It’s a new year already. Has been for a rather long time now. She barely noticed its presence as it crept in, kicking the previous year out, racing with time itself. She hadn’t made her resolutions yet. Perhaps she should just forget about it. She’s not sure if she believes in making resolutions anymore. With how things have been going lately, she should just cross the bridge only when she reaches it. Question is whether she’ll even reach the bridge if she doesn’t know where it is.

Indeed, a new year brings much change. She’d never thought life would seem to warp back to normal again, at least on the surface. Starting school again would be nice. Imagine. To feel like a proper student again, to go to a normal institution. If there’s one thing she’s not going to regret, it’s leaving a sad excuse constructed with paper walls for good. At least she’s clear that she’s not going back there again.

She can’t deny that tinge of worry tugging at her heartstrings. She’s afraid. The changes are too big, and she would have to learn to adapt on her own. What if she makes one wrong move and the fire engulfs her, ravaging her world once again? Perhaps it would be right to say that when she’s alone, she just can’t believe in herself. Self-doubt, the demon living in the very depths of her heart.

She knows she can’t mature if she doesn’t take that first step to try, to fly. Close your eyes and take a deep breath. She’s going to make it. One day, she’s going to see that bright light revealing cards that contain stories stacked on stories. Somehow, if she could just believe, just reach out, just touch it. The train’s gotten her this far now. She can’t back down.

She only has herself to blame. Not just this time, but each and every time she fell down. She chose it. From the questions of self-worth and identity, she was the one who orchestrated the search, digging deeper, only to find hollowness and disappointment. Perhaps she hasn’t gone far enough. But a part of her wishes she could have saved all the hurts and pains and just lived a shallow life. Perhaps she would be happier then. Too late now. It only dawned on her recently that she had only actively tried to ‘find herself’ these few years. She’s always been a shadow. Voluntarily. She chose to hide in the light of those whom she admired, people whom she could look up to. But it was only natural that shadows get abandoned. No one really likes the dark. She wasn’t sure if she liked it herself.

It’s far too late for regrets since nothing can be changed anymore. At least, not those involving the past, and perhaps those involving the present. But she’s doing all she can now to stay afloat. Gripping on to that chance of salvation. Her hands are bleeding, dripping hot red flecks on the cold white frost. Winter was never her season. If only it would end soon. She had to wait. And it was, most likely, a really long one. Patience was never her virtue. She’s going to have to try hard on this one.

She hates who she’s become. She’s a real coward, only knowing how to hurt herself, pushing others away in the process, fearing that she’ll hurt them too. She’s only hurting herself, and perhaps those who love her as well. She’s a nervous wreck, each tiny ripple amplifying into a tidal wave, breaking her apart. She’s so easily shaken now, it’s as if she could fall apart any time. She’s fallen to the depths, unable to recall how to believe, how to have hope and faith. She doesn’t know what to think. She hates who she’s become.

She misses the real her. Perhaps not all is lost, perhaps the real her is locked up somewhere inside. And that’s where she starts faltering again. Who is the real her? What is she like? It feels like a riddle that she can’t seem to find an answer to. She had once believed in herself, that she could touch the sky if she wanted to. She had once been optimistic, bouncing back again from her sad times in a matter of hours. She had once trusted people so easily, that as long as she treated them sincerely, they would see her for who she really is. She misses the girl who had not been exposed to so many complications. She misses the girl who had been locked away safely sometime when the earth started trembling, threatening to crack open and swallow her whole. She misses the girl she had once been. She misses the real her.

Perhaps some time away would truly be good for her. It’s 7 in the morning, and she hasn’t fallen asleep yet. Not yet, she can’t. Too many things plaguing her sorry little mind. Perhaps she shan’t sleep today. At least, not until she gets on the plane later. But she can’t help but see herself on the plane, still unable to sleep. She’d probably be staring out the window looking at the clouds. And she would probably be thinking of how she wished that her troubles would be swept away with the wind, high up in the sky. She’ll keep silent, but she’ll be wishing for that little girl to return again, to teach her to be strong. Perhaps one day, she’ll be able to smile genuinely again.

