ninjamarija

[ninjamarija]

i sit

yelping silently in an agony of thoughts

my mind fails to grasp the perfect words to describe

contrary to how it easily, used to

all i could think of

as a tinker with my red switch keyboard

holding an ocean of colors

blinking before my eyes

are just

agony

and longing

for whatever it was, whatever once was, inside of me, burning sempiternally;

a net of precision

capturing the right words

in a pond of thoughts stirred and fertilized

by adhd.

all of these

that im saying

are just

a bowl

of phrase,

sentences,

random thoughts

-- an alphabet soup

longing to warm my freezing brain

enough to ignite

what once burned within

sempiternally.

[ninjamarija]

Hide and seek master

[ninjamarija]

paul, i've always wished i had her life

the one with decorated desks

and not decimated dreams

but if being me

would mean

i'd get to be loved by you

i wouldn't trade my life for anything else.

i love you. you deserve a wonderful life ahead of you, and i'm more than willing to be with you in your journey, love.

teen no more but still, and will always be, my baby.

happy birthday to my other half. I will always choose to live and see what the future has in store for us. every moment with you is worthwhile, every second feels euphoric.

thanks for existing!

and above all, thanks for making me want to exist.

here's to making more memories with you in the fresh chapter of your life, and here's to the life we'll build together for eternity.

my twin flame, my soulmate, my paul, my everything.

i love you.

[ninjamarija]

i'm so inlove with you, paul - more than a heartbreak's worth of fear, an abuse's worth of trauma, and life's worth of uncertainty.

the only certain, uncertain thing

i'll for sure know

is how fast this heart can beat

at the first thought of your name

or at the initial touch that unleashes the feeling of your warmth.

and while the use of these words

may have been a staple in the movies

i wish to tell you

they are certainly what i feel

and that

the end of this love

that i have for you

is the most certainly uncertain thing

i will ever come to know

[ninjamarija]

hello baby

[ninjamarija]

always you and me against the world.

[ninjamarija]

god knows

how guilty she must have been

from breaking the record

of 9 months being clean

[ninjamarija]

the best there is

to feel alive once again

is to smell the rust and feel the warmth

my ever kind enough wrists wholeheartedly offer.

[ninjamarija]

Recently, I've come across a multitude of love letters sent by ex-lovers in social media. Ones who would make other people resting outside the point of tangency, drool. Words adorned with thorns that would reopen supposed-to-be-healed wounds.

And as much as I could have mourned with this reappealing hearts by minding how beautifully written these prose and letters were, it would make me a liar.

I have not felt pain to a degree that's enough to offer them sympathy. Maybe because I did have an ex like that - someone whose words were flamboyant and enticing; whose metaphors are as good as fiction - only because that was all they were.

After him, there's a guy who suck at words.

He consistently failed to tell me what he genuinely felt. He almost never delivered his points well. He was weak at getting his points across in conversations that have meant life and death.

He stuttered in circumstances that were do-or-die's.

He was not a great speaker. Not even a great writter, either.

In fact, in totality, he was not a good communicator.

But what he was good at, was love.

He showed what his toungue couldn't tell.

He did what his mouth couldn't whisper.

Whatever his hands couldn't write, he made real.

Whatever his fingers couldn't type, he sent me through a song.

Needless to say, he loved me the right ways even on the wrong times. With little words and brimming courage; he tamed me in a blink of an eye.

Without him trying. Without him knowing.

And while I struggled uncovering his similes at first because I admit, I wanted metaphors; somehow, along the way I knew that what he was giving me now, is what I rightfully deserve.

When I wanted figures of speech, he gave me straightforward narratives.

And that was what I deserved. Bold, genuine, and frank promises; not empty pledges enclosed in creatively worded metaphors.

I was so used to decoding half-hearted promises, I overlooked appreciating plain yet genuine claims of love.

Truly, there are people who would love you in silence.

Those who would fail to tell you perfectly and concisely what they feel.

But they would be excellent in expression.

And you wouldn't need to here those three words from them: because with how they act, you are already abundant in assurance.

They need not send you long paragraphs, nor a hundred pile of poems, because their presence alone would speak volumes about how they truly feel.

Indeed, there are people who will love you in silence. But the certainty provided by their sincerity would be immeasurable; and I would forever thank the heavens for that.

Because today, I am certain;  that when I speak of love, I speak of him.

[ninjamarija]

can i be blamed for wanting nothing else but peace

but make it endless

make it permanent

with eyes closed and lungs at rest

my heart never needing to worry about palpitations

my pockets never needing to worry about pennies

with my family having enough dimes

to pay the crimes that other people commit

at the expense of a first daughter

who never really know how to express pain

or project weakness

to a hopeful few and a doubtful many

can i be blamed

for not knowing what to write, and how to write again

for making a failed attempt to imitate a prose

maybe poetry, maybe essay, maybe anecdote

on my last shot of fixing how i write - which was maimed by everyone who wanted me to fit their narrative

of what is best and worthy

of what is right and truly me

can i be blamed

- should i be blamed

for all i know

is that

even if i wasn't the one to blame

i'd blame myself anyway.

and people would say

it would be such a shame

to let the world dictate me what to feel about myself

to take the blame for the product of this chaotic society

trust me

i swear i wouldnt anymore

only if i

get the peace that i deserve

- because only then will i get to stop blaming myself.

