Astronomy is an amusing concept. And although I am skeptical about its entire premise, I’d say that as a fire sign, nothing makes me more alive than having a fiery burning purpose. It means a lot to me to feel that metaphorical passion and fire, even though its backfiring is well-written on history.
In my lifelessness, May saw me attempt to rekindle any residual spark. This writing is a start. In all honesty, I’ve never found it easy, not once, to stand up after my moments of stillness. But I owe it to myself to speak about the things I kept running from these past few months. So much has been thrown on the back burner because I thought that’s what being positive meant.
It was silly of me to think I knew better. There isn’t any amount of knowing better that’ll save you from the situations you yourself started. Not an ounce of knowing better made me deprive myself of spiraling into my version of self-sabotage. And when I felt like I couldn’t take the toll of being my own worst enemy, where was I?
I was as distant as I could get without getting far.
Stepping into those outgrown footprints, I followed the same old path. It’s familiar but not easy as you think it’ll be. They were wrong to say familiarity was comfortable. This road I’ve traveled once or a few more times wasn’t, isn’t, and will never be.
If I, in truth, had known better, I would’ve never come back. But countless times, I’m here. Maybe, I wanted this like I needed fire.
Perhaps, I keep putting myself in situations that purposely will hurt sooner than later because my feeling dead means as much as my feeling fires ignite. Maybe I enjoy the sense of purpose as much as I crave running away. Because if it isn’t the case, then why?
Why would I need the feel to hightail from everything as it starts getting real? Isn’t it the same reason every fixation I had lasted only at the start?
It makes sense.
And now, I am admitting how hard it is to linger in the things I had initiated. But it is even more unbearable to admit how hard it is to end the things I started that I knew from the get-go were problems. Because even dressed as they were, and in recognition, I sucked them in.
I am admitting that I was never master of my own emotion for not feeling, not thinking anything.
In fact, I am a coward for thinking everything I messed up will fix itself by the end. I am a coward for believing that if I think about nothing and do nothing, things will turn out into something terrific in the end.
That’s what I was.
Even in winning or in a challenge, I never had the guts to take it to the end. I was always outstanding at the start but was consistently afraid of a setback. So, I run.
And as I design my own downfall before they even wake up, I race far from things that could’ve been great if I had only stuck long enough. I run, not knowing too well that every step I dash is the closest to losing I have always had.
This, everything unloaded in these pages, is a hard pill to swallow indeed. Every beginning I ended at its start by running far away from is rushing in my mind.
Ideas.
Projects.
Stories.
Jobs.
Friendship.
Responsibilities.
Obligations.
Problems.
Every single one of them has pages doggy-eared halfway through their second chapters. Every. Single. One.
It’ll be bold of me to assume this admission will ever mean something—but I do hope it will.
I don’t believe in second chances, but this is one of the rare times I would like to receive one. Little by little, step by step, I want to see how far it’ll take me to continue the things I began.
This is not me wishing for a new fire. Instead, I am writing to do a little something to reignite it. And hopefully, this time, keep it.
It’s me taking back control, not running away. I owe it to myself to accomplish something.