“While I breathe, I hope.”

She has shut the door, withdrawing back into her shell. It’s safer here; Within these four walls. In this cage of her own, she’s free to be herself, to lose herself. Outside, she can only keep a straight face and act aloof. It’s not like her to be that way. But somehow, even though she kept interactions with those people to a bare minimum, her heart had turned cold. Their words scalded her, and their silence froze her. The world outside doesn’t seem pretty anymore now that her vision’s blurred with her tears.

Everyone’s telling her to pray. What can she say?

She feels like another person once she steps out that door. Someone who couldn’t be bothered about the world because the world couldn’t be bothered about her. No, she needs to correct herself each time. That is not the world. That is a nightmare she wishes to wake up from each painful minute surrounded by those fake paper walls which divulge the dark secrets of the hearts of others. She wonders if there’s anyone who can save her. Perhaps there’s no one.

Everyone’s telling her to pray. But how can she bring herself to when she’s forsaken her faith?

People seem to be hurting everywhere, be it in school, at home, and even in church. Is it really human nature to hurt others for our own selfish reasons? Perhaps. Perhaps that’s why wars occur, why people discriminate, why relationships fall apart. She knows she’s the only one who can pick herself up. But her emotions are becoming a drug, coursing through her system. She’s used to crying, and perhaps she doesn’t want to stop. It’s her only release. Telling those who care would only hurt them, and in turn, hurt herself. Yes, she admits it. She’s selfish. And insanity is flooding her mind. Sometimes, she doesn’t want the pain to stop. It makes her feel alive. It sounds pathetic, but it’s good enough for her.

Everyone’s telling her to pray. She wants to, but she feels as if she can’t believe in God right now.

It’s tiring. She knows. She’s bringing it on herself, allowing those hidden daggers to cut right through her skin, the poison trickling in slowly, taunting her. But she can’t be someone she doesn’t admire. She can’t block out everyone because she can’t blame them for the cruel things they think. She knows who she is and she is not who they think she is. But perhaps she’s accepted that this is what humans are best at. Hurting. Everything feels so ridiculous right now. She’s floating in the air, but there’s no air around her. A void. Like her heart. Something’s missing, but she’s not sure if she wants it back.

Everyone’s telling her to pray. She just wants to be alone.

She’s a coward, keeping her emotions inside, afraid to show others what is on her mind. But an empty shell can only hold so much, and when the pain overtakes her, she crashes like the waves, beating rashly on the shore. And when the fire has died out from her eyes, she falls limp, a rag doll consigned to her fate. Many times a day, thoughts creep into her mind. Of cutting. Of dying. As she looks at her bare hands, she is tempted to try. Because she’s desperate to find a way to make the pain go away. But she’s a coward. She’s not afraid of dying. She’s afraid of descending into flames that would never stop holding her. She’s afraid she wouldn’t make it to a safe sanctuary. That’s why she’s afraid to let everything go. Even as insanity eats her soul up inside, she feels as if she’s fading away, little by little. Slowly, she’ll corrode alongside the hands of time.

Her anticipation of the musical was probably only around 50% as she waited around with her parents for the show to start. Too many people in that tiny shopping location with far too many exquisite shops and people who didn’t fit into the picture. Indeed, such an expensive location, and she could see shorts and slippers running around the place. She felt a dull ache as she tried to remember what it was like. Her first love. The theatre. It sometimes pained her when she observed people going in as if they were dressed to sit in a coffee shop watching football matches. Nothing wrong with that. She just wished people respected such a sacred place more. It had been far too long and she had long forgotten what everything felt like. That love for theatre, that embracing of the culture. It had all simply faded away to a mere entertainment program. Perhaps, in terms of respect for the theatre, she wasn’t any better than the rest at all. She laughed, a cold chill creeping in. Of course she wasn’t any better. She had never really felt ‘better’ at this dismal point in her life anyway.

