Craving

Do you ever wake up with a craving? One of those impulses that come and go every once in a while; the thing that pushes you forward to eat half a galon of icecream or, better yet, a jar of pickles all on your own, or a sudden want to call your mom, just to check on her.

Yeah, I get those too. I get them on cold, rainy days just like this one, when, like always, I'm surrounded by an echoing silence all by myself in a semi-dark room as I watch the raindrops trickle down the window. Usually, I'd find something to do, books to read, people to rant to about the weather and catch up on the new gossip with, but not on days like this. Because on days like this one, I always expect a craving: a brutal, heartbraking need to love. Because every now and again I remember that despite the cheerful smile and funny attitude I am in fact just... lonely. And that is enough to turn my soul inside out and empty me of all my joy of living.

I love people, I really do. Heck, whenever I got the chance, I used to hang onto any person that might've gotten close enough to me, even if it was just due to certain circumstances. And I used mentally converted the attention they offered me into the affection I sought to feed my soul on even if it meant lying to myself. I loved without asking permission, in my own way. But every time I did I'd scare them off and, in the best case, just come across as a creep that unnecessarily poured their life into a paper cup in front of them. Other times I'd be overwhelmed with the discovery of the new potential friend I'd found and back off myself and return to find that there was nobody to come back to anymore.

That's how I ended up like this... Misfit, misunderstood, broken, might I even say malfunctioning on a certain level, but full of desire for this one thing as necessary as air, as compulsory as any other fundamental element that makes up our lives as humans - love. I grew scared, because just like you, I was afraid of having my heart broken and I wished for the affection and care I had to give to be appreciated at their rightful value and I postponed giving them away again and again, waiting for a 'right moment' that wouldn't come. And that's how in the eyes of the world, I began giving off an uninterested, cold aura.

I waited for miracles to happen. I slowed down and looked around to find that I was all alone. Trying to change went by unnoticed - there were really not many people left that cared much about that, or about me for that matter, and the panic that came afterwards scattered away the remaining few. The world just never seemed so drained of colour and grim until then. It had never been so painful. And what are you left to do when you're left alone? You die. Yes, you die as a human, because that part of you that was responsable for any humane act is closed away, trapped, crushed and suffocated between the walls we call loneliness. So I died. A slow painful death that I havent even today fully acknowledged. Why? Because even from this dark pit where I see the world from, I still dream. That is all I have left anymore.

I decided to bury my dead self, and I did. Today I may walk on the streets, smiling to people, and they may not even know that all they are seeing is a shell. But everyone's happy showing off their shells and masks that the truth is unecessary.

But there is a load that I carry with me at all times that keeps getting heavier and heavier. I've kept every smile that I could have given, every true feeling that I could have shared, every hug and every kiss and I bare them inside of my heart. But it hurts. And every now and again, on rainy gloomy days, such as this one they seek to burst out of my chest and they would if only there was someone needy of them.

I am needy of someone that would need me. Someone who would listen, but never shut up, who would care for me, but not mind me, who would understand that I'm difficult, but have the patience to bring me back to life... Or simply just someone ready to receive everything I have to give.

You would think that at this rate, it's only a matter of time until  I go insane one day, but there's the swirl of life, the whirlwind of events that helps you forget for a while and aids to create the illusion that you are alright.

But then the rain comes and clears it all in your head: you are not alright. It washes away the fake beliefs and the beautiful masks you hold onto so dearly and it leaves you exposed with your old wounds bleeding out once more. And you know, you just know you can't cry enough so you let the rain heal you with its tears while you stop spinning in your sorrow and dream; dream of a new you, dream of how you would get there, dream of how... it would all be so easy if there were someone out there who loved you enough to help you... And it hurts...

Sometimes you wish it was all in your head. And people do that. They imagine the worst and make themselves believe the lie, just so they can wake up later and see that it isn't such an ugly world after all. All because it is so soothing to wake up to that sweet realisation that you were wrong. But no, you don't get that. You'd be teasing yourself, thinking it was all in your imagination when so many lonesome and hurting moments deeply carved in time stand witness to the truth of this moment. When all your memories tell the story of a suffering you that reached out their hand from their corner to anyone, begging for love...You cannot just deny that.

And you spend hours - because you've got them all to yourself - you spend hours trying to figure yourself out. You scan your soul over and over looking for that thing about you that makes you a no one. And every time it gets more imperfect, more hideous and all the more empty and the more you try to fix it, the less you want to see of it. You're at war with yourself and you can't even try to begin to change yourself alone because you need to be told you're beautiful every step of the way. But there's no one there at the other end of the road and you feel too weak to move on anymore. It's like that that you lose battle after battle and war after war and you struggle in vain to escape this feeling, like quicksand that's pulling you in.

It's like you live in a parallel world. No one out there knows you even exist. You know what you're missing out on and you feel like pulling your hair out  because you  can't demolish the walls that have built up around you on your own no matter how hard you hit them, no matter how deep you scratch because your hand will always shake and your mind will always hesitate at the thought of bringing down the only thing that might protect you. The only thing that may not allow for you to be hurt. You feel abandoned, you feel tiny, you feel like your heart is set aflame and you must learn to live with the pain. It is because of that pain that you know you're not dead yet, and that's probably the worst part of your entire story.

And sometimes... you cry. You cry because you know, you just know that sometimes not even the rain can cry enough for you. And although you try to build up your strength and thicken your skin, you slip a couple of tears as though by chance. Then you close  your wounded heart up and hide away the key safely where no one could ever find it and unlock the chest so full of regrets.

So you close it back up and wipe your tears, possibly even allow a sneaky smile to timidly take form on your cheeks as defiance towards fate. Because within, among all the chaos, a grain of hope is what you  base your life upon. And you close your eyes and you pray that the sun may rise again after the storm and shine for you as well.

And I pray... that maybe someday...

Someday...

The End

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