The Onionsoul Edition: #900.

I realized that for the past month, I’ve been selecting write-ups of hers which were all written within days of each other. I don’t feature them in order, but I think you notice it too – there’s a recurring theme here. You could say that whatever she felt in October 2011 are the same ones that run through me lately. I’ve had this one on my mind all week, so I’m going to go ahead and feature it anyway. I’ll start fresh next week.

For today, we return to October 2011, this time to Wednesday the 19th:

I wanted to tell you this; that of all these things, we feel sadness the most. We are never buoyed upon an ocean of apathy. We are never crushed by complacency. We are never moved by the okayness of the world. What we remember most are sadness and pain, and the defense mechanisms to help us flee danger and hurt. To help us get away when we’re bleeding. And we simply feel most alive just when something stirs like broken glass in our chests.

Unfortunately, sandwiches is a decade older, but a decade behind my mind. I want to leave this place quickly.

– Pinknerd | #900.

I’ve reread this one countless times, trying to piece together the timeline – if it overlapped to a specific one in my memory. Back then, we used to Skype – not regularly, that’s never been something I do with any family members – but we spoke more openly than we do now, about the things and people in our lives that affected and influenced us. I’m trying to remember if maybe, she meant to say this to me, because that was the year we were both coming to terms with forgiveness. Not of a childhood denied, but the aftermath of an imperfect one.

Estranged. That was the word she’d used to describe us, myself and him, not too long ago. I laughed when I chanced upon that short paragraph, storyteller that she still is, though in a different medium now. Until now, I return to that word, somewhat fixated. It’s not true, I know that much – not the right choice of word – yet it stuck. It bothers me in the same way that it bothers me, how it is so difficult for me to write about him. Words come easy to me, but never when it’s about him. I have so much of you in my heart, sometimes I ask myself, but why is it so hard to write about you?

Back then, in the brink of adulthood and drunk with exhilaration from our first sips of independence, we retraced our shared past several times from where we were: not just away from each other, at one end of the world to another, but also away from home. It’s funny what stays in a person’s memories, don’t you think so too? We’d rehash old wounds and retold stories from the past, only to realize that those same tales were reinterpreted and remembered differently between us. Where I was angry, she was indifferent. Where she was riled up, I was a floodgate of emotions. Still, we had one thing in common: we were both, in our own ways, sad and angry. What we remember most were – are – sadness and pain. The irony, because all we wanted – for so long, all we wanted was to get away and back then, there we were, living and breathing that wish, only to realize that the damage was done. She was right; what irony, knowing we hurt, yet feel most alive when something stirs like broken glass in our chests. How much – how far, wide, and deep – are we shaped by our past?

What is the larger irony, knowing we hurt, yet feel most alive when something stirs like broken glass within our chests; or knowing that home is the source of these convoluted emotions and scars, yet I – I want to leave this place quickly for it?

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