The One About the Piece.

Artists have this way of presenting their work as if they rip their heart out from their chest and present it to their audience as if to say, "here, take a piece of me." 

It is in that way that they get to touch their audience, convey their message, and share their passion.

There was a time when I'd like to think I am one of those people. There was a time when I could carefully craft my work as if I am slowly opening up my chest and delicately take my heart out and put it on every piece I make. But lately I realized that, that wasn't really the reason why I am passionate about writing. 

I write because that's the only way for me to face my own demons, to cope with the darkness hiding within me. I write not for the sake of ripping my heart out and serve it on a silver platter. I write because it's the only way for me to keep that heart intact and not rip it into pieces. 

The other day I turned 21 and I spent the entire day thinking how and why I should keep those pieces together. I spent my birthday alone in the corner of the library and it was on my way home when I realized, wouldn't it be easier to let all those pieces go?

So I stood at the edge of the train platform. Just one step and it's all over. But I didn't do it. I just waited for that train to arrive and feel the wind touched my face. It was fucking exhilarating as it was depressing.

Because I am. Struggling with depression. For the last two and a half years. 

There were days that getting out of bed is a fucking feat that I need to conquer. There are nights that I am balled at the corner of my room, hugging my knees, shaking, afraid to move because if I do, I dont know what will happen. 

This is something that I am not proud of. This is something that only a few people knew about. This is something that I have managed to keep until I know no one is there to hear the sobbing, the pain, and the darkness that eats me alive. This is something that I hide beneath the smiles, the laughter, the motivational quotes, the school achievements, the high GPAs, the admission letter from one of the most prominent universities in the world stage, the volunteer works, and the intricate to-do list.

I figured that maybe if I focus my time on those, I wouldn't feel this way. I wouldn't feel as shitty as this. I wouldn't dwell with the monsters. But the thing is, I am my own monster and it's hard to fight your own demons when you both know your strengths and weaknesses.

I am blessed. I have everything that I need and the people I love and I know it is a fucked up thing to have a sorry ass with everything else in your life are almost perfect and yet there you are, there I am, barely getting by. I shouldn't feel this way, right? But I do and it's hard to explain and understand. Hell, if I know the answers I wouldn't be like this in the first place.

But know I'd like to try. I want to get better. I want to put everything behind. And the first step on doing that is to go back here. To remind myself that there was a time when life is simple and I could write with no inhibitions and to just let everything out. To remind myself that maybe I still have a shot at this thing called life. Maybe if I try hard enough, maybe if I slow down and adjust my perspective and I could apply all the advice and words of wisdom I keep telling everyone, I'd be able to find that bliss in the midst of chaos.

And so here I am, writing. Not to serve my heart on a silver platter but hoping to take my heart back and own it again. To have it tucked in safely in my chest beating with passion and inspiration. So that maybe, maybe someday I'll be able to be one of those writers that could carefully craft my work, present it and say,

here, I'm ready to give you a piece of me.