So.

A pendulum is the best metaphor to life.

The way it swings from one side to the other; the way it slows down to a stop, only to regain momentum at either both a push or pull; the way it hangs so lightly under the quiet tension of the string, but weighs so much more to be carried alone.

The pendulum, much like life, proves its generous share of ups and downs. It demonstrates the highs and lows, the almost-theres, the in-betweens, the half-baked, the 360 degree turns, and the blatant fact of just how important gravity is to us.

It's always a lot easier to indulge in the latter to the good. Hereby, perhaps sometimes I tend to take the better for granted.

But no, not today.

Because today is different. Today, I felt - feel - different.

Days like these are rare to come by. So uncommon has it become for me to feel so comfortable, so at peace and acceptance in the likeliness of my own skin. In fact, it seems almost rather.. alien to me.

But I suppose my pessimism deserves this - what I would call - slap in the face every once in a while. It's nice to know that there are silver linings over dark clouds. 

Or say, in better words: it's nice to know there is someone out there who genuinely cares for you.

I don't see it often, so how more would I believe in such?

But today is special. 

But then again, no. 

..

Maybe it's just you. Maybe you're the special one.

I write. I wont say I'm any good at it, but it's a passion I love dear, and a solution to the sadness I cannot quite express. Words aren't something I possess a power of - it is in fact something that has a power over me. They move me, like winds and like seas. They speak to me, beyond those that are actually spoken or written. There is a place in this heart for words that mean what I do.

"I'm afraid to tell you how bad it is," are the kind of words that cut so deep, I actually remember the sting of my skin being ripped apart, because only God knows how many times I've had these words stuttering beneath my breath, as I lie to the faces of the people I love.

Fuck.

It's Hot Here.

Welp, this is it.

These are the best of times, these are the worst of times. 

At 19 years old, one would assume it to be the prime time of youths: a time of great fun, a time less needed of thought, a time of finding oneself, and a time to always look back at with a smile. 

And yet, here I am, playing the latter role to the quote of the Tale of Two Cities, spending my so-called glory days, moping over a laptop with a battery life that slowly depletes to zero, and agonizing my dread into words.

I assume I must be fun to point and laugh at, for always being such a sore thumb to the presumption of society.

What a fool I am, a fact so obvious. Though it is only human nature of me to wish for better, as I simply cannot help but question why.

Where do I  go so awfully wrong to be placed in such a monotonous rank of this hierarchy?

Is it that I am blessed so un-pretty? Is it that my tongue cannot boast to be bilingual? Is it that I ponder foreign ideas, or that my opinions are un-matter-of-fact-ish, and unworthy?

I lick my finger desperately for the taste of an answer, but I can't quite seem to place the spot of which it may lie.

I am helpless against the fate that has paralyzed me, so bed-ridden, without even the will to stutter denial.  

I am without a friend.

And isn't that such a marvel? How so easily I fit into the creases of the words, "loner," or more so blatant, yet true all the same, "loser."

Shouldn't I be laughing, and having a - what do they call it? - blast with a company too?

Alas, no is the word I hear far too often, it cannot even sting any longer, but only numbs me. 

The wheel has stirred its ways; the winds has taken hold of both the currents and my sails, for I am not there, but here, in this quiet room alone, with its front doors that seem to bang to the entrance of nobody - here, I am writing words that are only born to whither. 

Lashing out to the only place I feel safe - a blog so empty of visits and reviews - I come to wonder sometimes, if anybody will ever hear the echo in my paragraphs.

Because if you would only pay more attention: I swear you'd hear me screaming.