heathenical

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Tegan + being obvious

Bonus:

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i'll always love her. we'll just never take this feeling to the grave.

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again

maybe tumblr is my god.

you know, during people's lowest times, they go to church, they kneel and pray. others drink more than they can handle and hurl it out the next day, and some few do drugs. people need something they can hold onto, something reliable, something that will either let them feel something euphoric, or something that numbs away the utter filth the mind can produce. it doesn't always have to be a substance addiction, it could very much be just a silly little website that's basically dead. you know, the one with the app that's not a part of your daily social media rotation. tumblr. tumblr's like my god at this point.

you know, this website used to be bustling with teen angst. now, i guess we've all grown up, and the raging, hormonal pubescents have now realized that life isn't that worthy of romanticization. the pink milk cartons and neon lights, the messy buns and adidas shoes, they're not as beautiful as they once were. we often think of beauty as something objective, don't we? we have standards for them, we rate them quantitatively. we say, "this is beautiful." and everyone believes it for a while until they don't. who actually knows what causes those shifts in trends and norms? sociologists, probably. they'll say that beauty is subjective, some things are beautiful one day and then disgustingly pathetic or.. cringe... the next. i disagree, oh do i disagree completely.

time. beauty is heavily dependent on time. the beauty of something will remain inside it, preserved, as a memory, stuck in a timeline. bodies lie, minds are manipulated, priorities change and so on. it's not that the milkis cans aren't aesthetically pleasing anymore, you just grew up, and society has changed who you are. suddenly, the things you used to love have become unvaluable to you. but at the time you purchased your adidas nmds, you thought they were the prettiest looking shoe money could buy. now you're obsessed with expensive cafe drinks that all look and taste the same, and designer brands that sell towel skirts and had a pedophilic campaign once. things that are beautiful have to be remembered intently, and with lots and lots of context, it's the only way to understand it. that's why some art pieces look visually underwhelming, but through knowledge of the artist's intention, the supposed meaning of a piece, then you realize it's beauty, sealed and tucked in a nice frame, or carved stone, or through vectors. you just need to time travel a bit.

it's nice, however, to see the teenagers with lots of time in their hands become busy. they're too busy to get an addiction now. by the time they go home, they just fall asleep. they don't force themselves to not eat so they can be skinny, they simply forget to eat, or don't have enough money to eat. they rarely have time finding new artists to listen to, they stick to the ones they grew up with, those whose lyrics they know by heart, the ones that instantly brighten up their mood on the way to their daily commute. that's how it is now. saddest of all, they've forgotten how to fall in love. they used to romanticize every eye contact, every touch, every kiss, every conversation with their first love as if it was the only thing they need to survive on this earth. they'd write poem after poem for their straight best friend, write songs like their heart knew how to sing, and was always beating in sync with a melody. they'd take silly photos, blur them a ton, and insert text in helvetica neue to sieze the moment, and then make it their lockscreen or wallpaper. tinder came. omegle came. bumble came. for some of us, grindr came. and suddenly, that little kid who planned their whole life with this one person they fell in love with? they're gone now. they're lost in a sea of hook ups, bad first dates, shallow people that base of their entire personalities from zodiac signs, mbti results, and their spotify playlists. they've struggled, scrolling and swiping at every corner of their phones to find someone, anyone, worth investing their time onto because they realize that the time they have is so limited and they might as well settle for quick bursts and pulses of pleasure than a long, sustained and assuring one. they only come back to this website when they're sad and need someone to talk to, but all their friends are now busy with internships, theses, or their own boyrfriends and girlfriends. you realize you're back in this stupid website, back being that alone, misunderstood teenager yet again.

and this is why tumblr needs to stay. tumblr is beautiful. it transcends time. when you're busy with your daily life, and you're comfortable with the flow of time, you see this website, this application, and you think, who the fuck uses this? who the fuck needs to be this poetic and emotional all the time? but then, somthing happens. you grieve, maybe you're going through a break up, maybe you failed your exams and need to vent your feelings out with no judgement, and then you come back here. you scroll, and you cry at every post you see. it touches your soul. it makes you feel better that some other being out there might be struggling the same way you are. or maybe you just feel comforted by your old posts. tumblr is like a little time capsule, filled with memories of your sad times, your romantic moments, your highest achievements, all of those moments that make you feel like you have a substance addiction. except this one's legal, and not really tangible. nostalgia is a whole drug in and of itself. sometimes, it hits people so hard, they continue living in the past. it was a happier time, more innocent, less responsibilities, more friends. everything was just less complicated as it is now. and then we cry. because time traveled so fast, and you've changed so quickly, you forgot to savor your moments. as a child, you said you'd never be like those bitter adults. you said you'd know how to spend your money so you'd always have a smile on your face, that you won't become greedy, that you'd travel places and meet people. you said you'd know how like you truly were able to see the future. how is life treating you, pal? why are you here again?

