what it really is

Cue sad music.

I don't have a haven. I thought I had but everytime I think I'm sure, that's when the heavens disprove my beliefs. It's always been that way.

Now when did I know that my life can't be too perfect?

Prolly when I was in third grade and realized that all the group productions I direct don't turn out the way I plan. There's always something that needs to be compromised, something that won't fit into the ideal.

Ideals are called just that. Ideals were synonymous to impossible.

Then I entered high school and lowered my expectations and had run-of-the-mill dreams and acted as if possessed by it and for several blissful moments, I was happy.

Then I became a wreck again and I thought that was the end for me but then I found love.

Then I thought I'd be okay again but somehow, I felt trapped. Trapped as in I don't know what I'm doing and if it's right or...

No, I don't want to run away. Do I delude myself that everything is happy and all right? Maybe it really is like that and I'm just scared to be happy because I know it's an elusive bitch.

Maybe I'm pretending to be happy pretending to be not-happy but then I don't know which is the chicken or the egg and I end up confusing myself.

So I choose to preocuppy myself with things that will avoid such subjects such as manga and friends' problems.

Because I want to cry but I'm afraid I'll dehydrate.

Because I'm scared to face all of 'em.

Or maybe I still have hope that what I think is the inevitable is not the ending life has for us.