Last night, I dug up old folders of pictures and writings from long ago. Stuffs I thought I may not look back into or read again in the future. Stuffs I thought I have buried down until I forgot such things exist.
Stuffs I would likely to wipe entirely, yet still have no guts to. Because wiping out feels like erasing history and this when everything gets paradoxical. I do not need such reminders to remind me how it fucked me up terribly until my lowest point of self yet I need constant reminder I was that fucked up so I will not repeat the same mistakes which will drag me into the same kind of downfall.
It feels like being reminded of how did I become such cynical. How did I ever arrive at the point where I stopped believing in anything. How did I decide not to trust anybody with myself ever again. How did I get to the conclusion that there is no such thing as compassion without its payback. Everybody is self-centred and to seek reassurance from anybody but yourself is completely useless.
It feels like being engulfed, once again, with all the negative thoughts when I’ve been breathing and walking on a fresh slate.
It feels like being dragged back and locked up inside a small box with all the mementos of how I will never fit in. How even the tiniest part ot my idealistic self will never be invested as far as the cynicism that spread within me. How all the positive feelings, all the hopes and all the love within me will never be invested as much as I wish to if I don’t want to be hurt. How I’ve been suppressing every feelings I have in order to protect myself to not fall into same hellhole ever again.
I thought at this point, I’ve put these things aside. I thought these things will never touch me, let alone dragging me. But then again, the world is not a place for the weak of heart. This time, I refuse to give in and I know I should be and I am able to.