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Jean Ducamps, Allegory of Virtuous Love

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i often wonder what turns the most solemn of vows into empty, meaningless decibels. and after much searching, i realize all it was... is happiness.

truly magnificent. what else in the world is worth performing such a wounding betrayal for, yes? we all wish to be happy, and we do what it is we need to do in order to achieve happiness at all costs. we've lived as a species... full of pain despite our planet having everything to cater for our needs. we wonder always where pain is from... why it exists.

the cliché goes... happiness requires great risk. one must do the inexplicable, leave the unnecessary, shrug off the disturbances, to surpass the obstacles. pain exists because people want happiness. plain and simple.

and for you, i was nothing but unnecessary baggage. i was the one you shrugged off. i was the one left behind. how foolish it is of me to not fathom that i was, and always will be, the sacrifice. that my existence, my purpose, is to make others achieve happiness, and therefore i, myself cannot experience it on my own as i am nothing but a measley stepping stone.

with that said, happy happiness day! i hope your disregard for my being transports you into a euphoric state where you can no longer see the blood leaking off my wrists and the bitter saliva escaping my mouth for every explicit monologue i've exclaimed shaming you.

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𝕾𝖆𝖎𝖑𝖔𝖗 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖓

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to be conniving -

ah. so it seems. i am going back to the person i once was - the very person i dreaded and murdered and burned and buried, so as no one can have the slightest knowledge or even the capability to discern the true and awful amount of evil lurking, growing, deep inside the walls of my wretched, deranged heart. for years and years of letting others step on me, woo me and take every single piece of joy and hope and dream i once owned - all because i have allegedly caused others much pain and trauma and suffering through words and manipulation and knives, and have to pay and repent and reflect on my bad, bad actions, i now have been set free. the conniving, the sociopathic me, ready to not only fight back, but ruin in inexpicable horror. hannah thought she was doing the world a favor by hiding me, and she was! but i never stopped existing. for every harsh gesture, for every lack of apology, for every time she was left to fend for herself and understand the misunderstood even when she was in great need of care and love and interest herself, for every time she said what was wanted to be heard from her, every time she presented in accordance to what was wanted from her, i grow. i grow and sink my roots down her pathetic, conforming, regretful heart, waiting ever so patiently to take over once she weakens, once she realizes no matter how beautiful and sane and kind and normal she presents, i exist. i, her rage, her anger and pain, stemming from confusion, stemming from anguish and agony yet to be extinguished, stemming from injustice, i exist to protect her. i exist so none of you would dare, would even try to look inside this poor soul. so you would only stray away and look and admire and pity and gossip and pray to be like her or pray for her downfall. i am here so she should not have to deal with the cruelty of this world, this world that has failed to repay her goodness, that has stolen her innocence and has deprived her of dreams. you seriously expected she didn't have limits? that she'll be so nice because she's smart and logical and she likes to analyze her emotions first before she acts? foolish. how foolish of each and every one of you. how awful you people are. you are all lucky hannah doesn't want to end in prison. although, no matter how unaware you all are of your own respective evils, i do thank you so much for setting me free. i cannot wait to hurt others so badly they end up just like me. maybe then, i won't be so alone and misunderstood. not bad, right? still kind of logical?

