Songs Of A Brokenhearted Soul

★Whim

I opened my phone to look for the date and time, it's April 1st, 2020, 3:39 AM.

I closed my eyes and hope to be able to go back to sleep, but my head keeps reminding me of so many memories. I forcibly shut my mind, but the more I stop thinking the more I'm reminded about everyone, the people who were and are always there for me. It bothers me more that I've thought of something morbid, "Is everything going to end this way? Would there still be a future for me and the important people around me? Or is it just me that would be deprived of a bright future?"

I couldn't help it anymore, so I let my imaginative mind play with me more. My thumb is busy typing while my head keeps recalling all the events of my life—a life yet to be lived fully, a life yet to experience the desirable things and a life yet to see the abyss of darkness and the peak of happiness.

I can see the faces of all the people who I miss the most. I question my self: "Are they missing me also?" And then I answered my own question, "Probably yes? Maybe no? Who would want to miss an insignificant person like me? Well, they've probably miss how annoying I am, how philosophical, how immature, playful, impolite and a liar I am?"

Then, like an uproar I heard my name being called by various of voices in my head, they sound like an ululation and it's annoying but somehow they make me feel at ease.

I hate it when I'm asked for help and I couldn't offer any, and I hate it when I see someone needing help but couldn't give any because I'm worried to touch their ego. I'm glad to have offered help, but I'm worried also. I don't know why I'm feeling hesitant to give help sometimes because I don't want to be a cause of something unfortunate, to put it simply, I don't want to be blamed over the thing I was the reason. Oftentimes, I feel worried to give help coz the more I give the more I feel being used, conversely, when I don't have anything to offer the more I feel being useless.

My head is sure spinning weirdly, I thought initially for something undesirable until I get to the point where I question my value to the next point of being worried about giving help. I feel so helpless now, I'm using my lack of inspiration to fuel my dried pen. They say one needs inspiration in order to write, in my case I'm using pressure via stressing my self, as well as the inability to think straight as an ink to continue writing, the results are not that promising, I'm only blaming my own self for being such a push over, sometimes I think that I shouldn't have urged to become a writer, but my heart twitches every time I attempt to stop. I wasn't born to become a poet or a writer, in the past few years I've defied fate and pursued writing, now I don't feel that fervent over my desire to write but rather I feel like being cursed for not being able to write a masterpiece, but then I think, maybe I couldn't find the courage to write anymore because I have set my standards so high, or rather I have always thought of impressing my readers that I have forgotten what it's like to simply express what I'm feeling. I'm stressing myself too much as if I'm being paid for being an idiot. Better to let go of this unnecessary ill feeling. I have to look forward for an unclear future that gets even foggier due to  these trying times.