2015 was a year of tribulation. It was the year I stopped lying to myself, the year when I let certain people go, and became even more self-aware than I ever thought was still possible. It was the year I made peace with what I could never be. And although a strong part of me still believes I will never be happy or ever be truly loved, I can live with that darkness much more easily now, and still hope that I'm as real as I could ever get, and that there are people who tether me to this world--anchors that hold onto me even when I make it hard for them and for myself.
I'm still haunted by ghosts that cling to me like second skin but at least I'm writing stories again, which is always nice. Catharsis, therapy, a sounding board of my deepest feelings--however I want to call it, writing has always been the mirror that exposes things about me that will otherwise never see the light. I'm always at my truest when I wear the mask of a storyteller. I used to believe that losing people, more often than not, is proportional to my constant bouts of creativity. I still hold this true, but I also realized that finding people also makes me write just as frequently; especially when they bring positivity and inspiration to my otherwise bleak, taciturn and one-sided contemplations.
I don't think it will ever stop surprising how much one person can lose---and still gain something back from those losses.
Whatever prolonged agony and suffering I've undergone last year is more or less self-inflicted. No one cuts me deepest than self-doubt and crisis of faith. But I'm not as sad or damaged as I'd like to believe. The smallest joys I experience daily are the most welcome relief from the exquisite sorrow of my tortured psyche that still associates pain with something trascendent and necessary. I will probably end up just as alone as I keep insisting on, but I can also acknowledge that there is still something in this world that connects me. And I'm not going to be afraid about reaching for it every now and then, and grasp it with all my might, and value the influence it has over my life--a saving grace--a slice of home and a heaven that's only for me. Scared shitless but more wide awake than ever, I'll move forward.
Now I don't know what 2016 holds for me. It's too early to tell, and the future is always in a state of flux. What I can always control now is the present--always the present--and I'd be damned if I don't wield the power of choice that will guide me, enrich me and strengthen me in this endless crusade of mine for self-discovery.