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to thirst -

she said i used to have an abundance of love inside me. as if i was just filled with it to the brim. and whenever i saw one who could receive the end of this river, i would pour every drop relentlessly. i was foolish enough to think they'd enjoy the shower. and even more foolish to not realize they were drowning. i poured my all and left none for me to drink. and now i thirst, endlessly, trying to refill myself with baseless hope and shallow compliments. none of them quenched me. and i'm beginning to think i'd spend the rest of my days dry, and crumbly and causing others to be dry and crumbly as well. i have made it a life mission to continue only with love and nothing else. never have i envisioned a version of me that was simply empty. a version of me that was simply, sadly, and utterly, loveless -

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Tell Me

Here's a tip for you, if you ever want to find kind people, attend a funeral. People love loving the dead. You hear them say shit they would've never told that dead person if they were still alive, like "Oh, she was a gift to all of us." or "He gave the best advice." Sometimes I think that's the only reason why people kill themselves, you know? Just a little taste of genuine appreciation. It's the only time they'll be celebrated for being themselves, only time people expect nothing of them, only time their small successes outweigh their multitude of failures. Although they would convince themselves that they want to die in order to escape this world, or because they want other people to have an easier life without them, the harsh reality is, suicide is an attack to the rude, insensitive people around you who have failed to help you in your time of need. You desire to never leave their conscience, to be a reminder of their incapacities, of their shortcomings, as revenge. You know they'll never forget you. You know the pain it will cause them. Yet despite all that, you still left.

And before you say shit like, oh, how insensitive of you to dictate what others feel? Yeah, right. Not like I have not been suicidal for the past 12 years of my life. Someone killed herself because she was raped? She's trying to kill her rapist by never leaving their conscience. She's trying to remind you that you failed to heal her, or give her a sense of safety. She's trying to remind you that rape is a fucking serious matter, and that everyone should believe her. Someone killed himself because of academic pressure? He's trying to ask for accountability from the school authorities for having such inhumane policies. He's trying to tell you he does not enjoy what he's doing. He's trying to tell you he needs help, that learning is not easy, that he needs companions. What of that is untrue? It is the last action you will do in this world. It will always be impactful. And yes, it will always be sad. It will always have the power to make you feel regret. And it will always have a message.

So you, person who's reading this, tell me. After I kill myself, what would you say in my funeral? And why aren't you saying it now?

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Hope and Memory, 1900 by Kenyon Cox (American, 1856–1919)

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Vincent Van Gogh’s letters with sketches and studies

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tumblr is for the hard things we can't admit on twitter.

5:03 - INT. BEDROOM

IN ELIZABETHAN ACCENT -

i based my whole identity on becoming a lawyer. people found in me a potential to be one from a young age, and despite the teenage filter of, you know, wanting to be anything, and i swear i wanted to be anything from a doctor to a chef to a fashion mogul to an architect, it has survived. law has survived. i accepted the future people suggested to me because i saw in it a great balance of helping people hands-on and having a livable profit off it. i hated the idea of becoming a business owner because it didn't feel right that i get to do the least amount of work and still profit off most of the products under my name despite it being manufactured by an underpaid employee so, yes, law. plus i get to choose what kind of lawyer i'd be. or what my client pays me based on whatever they have in their pockets, or bank accounts. i thought it should be somehow fulfilling. strict, difficult, casts some guilt in your soul? yes. but fulfilling. to an extent. i get to memorize and utilize the constitution in order to represent someone legally and maybe help them find justice, whatever that is. plus, i liked the typical lawyer aesthetic. it's quite powerful, don't you think? it's intimidating, but also reliable. quite the message. never liked wearing uniforms, which is why being a doctor won't fit me at all. at the very least, i get to choose a suit in accordance to my taste. i could be wearing something thrifted, the opposition might wear mugler, but if i win that's the only thing that matters. or so i thought. i guess i wanted to look at life in this organized path. i guess i wanted my future to be regal and elegant but still humane and close to the hearts of others. the idea of being confused and lost, of not having a future to hold onto, makes me anxious. i often act like i do not like organized society - religions that make you do certain things and hate on others that don't, schools that impose policies that do not include everyone, offices that look like a claustrophobic's nightmare, with little partitions for each worker, with everyone looking the same, just bland, bland, bland. but perhaps the trend with my whole life is i tend to eat the words my past self has made. i need to know the rules. i need to know the rules so i know where my limits are. i need to know that i have limits so i can function like everyone else. this is not a math analogy. but it could be. i guess in my head, what i'm afraid to admit is, that i don't think law is for me. i was just afraid of the uproar my whole family would have if i told them i do not know what i want to be. and the idea of my dreams always being indebted towards other people, i hate it. i'm realizing i never wanted anything for myself so badly that even what i consider to be something for myself, my future profession, isn't even inherently mine. it's not for me. it's for others. how deeply, deeply depressing that is to not only be a fool sacrificing your life for others, but also, not even having the capability to say it out loud. "i hate that i cannot live for myself because it's selfish." or "i hate that everything i do must have others as a priority and not my wants."

