Half-filled Pessimism

Miss Violence by Agnes Cecile

Three years later, I skimmed through the drafts that never made the front of this blog. I found this sad, sour title from the 21 year-old me who had dreams she was drunk of but was too scared to make a chase.

My head was screaming art and writing. Sadly, I lived in a time when I couldn’t figure out what truly defined my happiness. In 2013 I decided to leave my coloring pencils to rot and these words to stale forever:

One year of Pancit Canton and sardines have passed and nothing really changed. A year of hardships, nothing really paid off. All four versions of Photoshop broken. I stared at my pink and pixelated screen for a while, till I reached the conclusion, My life is a mess.

Let me trip back to what life was when I wrote about instant food and failing notebook screens.

So much alone time was consumed silently whining about my job. My heart tried to find connection with all the plain white walls, the heap of paperwork, and the columns of numbers staring me down from the computer. What I wanted to do was several continents away from the reality I stood on. My life goals haunted my waking hours. I would sit every lunch break gazing at the ceiling, slipping into imagination, and back just before 1 o’ clock. I looked forward to those tiny breathing gaps more than on scrapping little love for the job that sustained my pocket. It was my fault, however, I never became so good at my job because I didn’t try so hard.

My then very young career was a picture of plenty short hops. The first company to the third happened in less than a year. I quitted. I transferred. I hated accounting but, over and over, I applied for accounting-related positions; and it was just now that I realized how an idiot I was to believe things were going to be different every time. Maybe, I was afraid to just throw the qualification which I spent so much of my life over. So much time that it felt frustrating to know, love never grew.

Art by Agnes Cecile

I was far from home. Chores were a commitment and I felt that I couldn’t spend so much time cooking. So it was always about boiling water or opening cans. The year of cup noodles tolled on me when I suffered the worst of my urinary tract infection. The whole time I had fever I would walk with my head dangling to my knees, with hands pressed on the pain of my abdomen (like they would do any help). This part I remember best because my bestfriend and roommate, Nina, surprised me with a  tale of her attempts, her persistence, and finally two square foils of antibiotics she managed to buy without prescription. It was heroic. I could recall with accuracy how she held it like sweet trophy, proud like a kid who just won free merch at the candy store.

By the end of 2013, I packed my clothes and every pillow, tucked my laptop in my stroller. And then I ran away from the last employer. Like. Literally. Because I got tired. Simple. That was closest to and more decent than – having no reason at all.

I thought I set myself free then, but I just sunk into depression. There were many attempts to pulling myself back. But I was the same person who snapped the strings that held me together. I tried to revive my writing and somehow, was ready to get serious. But all the stories I was to tell the world about went from pink to pixelated, and then black. My laptop, the bank of my thoughts, like my professional life, fell into the silence of the night. One of the worst and most reckless decisions I made was to jumble valuable and fragile electronic with apparel and stuff.

ohi_by_agnes_cecile-da9xwed

Art by Agnes Cecile

Hello, old self. I didn’t expect to find you here. I hope you’re glad you are a different human now. Life is still a mess. But I’ve become a stranger to your bitterness. I’m eating healthier food, got a new lappy and I have better stories to tell.

It felt like a blessing, finding a piece of my past preserved in sentences and reading my self in a state of emotional frenzy; when negativity was exaggerated, and happiness was complicated. It’s fun, scary, crazy growing up and growing old.

I’m compelled to publish these thoughts because they’ve waited for so long.

Thanks for walking with me down memory lane. Hope time messed-up the details of your bad days beautifully.

Have a great day!

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