Letters of Youth


/ 11 January 2021


As though needles are going through my throat, I feel. Swallowing is already difficult on its own, but having to sit and work on a word count seems far too unreachable. The line in the document blinks, almost mocking me; mocking the stupid fifteen words I can vomit out of a hundred more. Perhaps I should cry, or drown myself with all the unhealthiest drinks I could ever find, so as to combat this growing, crippling seed inside.

Sometimes, no—oftentimes I would try to hide. Everything seems to be twisting and turning, my eyes glossy, and cannot seem to concentrate on the task at hand.

This was the worst season to feel… things. Yet tomorrow proves to be another day where I should persevere, lest be stuck in limbo I know I could not get out of.

People have long been telling me how my thoughts and actions seem calculated. Akin to a robot predestined to accomplish something, reboot, get back right up until their lone creator locks in a new feature.

Assumptions are made that I cannot refute as prior experiences had shown me the fickleness of the mind. Assumptions are made, then conveniently turned into perceptions; perceptions twisted into nothing short of a busted reality. Yet I cease to believe all of it comes from my blood, sweat, and tears. Nothing but hard work and a recurring stream of consciousness that my body is empty yet fraudulent in all ways possible. All is nothing but a front.


“I am who I am, and that can’t change.”

She’s wrong. I am. She is. I am. There comes the disillusion. The swirling disappointment leading to delusion. The disassociation comes trickling in until I later discover that she has become “no one” and nothing but.

We all become what we pretend to be.


The truth of the matter is this: I struggle like any other human being. I struggle so hard it keeps me awake at night. It is gradually numbing me to the point where I could not even tell if this Mia is real. Clouded by the ambitions set upon me, I can no longer decipher the tired, sunken face in front of the mirror. Leaves would cloud my vision; my quest for knowledge making me all the more restless and uncomfortable. Oftentimes do I find myself vomiting what I have eaten, imagining them as flowers that will wilt in due time. The ‘me’ today is terrified to confront all the other accumulated faces because I know that as soon as I tap into them, there is no going back. But in times like this, whether I’m wide awake or half asleep, my body empties itself. Something gnaws on my flesh until I am left with nothing. My mind detaches itself entirely from my body, mocking me, asking questions related to my sheer existence.


Am I truly the one governing my body? Who, what is in control? Why am I living?

The ‘other I’, the person underneath is someone with a weak heart. I found out it takes me hours or even days to accurately identify or digest certain situations and emotions. My head used to hurt because of it. I once dreamt of a hooded figure pounding my head with a mallet when I was seven, it continued up until I was thirteen. Hushed whispers started a month after my fifteenth birthday and stopped at eighteen. Since then, I found myself falling into the front I unknowingly created. I started to dislike writing until it made me despise it. Writing tires me. The other face I keep locked in my chest says so. It drains everything inside until I am left thirsty and starving and lonely. Writing makes me cry because it fuels my anxiety. It fuels my fear, my insecurities, my everything. It disguises itself as something therapeutic until I find myself deceived by the danger it holds. It does the opposite for me.

The other is scared, doggedly trampled by the present. It is full of colors that can either help me up or stump me down in a spiral. There is, indeed, no in-between.


I remember telling someone back in twelfth grade how I wanted to sleep for a day, nonstop, then wake up as if nothing ludicrous happened. That in itself is impossible. In the end, I dislike letting my thoughts flow raw and unfiltered because confronting something I have yet to prepare myself with is like jumping into your own death. Your own creep show. It kills your mind softly, gradually until you become withered.


I truly do not want to explore the other side. Have never fancied it either. The stranger on the other side.