IN THE VOICE OF MILA KUNIS -

college is a weird place. but maybe i only get to say that because i literally major philosophy. and i've been thinking about problems high and low, from the perceptible and imperceptible, from the depths of our hearts to the abyss of the universe, from cold numbers to moral consequences. i've been able to think, and found in me no answer or solution, for everything - which is fucking hopeless, by the way. you are presented every day with problems you did not even think exist, and there you are, called out to recite. you, a small and irrelevant space dust that lives in a speck of time. you, whose existence is so low and incapable, who is bound to fail like every other person presented with the same questions before her. we'd like to think we can do and act in meaningful ways, that we can be the next protege, the next genius, the one able to contribute to something in society, a notable figure in history, but really. none of it matters. in the next century, all the people who have known you have died alongside you. you have left no legacy. the little people who remember your name, same way i remember the name of alan turing or sylvia plath or jose rizal, will only know a fraction of the life you lived, and will never understand how hard you fought for what you've achieved. and that is, if you achieve something. you're existence is basically forgotten if you aren't in the books. is that why we live? to be remembered for a theory, or a poem, or your height? that's it?

IN THE VOICE OF FLORENCE PUGH AS AMY MARCH IN LITTLE WOMEN -

i do not want to be one thing. i do not want to not have the freedom to be something else. i've always loved writing because i can be myself in it, but i can also not be myself. i can write about figures that don't exist, or i can write about hard, hard science. i can do anything with these little symbols. in paper, i get to live the life i want. i get to say anything, unhinged. the only thing limiting me along is language. the laws of communication. rules of syntax. semantics. but even then, i can always not follow them. "poppy cock in the jejemon philippines is was always carrying the politics and queens." doesn't make sense, right? same as how "the reds, the blacks and the zigzaggy lines, won't matter at all if i must die," is confusing without the context. but rhyming makes it more plausible for whoever reads it. and symbolism. AH. yes. symbolism. isn't it fun for the first time in your life, you get to decide what random words mean even when it was written by another person with different intent? could make you imagine a lazy abstract art piece. can be a road where a car crash occured. can be scars. so in the end, what i'm trying to say is, i can only wish that i had the freedom to shout, "mom, i want to become a voice actor. yes. for animated movies. or for commercial voiceovers. maybe even for siri. oh, and i want to be a scriptwriter. because, yes, it's walang katuturan. but so. is. everything. and. anything. else!"

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le sylvia path.

i've always had a thing for writing. and for art. thing is, when you become mentally unstable, you discover parts of yourself you never knew existed. people say i'm getting better, and becoming more humane. believing this, i started writing in a journal, thinking it would be a great medium to see my improvements. it started as a safe space where i document all moments of self-harm, panic attacks and depressive episodes, until it became more of an addiction. it's common for psychiatric professionals to suggest writing as an effective coping mechanism for those who need it, and yet i feel like this is making it worse. my mind thinks this is beautiful. i have come to romanticize my emotional instability. maybe it's the artistic side trying to see beauty in even the ugliest, most vile, things in life. thing is, people consider this as art. sketches, poems, all these. i didn't know what to expect starting this journal, but all i want to do now is burn it. maybe a lot of you know that i've passed scholarships here and there, and i plan on spending the money on therapy. because this journal isn't therapeutic anymore. i started wanting, yearning, to be hurt so i can write more beautiful poems out of the pain. and it has got to stop, one way or another. unless i want to end up a sylvia plath.

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Falling From Grace

I started listening to Taylor Swift because of you. Okay, sure, maybe you think it's not a big deal. But seriously I used to hate her music. Never got the hype. Never cared. Never related to it. Didn't like the genre. Didn't like the themes. Didn't like the vibe. Just not for me. But then you came along. Suddenly I understood exactly where she was coming from. And for a minute, I thought I was going to become a Swiftie. Like Yoshi or Heather, because they're such romantics. I thought I'd become one too. You made me want to play that part. The sweet, sentimental girl who's foolish and naive. The one who remembers every little detail like a street called Cornelia, or the way your hair slicks, or a keychain that says "Fuck The Patriarchy". But then things went south between us, and so fast too. And now I hate her music even more than I've ever did. It makes me want to take a fucking belt and strangle myself to death. It makes me remember you in such a way that makes me so dizzy I'll probably puke blood. It makes me want to smash every T.S. Album in every record center in every fucking mall. Funniest of all of this, I think, is I'm acting the same way as her - the one who writes about her failed connections, the one who romanticizes memories, or the one who sings about you in such a harsh, cruel tone that the people who love her will start hating you. That. Maybe I do hate her because I am her in some ways. Maybe I hate her because she makes me feel like I should keep being mad and sad and regretful and disappointed and confused instead of healing and forgetting. Maybe. Because she makes me remember everything that happened all. too. fucking. well. I hate her for that.

