he fucks me, but till then, whenever I get emotional, or whenever I’m feeling the need to rant, I shall post whatever I want to share on my blogs, because that’s how I must deal with it.

Thank you for caring enough to comment, though. Thank you.

Written by smudgi3

September 1, 2013, Sunday at 19:28

Lost

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That brilliant moment just before you fall asleep where you have a sudden creative streak and an idea starts forming in your head. You can see it taking shape, slowly but surely, and you know it will be beautiful. You will love it because it was created when you were most relaxed, most unguarded—isn’t that when we all fall head over heels?

Then reality creeps in and builds obstacles in your way, like little pebbles that cause you to trip over and burn the skin off your knees. As you bend over to dust the soil off, that moment is gone. You can only watch, helplessly, as the idea dies a slow death in your mind. The idea bleeds into tears, which soak your pillow wet under your cheek.

The desire is lost, and so is sleep.

Written by smudgi3

April 23, 2013, Tuesday at 02:17

Posted in Insanity

Rebirth.

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The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune’s spite; revive from ashes and rise.

~ Miguel de Cervantes

Written by smudgi3

January 1, 2013, Tuesday at 23:59

Posted in Insanity

Tired

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I had a really long day at work. And before that, I had woken up earlier than necessary because of some bad dreams that I had. Right now I’m fighting to keep my eyes opened even though I’d very much like to complete this post. My thumbs and forefingers have been rubbed raw and are now swollen and painful from handling tiny hidden zips on thick layers of fabric all day. I broke two nails and pricked my fingers on fucking needles that were hidden under those layers of clothing. I have blisters under my feet from walking to and fro from the carpark to the photographer’s studio. That was all fine. What broke the straw on the camel’s back was that I discovered that something I loved had gone missing.

Earlier in the day, I had rushed home from the studio to grab my steamer because the studio didn’t have one. So I grabbed a rolled up carrier from my bedroom, one that we had bought in Yokohama on our first trip there together. It has never been used because it was too precious to me. When I discovered it missing at the studio I became flustered and asked everyone on the set if they had seen it. Of course they didn’t. My heart broke and my eyes started to sting, but I kept the tears in because I knew my colleagues would think I was crazy for crying over a cloth bag. The photographer offered me a plastic bag but what did he know? It wasn’t a particularly expensive bag, but it was dear to me. I used to take it out from my drawer and reminisce about our first trip to Japan together.

It wasn’t until I reached home and heard my cat’s bell from the other side of the door that the tears fell. It would have looked ridiculous to my neighbors if they were to come home right then, especially when I was holding my key, poised at the door, and crying uncontrollably. I came home, sat on my sofa, and had a good long cry before turning on the tv to reruns of 娛樂百分百 and a dinner of my leftover birthday cake. Nothing but a delayed reaction to all my pent-up frustrations, bottled-up emotions, and anger at myself for even thinking of using that bag today.

If I never find that bag, I can only accept that it signifies the loss of all existing hope I have of ever going back to what it used to be.

I’m so tired right now.

Written by smudgi3

September 11, 2012, Tuesday at 23:55

Posted in Dear Diary, Insanity

Why I keep going back

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Because you’re addicted. Because you know exactly what Edward meant when he called Bella his own “personal brand of heroin” and you’re ashamed to admit you feel that way. Because you’re like a moth to the flame with this person, because you know you’ll get hurt in the end and yet. Because a part of you knows better and another part doesn’t want to; because you’re not ready to all-the-way know better. Because this is a suicide leap but the way they make you feel makes it somehow worth it.

Because they speak your language. Because they understand you even when they don’t. Because on some deep, intrinsic level you just get each other. Because sometimes it seems like they know you better than you know yourself. Because they’ve seen the worst of you and the best; because, regardless of how they hurt you, you still feel an inexplicable trust.

Because you’re afraid. You’re afraid you’ll never be loved like that again; you’re afraid no one else will be in tune with you, your moods, the essence of who you are in this necessary specific way. Because you’re afraid you don’t have the capacity to love anyone like that again; afraid all your love energy is spent, afraid you’re incapable of ever emotionally getting it up for anyone else. Because you’ve never been so vulnerable with anyone else and the thought of even trying makes you feel hopeless and tired.

Because you think this time will be different, think that with all the naiveté of someone proposing marriage to their drug addicted mate hoping that’s the move that will cure them. “This time will be different” — you hear people say that and you roll your eyes so loud you wake up the neighbors but you do exactly the same thing; the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Because you think you can make this work if you try a little harder, if you just push a little more.

Because you believe in it, against your better judgment. Because you think it’s worth it; because you don’t stop to consider the very real possibility that the negatives outweigh the positives. Because you think you owe each other, your history, something still; because you feel inherently bonded and you don’t want to break it. Because you leave logic out of it; because after all, the heart wants what the heart wants and what can you do about that.

Because you live in the past, because you remember who you were once, who they were, and what you had; remember this and want to rewind. Because you think it’s possible to somehow recreate an idealized past in an unsure future. Because you’ve been holding onto the possibility of becoming a whole again for months, for years, safe and protected by the idea that no matter what happens, you’re not alone because of that faint background possibility of Us.

Because you think they’ll change, you’ll change, the circumstances will change; things will somehow mysteriously get better. Because you think this time around you’ll appreciate each other because you know what it’s like to be without. Because you have kids together. Because you have a dog together. Because you have amazing memories together. Because you have an “amor vincit omnia” tattoo. Because Hollywood or literature or God made you believe that love is enough. Because you don’t want to think about the possibility of a world in which it isn’t.

Stolen from:

Why You Keep Coming Back
– Mila Jaroniec, Thought Catalog

Written by smudgi3

July 15, 2012, Sunday at 20:49

Posted in Dear Diary, Him, Insanity

Vice or Virtue

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Am I less of an intimate companion because I don’t smoke or drink?

I find myself wondering about this every time. I will never know what it’s like to share a cigarette, whether with a friend or a lover, or clink glasses of red and empty mugs of gold. The jolt to my system when the smoke hits my nose stings my eyes, and I won’t even begin to explain the throbbing in my temples when the alcohol seeps into my bloodstream.

Too many times have I lost you to cigarettes and alcohol. Too many times have I laid or sat there, alone, feeling like I’ve done something wrong. So many times that I have—and still—wondered, would things have been different? Would I be where I am now if I had inhaled and consumed the things that would hurt me, as I am doing so now?

Written by smudgi3

March 1, 2012, Thursday at 06:09

Posted in Insanity

I.

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I am nothing but a fake.

I don’t deserve being where I am right now.

You think too highly of me.

Written by smudgi3

February 15, 2012, Wednesday at 23:40

Posted in Insanity