NOT a Winter Writing Submission, just personal musings.
1
This wasn't meant to be a poem, or anything deep or significant. I was literally just vomiting words into the computer so I could get my angst out and get back to trying to study. Take from it what you will, be it joy or something else. Also, it is all one gigantic poem, just to avoid confusion.
Persona.
The aspect of someone's character that is presented to others.
The thoughtless fool, the bad jokester, that one guy no one really likes.
This is what the people around me see.
Yet, that is only one side of the coin.
The observer, who sees many things but says nothing about them.
The one who hungers for things to be just, yet cannot bring it about.
The one who loathes himself intensely for all of his mistakes, his shortcomings.
The one who is angry at himself, at the world, at life.
The smoldering fire, suppressed for over two decades, sealed away, never to be fully released.
This part is there too. Silenced, only appears sparingly, but it is still there.
Duty.
Typical of any Asian, my sense of duty is strong.
I feel that it is my duty to strive to fulfill my parents' ludicrous demands of me.
It does not matter how I have to stretch myself beyond my abilities, how I hurt myself trying to achieve the impossible.
I have a sense of duty to aid the people that I can, even if I hurt or minus myself in the process.
No matter what my situation is, I am compelled to help others where I can. I must be a "kind person".
The same sense of duty, however, makes me hate myself.
My sense of duty, which screams at me "You should be better than this!", fills me with pain and self-loathing.
My sense of duty, which screams at me "You must fulfill what your parents want from you!", fills me with stress and anxiety.
My sense of duty, which drives me to madness and makes me drown in negativity.
I hate my sense of duty. I really, really do.
Fear.
Someone once said "Fear is an excellent motivator."
It is also an excellent demotivator.
Why do I not ask you for help? You say you're always available, and to a point, you are.
Fear.
You do not merely "help me". You first take the time to painstakingly rub in my face that I have erred.
You need to make it excruciatingly, degradingly, agonizingly clear that I'm a fuck up when I already know what I am.
You put me through humiliation, you shout me down, you call me a "stupid boy". Only after all this do you help me.
You are the reason that I cannot be who I am, say what I wish to, do what I wish to.
You made me afraid to follow my passions, to step out of line, made me afraid of incurring your wrath.
One kills with roaring and swearing; the other kills with venomous words and piercing gazes that puncture my soul.
Fear is the result, and fear rules my life.
Death.
Memento Mori. As Nyx Avatar put it:
"Beyond the beaten path lies the absolute end. It matters not who you are... Death awaits you."
Since I was an infant, Death has hounded me.
Three times he tried to strike me down as a baby; three times I cheated him, slipped away from his grasp.
For as long as I can remember, I have been barred from many things I was passionate about, as not to tempt Death further.
"You cannot do martial arts; You will break your shunt and die."
"You cannot cook; You will burn the house down and we will all die."
Death, death, death. Constantly reminded of death, reminded to avoid it, always made aware that Death looms over my shoulder.
Eagerly waiting with bated breath. Waiting for the right moment to strike me down, to finally claim his prize.
I have accepted that I may die an early death. I have accepted that I may die without doing many things that others take for granted.
Fall in love, marry, have a family, watch your children grow and watch yourself grow old with your life's partner.
Perhaps that is why I deny myself any sort of true happiness.
Perhaps that is why I keep a firm distance between the people I know.
Perhaps that is why I accept the hopelessness of life, that there are some things that cannot be changed.
Perhaps that is why I merely suffer in silence, no matter what life or my parents throw at me.
Now.
My situation now is dire. I am in danger of flunking two classes this semester, perhaps more. Or only passing with a C.
The fear in me tells me to push to at least pass my classes. But that same fear also screams that the parents will be furious if I get even one C.
Multiple C's will likely result in death. Or at least wishing I was dead.
My sense of duty screams for me to keep pushing. To attempt an all-nighter, even though one does not simply complete a whole semester's worth of work in one night.
My mind knows that this is an impossible request, but duty demands that I try anyway.
My persona drives me to maintain the facade of the carefree fool. The one who always acts like everything is peachy. To keep with the routine.
My persona and my sense of duty do not agree with each other.
My acceptance of death makes me numb to the situation. It allows me to accept the notion that I. Am. Screwed. as an inevitability.
It, like I have done for so long, suppresses the fire that could have saved me from this situation.
Broken.
I was put on a tight leash as a child.
I was never allowed to pursue my passions.
I was never allowed to fully express myself, because I was a "stupid boy".
I was never allowed freedom; always suppressed, restrained, made to fear doing anything to anger my parents.
I was never allowed to develop a self-esteem. I was always made to feel like garbage, like I was nothing, like I was worth nothing.
I have suppressed myself for so long that I do not know who I even am anymore.
I do not know if the things I do are mere reflex, some sort of mechanism to try and protect myself from the things I fear.
I do not know if the things I like are things I actually like, or things I use to distract myself from my bleak reality.
All I know is to follow the fear. Maintain the persona. Appease the sense of duty. Avoid all things that could tempt death to inch closer.
At the moment, I have this feeling. This itching, gnawing feeling that tears at me, even more so in my dire situation.
I would never act on this feeling. I know that the feeling will pass eventually, but for the moment...
I feel helpless. I feel lost. I feel broken. I am weary of my life and all of the suffering that I put up with in silence.
I feel like I want death to claim me. I want to be released from this painful life of mine.