[ninjamarija]

i just can't help but think

was it really a waste of a perfectly good clean wrist

or did these wrists deserve what they've been put through

all this time, for being selfish and a nervous wreck

a pathetic excuse of a human being living a decently fucked up life?

[ninjamarija]

My room is less of 'me' and more of "she".

She WAS me, but I am not her anymore.

So here's to changes I was glad I did not take. Tomorrow, you shall face the sun.

Here's to chances I bailed on. Tomorrow, you shall resurface.

Here's to clutter that I thought, mattered more. Tomorrow, you shall be mere garbage I forgot to throw out.

My room is full of things that made me who I was; but I am not who I was anymore.

To confine myself with my standards then would be an insult to my bravery to venture.

To box myself with my achievements then would restrain me from appreciating what I've been winning at now - living.

The real life. Outside School and acads and endless orgworks and praises.

This is who I am now, and my greatest achievement so far?

Living.

The hardest, thus probably the greatest thing, that I made happen.

[ninjamarija]

It's hard to be a sucker for nostalgia.

I have always been unused to change.

In fact, I hate it.

I hate unfamiliar sheets on a gloomy day.

I loathe a different feel of a new fabric on my skin.

I didn't like the clutch of a new pair of glasses.

I never really appreciated new pillows.

I disliked the scent of new perfumes.

I only want what I had and never did I yearn for something new, something foreign.

I only liked something 'new' when I did not have it first.

A new bag that didn't look like anything I had before.

A new car - given that I have never even driven one.

At rare times, maybe I liked 'new' things.

New phone when the one I'm using looks battered.

New hoodies to make myself warmer on gloomy days.

New hair colors to play with.

New paint.

New phone case.

Still, on these rare cases I never found myself disregarding my "old" pals. I keep them tucked, always organized, still fresh and clean, on my makeshift headboard organizer. At times I put them on display on a rack of memory keeper.

I always had a love-hate relationship with interchanging the old with the new. I am a sucker for nostalgia, and it didn't help to have a soft spot for sentimental value. You can tell this from knowing I have fully consumed by 128gb phone storage, and two 15gb google drive cloud. Not to mention I have all my old phones filled with pictures and other knick knacks I try so hard to get rid of, but can't.

At night, I hate myself. For never wanting change and for always settling. I let this gobble me up into a bubble that thickens over time, which gets hard to burst as it did. Honestly, maybe I didn't want to burst it either, with the fear of getting things out of control and being exposed to a reality I am unfamiliar with.

I hate starting over when I feel like I've already built an empire and settled - even when I know there is a whole universe waiting to be called mine.

I hate things that could give me a better life and it took me so long before I finally realized.

Because knowing the reason sucks.

It sucks big time to learn that I only hate a better life because I fear I do not deserve it, or someone else deserves it more than I do.

I only hate a better life because I am aware that it comes with a bigger price, a more strenuous effort of being lived.

I hate a better life because I got used to being sad and fucked up and I'll always find a way to mess things because I've come to terms with the so-called fact that I always deserved less.

I love myself. I finally do, but there is something at the back of my mind that refrains from letting the voices go.

The voices that yell I am nothing

The voices that yell I should settle.

The voices that yell for compromise.

The voices that yell fear.

The voices that sung trauma.

The voices that sung phobia.

The voices that sung. Kill. your. Fucking. Self. in a manner that's on beat and rhythmically fucking pleasing.

Kill. Your. Fucking. Self.

Kill. Your. Fucking. Self.

Waste no time in crying just KILL. YOUR. FUCKING. SELF.

I hate them. I hate everything about me at this point.

Above all, I hate that I fear change.

But that has to end today.

I must come into terms that life is indefinite, and it is what I make it to be.

Change...

is just right around the corner.

and in the corner shall it stay.

because it belongs there.

and I should finally fucking accept that.

I am a sucker for nostalgia

but there is more things to look forward to in the future

and I must let things fucking be.

[ninjamarija]

“Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?”

—

[ninjamarija]

there's too much of you in my heart that i felt incomplete when you left.

Yesterday, I opened my closet to declutter after losing 20 pounds from an academic trauma. One of the multitude that tore my down for the past year.

Then, I saw your shirt, pretty washed up even by being left untouched. I never had the courage to wear it again, for it meant feeling your arms cradling me.

and it would not feel right - to long for a presence I am no longer entitled with.

So I tuck it inside the corners of the wooden cabinet. Wishing it rids of the memories the same way it tampered the familiar smell that clung unto the black piece of cloth.

I said to myself, then, that maybe I should leave the closet untouched. I am not ready to confront the longing and regret that I have in my bones.

