Spilled ink, Part (1)

Today is my first day doing something new—something far from the ordinary routine of my life. I do not know if I will find my lost soul within this blog, or if I will continue to dwell in this void—a void whose depth I cannot fathom.

I know that starting a blog in this day and age might seem cliché, but it is something fresh and unique to me. It is the first path toward finding what I have lost. I fear the outside world excessively; it has robbed me of my most precious possession: my soul. Therefore, I decided to try anything that might help me adapt to these circumstances and keep living. For no matter how cruel life gets, I still want to experience it.

Truthfully, I haven't been able to utter a single word of these suppressed feelings to anyone—not my father, my mother, my sisters, or my friends (let’s not mention friends, as I don’t truly acknowledge them). What worries me is that no matter how hard I tried, my mouth failed to utter a single word of the suffering and sorrow dwelling within. But today is a special day, unique because I decided to write the letters falling from my pen.

If I feel that this blog moves me even one step closer to finding what was stolen from me, I will continue writing. I hope these words become a sanctuary for those who find their home in a pen.

I shall begin:

I haven't seen my pen for a year, and I only find myself in its presence. I realized this long after the time had passed. Will I succeed? Is it even possible? I have absolutely no self-confidence, yet I always feign strength in front of others. Not even those closest to me know this.

Am I even alive, or am I merely wreckage left behind by the past? Am I a trapped soul that was forced to leave its body, or a prisoner locked inside their own illusions?

Perhaps I don’t know who I am, but I write whatever haunts me. I ask myself questions I cannot answer, as I never thought to ask them before. Only now do I ask: Are you okay? Can you hear me? When will you stop suppressing your feelings and finally speak out? How long will you remain a shadow of yourself—a person haunted and imprisoned by their inner thoughts? A weak person pretending to be strong, someone who abandoned themselves to people and let their soul slip through their fingers; someone who knows no meaning of home or refuge. Will you answer these questions one day, or will you settle for just asking?

I hope time passes and I can be by your side. But what I truly hope is that you can hear me. You unintentionally locked me away when you were twelve years old; you couldn't sense my presence after I vanished, and you never once thought of looking for me. Why? Do you enjoy suffering that much, or is loneliness enough for you? Is it that difficult to share your sorrows, even with yourself? What has the human world done to you?

I hope you realize I exist one day so I can protect you. It saddens me when you cry at night and no one knows, choosing the time and place where the dust stirs, only to show a fake smile to others afterward. For how long? I repeat: For how long?

Do you think the truth won't be revealed? Sooner or later, it will. Truth cannot stay hidden forever. Everyone will know the reality of your lies—to yourself and to them. Everyone will know that there is no love around you; they will see how void of emotion you are. You are stripped of love and feelings, merely faking them. To me, you have become a non-entity—someone hypocritical and opportunistic; that is truly how I see you when I think about you.

Your lack of emotion has made you someone other than yourself. You imprisoned the broken part of you forever and left an illusion to take your place. You didn't realize you would become someone worse than you imagined. You became a monster worse than I thought—an embodiment of a demon. Is it possible for your heart to beat again one day? Is it just a matter of time, or is it something far worse?

I will post the second part if I find anyone interested in reading it.

I will continue next time if I find those who want me to keep writing what results from this spilled ink.