23 years of random shits and bruises

My existence wasn’t entirely fucked up. There are some years that I’m thankful I was born to witness this gruesomely divine earth. The past two years or so were some of those years. While it was never really a smooth ride for me, I guess I wouldn’t still have things any other way. I cheated, got betrayed, screamed, shouted, whispered, stayed silent for days, talked a lot, felt strong, felt weak, tripped, killed, got killed, sleep, woke up, rose from the dead, but most of the days, I still feel awesomely f*cking alive.

For my 23rd birthday, I decided that I want a change. I decided that I no longer want to wake up staring at my bedroom ceiling wondering if it’s going to be a fun day or not. I decided that if I want to be happy, that is definitely up to me, not to universe, prayer, reality, signs, fate, destiny, or tarot cards.

So I decided that I want to swim with whale sharks on my birthday and I did. For the first time in so many years, I woke up to a different place, different view, and a brighter mood, on this particular day.










I’m not the happiest person on earth right now, not the luckiest either. Most of the days, I still feel very unfortunate and wretched. There are days that I throw a thousand whys, hows, and what the fucks toward the earth and get absolutely nothing for a reply. Sometimes, I cry for no reason just to avoid feeling empty. But I know that mostly in those days, I’m just being ungrateful too.

I mean, there are just so many things to be thankful for. I have a crazy Dad who is capable of giving a kind of love that is bigger than his big belly or anything else in the world; a cool job which I have a bittersweet relationship with; smartass, sarcastic friends; brothers who talk about planets and science during lunch; Mom who doesn’t know how to be a mom but since she’s my mom, she has to be in this list; sensitive relatives who helped me become more sarcastic and patient; a letter M-shaped piggy bank; a thousand diary entries that are so honest it couldn’t be used to write a movie script about my life; long legs that can lodge a thousand scars from impulsive mountain climbs and treks; a brain that doesn’t stop giving me millions of conflicting thoughts to ponder on; a delicate heart that had been treated not so delicately so many times; and a pair of hands that do not stop writing; and more.

It’s really not hard to make me happy, you know. I’m the kind of person who is dreaming of a big house someday but does not necessarily have big dreams. I only want a few things in my life and I’m very straightforward about it. To love and be loved; to be happy and make people happy; to sing and write music; to listen and be heard; to write and be read; to swim, jump, run and still feel safe; spend a lot and don’t feel broke afterwards.

Sometimes, I wonder how it feels to go back to the past and watch myself grow up. I will probably laugh at myself a lot. As I get older, I’ve lost so many things while in the course of wanting so many other things.

Until I’ve learned to become more realistic. I’ve realized that equality only applies to academic or precise equations, those that can be solved by formulas and never by chances. I found out that just because I’ve been hurt three times, the universe should make it up to me by three times as well. I’ve realized that out of the 100 failures I will have, it only takes one great moment to be happy. For instance, it took me weeks to finish this write-up because work keeps getting in the way and when I did, I’m finally happy that I did.