...
The feeling has passed. I have regained my senses, and the depression has gone away.
Back to my miserable, pathetic existence, I suppose.
Persona.
The aspect of someone's character that is presented to others.
The thoughtless fool, the bad jokester, that one guy no one really likes.
This is what the people around me see.
Yet, that is only one side of the coin.
The observer, who sees many things but says nothing about them.
The one who hungers for things to be just, yet cannot bring it about.
The one who loathes himself intensely for all of his mistakes, his shortcomings.
The one who is angry at himself, at the world, at life.
The smoldering fire, suppressed for over two decades, sealed away, never to be fully released.
This part is there too. Silenced, only appears sparingly, but it is still there.
Duty.
Typical of any Asian, my sense of duty is strong.
I feel that it is my duty to strive to fulfill my parents' ludicrous demands of me.
It does not matter how I have to stretch myself beyond my abilities, how I hurt myself trying to achieve the impossible.
I have a sense of duty to aid the people that I can, even if I hurt or minus myself in the process.
No matter what my situation is, I am compelled to help others where I can. I must be a "kind person".
The same sense of duty, however, makes me hate myself.
My sense of duty, which screams at me "You should be better than this!", fills me with pain and self-loathing.
My sense of duty, which screams at me "You must fulfill what your parents want from you!", fills me with stress and anxiety.
My sense of duty, which drives me to madness and makes me drown in negativity.
I hate my sense of duty. I really, really do.
Fear.
Someone once said "Fear is an excellent motivator."
It is also an excellent demotivator.
Why do I not ask you for help? You say you're always available, and to a point, you are.
Fear.
You do not merely "help me". You first take the time to painstakingly rub in my face that I have erred.
You need to make it excruciatingly, degradingly, agonizingly clear that I'm a fuck up when I already know what I am.
You put me through humiliation, you shout me down, you call me a "stupid boy". Only after all this do you help me.
You are the reason that I cannot be who I am, say what I wish to, do what I wish to.
You made me afraid to follow my passions, to step out of line, made me afraid of incurring your wrath.
One kills with roaring and swearing; the other kills with venomous words and piercing gazes that puncture my soul.
Fear is the result, and fear rules my life.
Death.
Memento Mori. As Nyx Avatar put it:
"Beyond the beaten path lies the absolute end. It matters not who you are... Death awaits you."
Since I was an infant, Death has hounded me.
Three times he tried to strike me down as a baby; three times I cheated him, slipped away from his grasp.
For as long as I can remember, I have been barred from many things I was passionate about, as not to tempt Death further.
"You cannot do martial arts; You will break your shunt and die."
"You cannot cook; You will burn the house down and we will all die."
Death, death, death. Constantly reminded of death, reminded to avoid it, always made aware that Death looms over my shoulder.
Eagerly waiting with bated breath. Waiting for the right moment to strike me down, to finally claim his prize.
I have accepted that I may die an early death. I have accepted that I may die without doing many things that others take for granted.
Fall in love, marry, have a family, watch your children grow and watch yourself grow old with your life's partner.
Perhaps that is why I deny myself any sort of true happiness.
Perhaps that is why I keep a firm distance between the people I know.
Perhaps that is why I accept the hopelessness of life, that there are some things that cannot be changed.
Perhaps that is why I merely suffer in silence, no matter what life or my parents throw at me.
Now.
My situation now is dire. I am in danger of flunking two classes this semester, perhaps more. Or only passing with a C.
The fear in me tells me to push to at least pass my classes. But that same fear also screams that the parents will be furious if I get even one C.
Multiple C's will likely result in death. Or at least wishing I was dead.
My sense of duty screams for me to keep pushing. To attempt an all-nighter, even though one does not simply complete a whole semester's worth of work in one night.
My mind knows that this is an impossible request, but duty demands that I try anyway.
My persona drives me to maintain the facade of the carefree fool. The one who always acts like everything is peachy. To keep with the routine.
My persona and my sense of duty do not agree with each other.
My acceptance of death makes me numb to the situation. It allows me to accept the notion that I. Am. Screwed. as an inevitability.
It, like I have done for so long, suppresses the fire that could have saved me from this situation.
Broken.
I was put on a tight leash as a child.
I was never allowed to pursue my passions.
I was never allowed to fully express myself, because I was a "stupid boy".
I was never allowed freedom; always suppressed, restrained, made to fear doing anything to anger my parents.
I was never allowed to develop a self-esteem. I was always made to feel like garbage, like I was nothing, like I was worth nothing.
I have suppressed myself for so long that I do not know who I even am anymore.
I do not know if the things I do are mere reflex, some sort of mechanism to try and protect myself from the things I fear.
I do not know if the things I like are things I actually like, or things I use to distract myself from my bleak reality.
All I know is to follow the fear. Maintain the persona. Appease the sense of duty. Avoid all things that could tempt death to inch closer.
At the moment, I have this feeling. This itching, gnawing feeling that tears at me, even more so in my dire situation.
I would never act on this feeling. I know that the feeling will pass eventually, but for the moment...
I feel helpless. I feel lost. I feel broken. I am weary of my life and all of the suffering that I put up with in silence.
I feel like I want death to claim me. I want to be released from this painful life of mine.
...
The feeling has passed. I have regained my senses, and the depression has gone away.
Back to my miserable, pathetic existence, I suppose.