Rambling, for some reason, seemed to be something I can do best at certain situations. Whenever I would feel uneasy with the situation I’d put myself into, I’d sit down and talked about something, anything, that would let me get it off my system. If I wasn’t able to do so during the day, I’d wait until I finally slipped into my bed, laying there and talking until I was too tired to continue.
I could possibly just ramble about anything. I’d realized that I was spending time in my own little world longer than in my real life. If I go to the mall with my family, like I did today, I’d parted ways with them, eating alone in my favourite restaurant, then walking around trying to find a spot in any cafes private enough for me to read and be alone. With the music and the buzz everyone was making as they walked pass by me, it still felt like I was alone; like their existence didn’t mean much to me.
I instinctively ended my mini autobio just because it seemed like the right thing to do. But as I realized along the way, every entry I’d write in my blog would be a part in my autobio.
Today is the day of… thoughts, if you will, more so than the other days. I’ve had a lot to think about today more than I’ve had in the last couple of days. I rethink and rethink my actions-most of which I regretted doing-wondering why had I fallen into the same thing and the same situation again. I cannot find the answer, and I don’t think God would come down and shot it at me directly in my sleep, either.
As I read a novel with some toasts and a cold Milo sitting on the table in the cafe, my mind was constantly changing. I’d reach a chapter, and wondered if I could be a novelist one day. I’d turn on the pages, unable to stop, getting a bite or two from my toasts, and couldn’t help to think about what would happen in the end. I always have that annoying little habit where I’d go to the last sentence on the chapter even though I wasn’t finished yet. I honestly don’t know where that came from.
A little while ago, after I’d finished reading the first novel that had made me cry, I felt that there was something wrong. Off all the years I’d been living my life, I’ve never felt so alone before. Now, thinking about it, I think it had to do with the aftermaths of reading it (it was a touching novel… I cried, didn’t I?). What seemed odd was that why did I felt alone. Now that it had finally taken its course, I still can’t figure it out.
I want to be able to describe everything that came to mind so quickly in my writing. I’d notice my annoying little habits, and thought maybe I’m going to write about it. Or after doing that repetitious sinful thing, I felt like the only way that I could let it go was to write it down. Yet everytime I came across a piece of paper; the words just won’t come out. I struggle too much of finding right, thoughtful, and touching words, even though I know that it was just something that I had to do. It’s not meant for public’s eyes, and although I realized it ever so clearly, finding beautiful and poetic words seemed to be yet another annoying habit (at times, that is).
I had the strangest dream when I took a nap yesterday, and I hadn’t thought about it until now. I don’t know what came over me or what the hell was on my mind, because as far as I knew, I hated ghosts and the likes. But there they were, in my dreams, now seemed more chilling than ever. It brought goosebumps whenever I remembered it.
I hate the way my finger won’t type fast enough sometimes, and I hate how I kept punching the wrong letters when it happened. I hate it when I started to hear myself reading the novels’ dialogues in my brain. I hate the fact that I’d always, by habit, pick out the last sentence on each chapter as soon as I was coming to an end. I’d love to be supportive and loving and listening to my friends’ stories and giving them what they needed at the time, but I always hated myself that when the time comes for them to rely to me, I couldn’t find the right words to say. Everything I have inside my head seemed like crap; the kind of thing you’d hear from everybody. Since this is on a friendship level, I’d like to say something original, something that sincerely came from my heart. But I lack the ability to do so.
There are times for me to grow awfully quiet, sometimes looking like I was too tired to talk or to care about what was happening. Writing was my escape, so does reading and sitting on the edge of my bed, doing nothing but alone with my thoughts.
I’d long for companionship more than you would know. I’d read Sparks’ novels and imagined myself being in the same situation as the characters whenever they would have one of those beach situations. They would slip off their sandals, carry it with them as they walked and talked the whole way. I would imagine what the sand must felt like against my feet, as I haven’t been on the beach long enough for me to miss them. I’d imagine what it must feel like later on in my life, when I’m old enough to be married, waiting for my husband to come home, and when he does, asking about his day and doing what married couples would do. Or, I’d imagine what it would feel like to be in an argument I wasn’t prepared for. I’d sometimes throw myself into a situation and introspected, "What would I do?" Even though I couldn’t find the answer, at the time, being in argument seemed better than staying silent. I’m sure when the time comes, I’d apreciate it less.
I couldn’t put my head together, and I acted like someone I’d recognised but hated. I answered my mother with a tired and an ignorant tone, each answer daunting for her to end the conversation she started, yet I knew I shouldn’t acted that way. When I brought up my friend and the problem she was having, as my mother explained to me her reasons and her opinions, I immediately grew tired of it and pulled my headphone up to my ears, listening to the song playing on my iPod while she continues. I heard her, but long enough, I wasn’t sure what she was saying anymore.
That’s just about the rudest thing I’ve ever pulled. I realized it, mind you. But I resented the fact that she didn’t want to just go with my explanation and had opted to explain her opinions. Had she answered, "Okay." I might have been nicer. I know it’s totally my fault, but at the moment, I just wanted her to leave me alone.
Today is the most quite day I’ve had in my life, I think. I rarely speak, my mind was torn between the thing I did and the endless wonderment of ‘what the hell happened to me?’ and ‘would God still forgive me for what I just did.’ I guess I can say that I know the answer, but that overwhelming guilt feeling I had the last time I did it, was completely gone. I felt nothing, and I knew something was not right.
When I went to the mall, well, I told you what I did. When we went home, that unpleasant conversation took place. And ever since then, I hadn’t spoke a sentence long enough other than ordering a fried rice with two eggs I’d grown accostumed to.
I don’t think my rambling would end. Afterwars, I think, I would write some more. Of what, I’m still not sure. Maybe of a story I hadn’t fully developed. Or maybe just a reflection on what I did. Either way, I’d still ramble.