Instead, I walked towards the cranky metal of memoirs that I've been keeling for two years now. The white cube labelled "coffee" houses no beans, though. It is the home for the bunch of trinkets I kept over the years - fast food receipts tallying most of what's inside. I fixed them neat at tucked all tight, clumsily letting a stainless box fall during the process.

inside of it were memories of you. two black polaroids representing jet black hearts.

funny, i laughed to myself. i was young, perfectly naive. dreamy, and stubborn. picking those up, i wiped the dusts that endangers the quality of the films and fixed them flawlessly back to where it was priorly affixed.

i shrugged and went on with fixing my art materials instead. again, i laughed at the thought of you - acrylic paint in a plastic of blue.

i sighed. I guess there's no running from my reality.

there is, indeed, too much of you in my heart before that i felt incomplete when you left.

Maybe that was why I have always found it hard to exclude you fron my being.

and the sad truth is that who i was, and what i currently am is integrated with what we were too. Erasing the trails of you and me would mean scraping a quarter of the person that i am - and i am never willing to compromise myself in exchange of the liberty of the troubled times.

I was mine first, before I was yours. I was me first, before I was a part of us. I am not losing myself just to entirely let go of you. I deserve better than just trying to forget.

I wss mine first... I repeat as I draw in a deep breath as it got me thinking.

Could it be?

Maybe.. it wasn't because I have too much of you in my heart that I felt incomplete when you left.

Maybe it was because I've shared too much of me and my heart with you that i feel less of me, when you left.

Maybe there wasn't 'more' of you in my heart. There was just 'less' of me, as I gave it away.

now, there is too much of you in my life that i have a hard time tidying things up even when i'm no longer sad.

i sigh yet again.

there was too much of me that you took away.

and i guess, that is why i feel empty.

[ninjamarija]

Kapag hinalikan kita...

Hindi basta-basta ang isang labi. Nais kong maintindihan mong ang bawat arko nito ay may dahilan. Ang bawat oryentasyon ng ngisi ay may kaakibat na patutunguhan. Hindi basta basta ang labi. Hindi lamang ito isang instrumentong panimula sa daluyang papasok sa katawan; o isang obrang  nakapagkakandili ng kaluluwang sugatan. May kakaibang sikolohiya ang mga labi, at madalas ay nabibigkis at nakukubli sila.

Kaya't kapag hinalikan kita, huwag mo sanang iisiping tawag lang nang laman ang nagbadya. Insulto sa akin ang mga katagang umaray lamang ako sa pagalab ng apoy, na ang pagsinghap ay sa diin lamang ng pagbaon ng enerhiya mo sa aking balat.

Madaling magbitaw ng mga salita. Ngunit kay hirap magpasadya ng pagkapit kung iaasa mo lamang sakanila. Kaya hahalikan kita. Upang masiil sa'yo ang katotohanang ibig kong iparating. Upang maibulong ko sayong labi ang mga kataga kong tinangay ng hangin.

Sana'y naiintindihan mo na.

Na kapag hinalikan kita, ang nais ko ay pumikit ka. Hindi ko kailangan ng mapungay mong mga mata. Sapat na ang labi nating magsasalin ng tahimik nating mga hinaing.

Kapag hinalikan kita, ang nais ko ay manghina ka. Hindi ko kailangan ng kahit anong pagkagang. Hindi ko nais pabigatin ang paghinga mo.

Kapag hinalikan kita, ang nais ko ay damhin mo ang talinghagang pinupwersa ng mga labi ko - ang mga katagang hindi ko kayang bitawan sa tinig na kaya mong marinig, kaya't ipapaintindi ko sayo sa paraang maaring mong dinggin, kahit na alam kong hindi mo kayang saliksikin kung ano nga ba ang nais kong iparating.

Bukas, makalawa, sana'y maintindihan mo na. Kapag nangyari 'iyo'y muli, hahalikan kita.

Ngunit, sa pagkakataong ito: walang bulong. Walang talinhaga, dahil sa wakas ay napagtatanto mo na ang ibig kong sabihin

kapag hinalikan kita.

[ninjamarija]

ANOTHER BIRTHDAY BLOG THAT'S BURRIED IN MY DRAFTS. I only turn 18 once so I'll be posting this albeit overdue.

--

I used to think birthday mornings were the hardest to wake up to. It's the matter of wanting to know who forgets to remember. It was always frightening to know who remembers to forget, because somehow that means insignificance.

And I never want to be insignificant.

I want to be remarkable, and priceless; I wanted a legacy that lived. I wanted to be a living legacy.

Birthday mornings always come to be a hindrance to that. Like a needle that continuously bursts my bubble, I get anxious under the facade of actually not giving a fuck on who remembers and who doesn't. It creeps under my skin and it nests itself onto my heart, then I lose composure. I lose my mask. I lose optimism. Every goes to a downward spiral of disappointments; a domino effect of dissonance that lingered.

And I hate it, I knew just the best way to end it. and that is - to prevent another birthday. to stop another year. to hold another breathe, until the oxygen escapes my lungs and it gets tired of trying to comeback.

i knew how to stop it.

all it takes is a birthday stopper. oh how i wish it could be real.