But as the audience were seated and the lights were dimmed, the first note was sung and the musical had began, she felt a tugging at her heartstrings. Perhaps that love had never really gone away after all. As she watched the first scene, she took in the costumes, the lights, the sounds, the movements, everything. She started noticing things that she used to overlook before. And without her realization, she began to tear. She was touched. Every single detail had so much to tell of the efforts put into crafting the characters, making them come alive. That positive attitude that brimmed with the vibrancy and passion for the arts was the most touching scene she had ever witnessed. Every muscle that rippled with energy, every expression that invoked emotions so strong, every word that resounded with conviction. She had to admit, it was the best musical she had ever watched.

It wasn’t just a musical, actors and actresses moving on stage delivering lines, belting out songs and dancing. It was a personal experience that caused her to reflect on much of her life. As the scenes played out one by one, she could relate to it with the different points that she had faced or was facing in life. It struck her like a chord, and she could almost feel her heart singing out with it. She had watched the movie countless times as a kid, but with this, it seems to have taken on a whole new meaning of its own. She could relate to the characters, feeling how they felt. Such was the power of the theatre, causing her to be brought into that magical world where fantasy abounds.

Although, she had to admit. After the musical, she felt rather ashamed. Drama was something that she had loved so very much, even as a little kid in kindergarten. But she never did well in it, in all those years in drama clubs in her schools. And that night, she realized why. She had been afraid. She locked herself up, carefully crafting her own boundaries which limited even her own movement. She had been afraid to lose herself in the character, in the story. And she had never given it her best shot. It seems a little too late to try and pursue something so distant and unfamiliar now. But at the very least, she’s learnt to appreciate these things a little better now. It gave her hope and courage. And perhaps one day, she may find herself on her own kind of stage, doing what she’s doing now but professionally, and someday, she’s going to shine. She’ll find a way. Because dreams can become a reality. And life is full of miracles.

Sometimes it’s just so tempting to give everything up while you rock precariously on the edge. It’s strange how people love to build their own self-esteem by pulling other people down. It’s strange how they make up stories about you, as if they understand you inside out, even though they’ve barely spoken to you. It’s strange how people are drawn to negative comments and gossip that may not even be true like cold hands to a fire.

She’s on that old rocking chair, looking out at the city from her home on the thirty-second floor. The captivating lights of the buildings that have yet to slumber drew her attention as she gazed upon it with a blank stare. A familiar feeling bubbled inside. She could almost picture it. She would soar in the night sky as the cold air caressed her cheeks. And then she would fall. She wouldn’t scream. She would smile as gravity took her home. It was what she wanted. But as always, she knew she couldn’t. Because there is someone higher up who would disapprove and feel sad. She knew that. She just wished she could feel that right now. Because in that busy city, among those busy people, she felt so alone. A nightmare that she wished would end. But it couldn’t end. Not just yet. She knew that even if she struggled and succeeded in escaping this nightmare, the scars would still remain, and another net would catch her, tangling her once again. She had a ticket out, but she had to wait. She had to wait. And she hopes that it would still be effective when the boat comes to pick her up and take her away.

She still has her dreams, scratched deep into her skin, flowing through her blood with each beat of her heart. She could never forget. It’s the only thing keeping together now. She knew she would lose everything if she forgot. She can’t. She needs to run. She feels as if she’s trapped in purgatory. She can’t go down. Neither can she find her way up. Tears have long run dry. A void where her heart used to be. She knows it’s kept safe somewhere. Perhaps one day when this whole nightmare is over, she’ll be able to take it back. Back and forth, a routine march of desolation and desperation. It hurts living like this, with time going far too slow. The minute hand taunts her with its stoic expression.

She knows part of her pain comes from herself. Suppressing her identity, trying to make herself as invisible as possible, it felt like efforts to erase herself off the face of the earth. Stand strong, girl. She knows she shouldn’t care about what others think, that she should just be herself. But the courage, everything that she lacks. Excuses, she never fails to give herself. Next year, perhaps. She’s going to set a target to be strong next year. Perhaps only a few would be able to recognize her then, but she’s had enough of being this awkward teenager with too much angst. Next year, perhaps. She’s going to let her personality fully take over. So while she stays dormant, connected by all these tubes to the outside world, she’s going to let herself cry a little longer. She wants to heal. She wants to be held by the darkness just a little while longer.