Sometimes I fear that I'm too broken for anyone. Too broken for anyone to love, and that loving me is a sin. Loving me is choosing the unknown path, the Unexplored.

But loving me is easy, I know. I'm supposedly everything a guy looks for.

But beneath that veneer are troubling layers of problems, layers that penetrate too deep and which hurt too badly. 

And I don't know if any guy will eventually be able to see all those layers, and see me through all those layers. 

Loving me is an addiction, like cocaine. It's easy to get hooked, but once you're in it, you realise that its way too harmful for you, but you can't get out of it. 

Loving me is dangerous, is difficult and its a challenge. I'm an abnormal girl, a girl whom you love because you see that treasured possession at the end of the tunnel, and you grope for it, but have no lead, no direction. 

Loving me is a challenge. Normal girls aren't a challenge. But loving me is. And I can't help it, because I don't know myself, either. 

And you took up the challenge. 

Will you fight on? 

Soporific

So much frustration. So much of this stress.
It's times like this, when I'm juggling 2 1500 word thesis papers, 1 draft, 2 tutorials and umpteen number of readings that I really miss the days before uni. The times I worked, where I could just end work and completely stone.. until work began again the next morning. Even today, sometimes when I close my eyes and let my mind wander, my mind inevitably drifts back to the happier times of this year- the kindergarten, my work place (especially the canteen where we ate), going out with Chu and just doing the most random of things. Back then when I had so much time that we literally ran out of places to visit on weekends. 
It's times like this when I realise I haven't kept in touch with a lot of people for a very long time. The number of unanswered Whatsapp messages, texts, tweets, Facebook messages, comments, friend requests I've ignored or postponed looking at simply because I'm just too tired. Or maybe it's because I'm just not making enough time for these people. Because everyone is so busy with their life anyway... 
Or am I just making excuses? The number of people I keep in touch with nowadays I can literally count on 1 hand. And even then, sometimes there are long, wide gaps in between conversations. Don't get me wrong; I love all these people. It's just that sometimes... I feel this innate inability to reply them because sometimes I can offer no words of comfort, when needed. If anything, I'm just a burden. 
Or I could be overthinking a little. Maybe it's just this adjusting.. but what adjustment am I talking about? It's almost been a semester. I've never taken so long to adapt to something before... no, it can't be. But what happened to the time? What happened to the time that used to stare back in my face like a reflection in a puddle of water, just waiting for me to make use of it, and for which I frittered away? It's like a never ending race; this time that used to gaze back at me so willingly from that puddle of water is gone. And I have to search for it. But I can't find it. 
And everything keeps moving on. There's no stoppage, no ' I will wait for you' in the grand scheme of things.  Our life carries on, regardless of stress, of work, of the numerous thesis papers I have to do. And sooner of later, everything will come to pass, but till then, I will push on. 
I'll end off with a Shakespearean sonnet- one that I'm currently analyzing right now for my thesis. If you can't tell what it means, it basically summarises this soporific, melancholic, rather depressing post tonight. It's about the irony of time- we need it, yet we detest it. 

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
   And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
   Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 

Shakespeare, Sonnet 60. 

What Has Happened To Lulu?

What has happened to Lulu, mother? 
What has happened to Lu? 
There's nothing in her bed but an old rag-doll 
And by its side a shoe. 

Why is her window wide, mother, 
The curtain flapping free, 
And only a circle on the dusty shelf 
Where her money-box used to be? 

Why do you turn your head, mother, 
And why do tear drops fall? 
And why do you crumple that note on the fire 
And say it is nothing at all? 

I woke to voices late last night, 
I heard an engine roar. 
Why do you tell me the things I heard 
Were a dream and nothing more? 

I heard somebody cry, mother, 
In anger or in pain, 
But now I ask you why, mother, 
You say it was a gust of rain. 

Why do you wander about as though 
You don't know what to do? 
What has happened to Lulu, mother? 
What has happened to Lu?

- Charles Causley

I like walking in the rain cos no one knows I'm crying. 

 Sometimes I feel that those who give the best advice and the most comfort often get taken for granted- their role will forever be that of a Aunt Agony. Somehow, everyone forgets that the one who doles out comfort is, more often than not, the one who suffers the most, the one whom bottles up his/her thoughts and emotions and masks it behind a stoic facade. Choosing to give to everyone at the expense of himself/herself, surviving on the kind, superficial words of others that are now and again flippantly tossed their way, as "gratitude" for the comfort they give.

And that's exactly how I feel. People come to me for catharsis, for the comfort they seek and for which they've found. And I don't deny- I give it to them, because that's my gift- one of the few and only ones I'm lucky to possess. I put it to good use because I know that they trust me, that they need me around- and I'm well-liked for this aspect. But sometimes I wonder if anyone really bothers about me and my well-being beyond that of a counselor ( which, now that I think about it, I've spent years of my life doing). And this culminates in a pent up hate for people whom play up anything they've got to gather attention because there are people like me, whom wish for just that little bit of care.

Then there are those who love to make their life situations seem worse that everyone around them. It irritates me no end, because c'mon, you can't have gone through every single difficult thing in life, could you? Be humble. Accept that yes, your life may be worse in one aspect, but it isn't the worst in every aspect. Learn, and empathise with those who's life may be just as difficult as yours, if not worse, more so if you haven't gone through what the other person's going through. Everyone has a history, a story, a rough path. And to top it off, open up and realise that there are others who suffer inwardly from pain which they mask, pay attention to those around you, especially those whom you think are happiest- yes, maybe I am referring to myself. They are the ones who need it most.