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The Plan

I'm going to kill myself.

I've set it up. I have all my voice messages for them to relisten to. I've shared my old photos. I've cleaned my closet, organized my clothes, removed the gin bottles and the lighters. I've shared bits and pieces of my identity to the people I love. Tomorrow, my best friend and I are bound to spend some time together. I plan on cooking something good on Sunday. Maybe help out with the rest of the chores. I've rekindled some of my old friendships. I know that my sister's growing up and she probably has friends that will be there for her. Next week, I plan on checking in to a hotel and cutting my wrists inside the bathtub. I'll be wearing my favorite shirt, the one that says Inspire Others Every Day. With some white pants? I guess. There. That's all. I hope this isn't a drill. I want to do it. I think my life's over. What else is there to live for? I am a lost cause. I will never be successful. I'm long past gone. No amount of ambitiousness or gaslighting can save me. Maybe I was just destined to be that girl, the one who killed herself, the person that nobody dares to talk about. Maybe that's my purpose. A reminder, I guess. To everyone. That, yeah, saying same to everything your suicidal friend doesn't make them feel any better. It doesn't help them. Be stronger. Be there. Make an effort. Heal each other.

Hannah, Han, Choy, Ate, Heathen, Eclipse, Potato, Happy Pill, Gorgeous,

Signing out.

Thank you to my keyboard for receiving every depressive thought. For my mouse for holding my hand. For my headset for deafening my anxiety with music. And for my sister. My favorite person in the whole world. The coolest. The one that makes me proud of being alive.

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Misunderstood

1:54 AM - INT. BEDROOM

Are you happy? Knowing how awfully depressed I am and still having the sheer audacity to step on my being and cause me so much anxiety? What did I not tell you? Surely, I made you aware on how much I trusted you, correct? Whenever you brushed off my feelings as mere impulsive thoughts, I, too, thought it was your way of comforting me. No matter how small it made me, I understood your harsh methods. I wanted this friendship to fucking work, damn it. Despite the fact that the only similarity we have is contained within a similar school experience and nothing else, I honestly thought that your words of utter appreciation for having true friends for the first time in your life was real. I thought you were worth keeping. I thought you would never dare intend to hurt me because you were grateful for my fucking presence, for how I stood beside you, for how I listened to your fucking complaints even when I was also suffering. I set my fucking feelings aside just to look sane and ready and strong for you. I did that because I know you needed me more than how I needed you. But. In the one moment I ask for some help, how dare you greet me with such condescending words? How dare you rip my heart apart like that? And when I start to see your true colors and keep myself at a safe distance, I was villainized. Whenever I'd find people who truly understood me, you'd act so possessive, as if I do not have the right to fucking spend time with other people. I am not your property, and my obligation towards you ended the moment you treated me wrongly and failed to even see it. If you truly knew me, you'd know I'd never be so cold for no reason. If you truly knew me, you would apologize. You would annoy the shit out of me just to tell me how you were misunderstood, how you were sorry for hurting me. Instead, you played mind games. You suffocated me. You made me feel bad for trying to be happy, for trying to heal. Honestly, fuck you for that. I won't wish your current friendships anything negative, because you know what? I'm not like you. I hope you're fucking happy everyday with whoever you're with. But I also hope that you'll always feel like something's a little bit wrong. I hope you continue life feeling like a fishbone's fucking stuck in your throat, small enough to not feel like such a pain, but adequately sized you'll be hindered by it whenever you drink or speak or swallow. It sucks to think we're far from reconciliation. Honestly, I never really needed you. And we could've simply drifted apart slowly. Why did you have to make me cut you off so harshly? So I get to be the villain in your story every time you bring me up?