As I opened a new file and thought of what words to start this post with, my mind whispered, "Try not to sound so overly sad." And to that voice I replied, "Screw you. I can allow myself to be sad if I want to."

"Some days I'm Van Gogh's starry night, other days I'm his suicide letter."

I don't always know how to write.

I don't always know how to write a poem in the midst of sadness, or anguish, or utter disappointment. I don't know how to become one of those writers whose darkest, most intense times of life become fruits of inspiration. How they stand and witness a forest fire then create a drawing with its ashes.

I don't always know how to compose a well-written piece on staying positive, or keeping faith, at a moment of being torn to shreds. I wish these shreds were like scattered puzzle pieces; those you can pick up and assemble together to create a lovely image. Instead, these shreds remind me of broken ceramic plates. Ones that, once broken, cannot be as how it was before the fall.

Over the past few weeks, I feel that this blog has slowly retreated into a fetal position. I've succumbed to publishing pre-written content from other parties, and most of the stuff I've written and put out, albeit sincere and enjoyable, are pretty shallow.

As a small blogger, my blog is a pretty accurate representation of who I am and how I'm doing. And if it hasn't been that great lately, well, then it wouldn't have been so great.

I've realized now that I'm actually tired of having to explain myself at the end of each recent blog post. As bloggers, we always say things like "ah sorry I haven't been posting, things are just so busy!", "I want to start posting more for you guys" etc. It's good for reader-writer accountability, but this time, I'm tired of sugarcoating my real letdowns, failures, and mishaps into "Sorry I haven't been posting so much!" Because no, I'm actually not sorry for having a very human moment in my life where I may or may not fall into an existential crisis. One I might not be able to write about.


If difficult stages of one's life could help a writer create their best work, I guess I just haven't been so fortunate.

Because the truth is, I'm not at a moment where I want to write about my skincare routine, or my top tips, or my best lifestyle content. I cannot write in a carefree tone at a time where I feel burdened. I can try, but that would mean I'm trying to live up to the blogger's-perfect-attitude-towards-life persona, which I kind of suck at.

I can't always come out of a problem with some profound wisdom to bestow upon my readers. Today, I wish I could sound something like, "Well things are great now! And everything is wonderful! And I found the reason and solution to my problem! Everything is possible if you try!" But that hasn't been my thought process. That hasn't been how I'm feeling. 

so how are you feeling?

I don't want to turn this blog into an open diary, so to give you a general idea, I'll just try and mention a few things about how I've really been:

  • My stress mainly consists of transitioning to a new life and city away from home in the midst of family grief, progressively learning (the rough way) about how to take care of myself and live alone at the age of 18, and basically trying to find my truest identity, and reach my goals, and decide what I want to do with my life, in the messiest, most awkward and experimental way possible. It's quite the burden if I put it that way, but above it all, I try. I repeat daily mantras and I do my dishes and cleaning accordingly, and I try to breathe, drink water, and, you know, survive.
  • I've been trying to navigate between allowing myself to have feelings toward certain situations, and teaching myself to handle these feelings with patience and grace. It might sound like I'm keeping a Biblical virtue, but really, it feels a lot more like basic survival skills. You need to be a little positive at times. You need to have faith in yourself and in better days. You need to make wise decisions in times of intense frustration. Soon enough, we learn it's not as much of a choice as it is a way of staying alive.

So what I'm really trying to say from this long, dry, spiraling midnight ramble I just went on, friends, is: I need a minute. Or two.

Indeed, my content and my blog have been falling behind, but from that, I suppose this is me trying to say that I'm choosing to stay behind. I still have plenty to say. (Too much, even.) But rather than pushing forward to find more words, I think it's time I stay back to find myself.

Among whatever other concerns I have, I still love writing, and I couldn't imagine a life without it. But it's time for me to admit that I don't always know how to do it. At least not when the closest metaphor I can find to describe my mental state is a pile of broken ceramic plates, y'know?

Because respectively, moving away, and being alone, and smiling to strangers when your heart is shattering, that's all hard stuff.

Take this as a reminder, though, that it's okay if you need space to divert more of your attention to your wellbeing. It's okay if you don't have all the pieces together yet. And it's okay if you feel like you never will.

Because the world is only people
who act like they have a clue,
on who to be, on how to live,
on what to say or what to do.
But I have been and said and did,
I tried my best to just pull through.
So now I'll cry, I'll sing, I'll breathe
I'll just be saddened if I want to.


Here's to, I don't know, the better days to come,