I’m made up of broken pieces.
I’m emotionally fragile, intricately made. Most of the time I wipe my tears off using the back of my hand, and I lock my true self away in the back of my mind. My vessels have question marks streaming inside them to feed my self-curiosity. I tend to get hurt a lot. I tell them that I don’t take things personally. That I’m not the kind of person who jumps to conclusions. Because who would want that, right? I know. No one. But deep down in my restless nights and my shattered thoughts, I really am that kind of person. A really horrible, emotionally unstable person.
I am very tortuous.
I’m a girl obsessed with words that form despicable feelings. That’s why I read and write a lot. It takes me to worlds which are not mine. I long for the exploration of the ideas that other people have.
I’m an ocean full of secrets.
My definition of happiness varies in the depth of the situation I’m in. I drown people with all the love I give. I get jealous easily and I lose my self-esteem whenever I see my ocean treasures floating away from me. The burden I feel is like when I remove stickers and/or price tags from my prime possessions, and it leaves a mark. That also reminds me that everything I have now wasn’t always mine.
I feel things I shouldn’t be feeling. I think of thoughts they told me not to think about. I fall in love with words instead of people. I’m both very stubborn and really obedient. But I’ve already told you, it depends on the situation.
Sometimes my way of thinking is all about self-hate.
However, I wouldn’t go to the deeper part of this article to rant about how I loathe myself. Well, I was about to. But I changed my mind. I admit that I’m not physically and mentally perfect. I have flaws encased in my personality that travels with me like a luggage I carry. I’m the connotation of complicated, but that’s just who I am. I’m walking down a familiar path full of autumn leaves. I’m still trying to find my old self again. This new one requires taking multiple leaps of faith. I’m going to abolish my darker thoughts that will soon cease to exist. I will bloom, I will rise, I will soar.

. . .and I’m starting to think that maybe, just maybe, this time I’m going to be enough.

(image found on

A scientific explanation of my feelings

No, I’m not a friend who overthinks a lot
No, I’m not exaggeratingly sensitive
I just care about my friends in a way that’s too obvious
because I can’t afford to lose one again
when I already lost a dozen.

The clash of a tornado and an earthquake can bid you goodbye. Rift valleys are present. Our diverging friendship creates tsunamis that consume our never ending arguments. I’m going to express myself in my own language, so let me say this in Tagalog:

“Hindi ako OA na kaibigan, manhid lang kayo.”

I’m traveling around my own yellow brick road which still has a touch of immaturity, but I’m not going to lie about me experiencing too much. My body becomes torpid whenever I hear somebody complain about my concerned deeds. Especially if it’s one of the closest human beings I treat like family. It sucks. It’s like being slapped in your cheek, except it’s an emotional pain. When I try to touch it, the affected part spreads like wildfire in my body. It goes red. My whole body goes red. I taste sour blood on my lips and sweet despair in my soul.

I’m tired of being treated like I don’t matter. One time we had an argument, and I was the only one who cried. The pain felt like my insides are being squished by a cactus. It was an oceanic-to-oceanic plate boundary. Insecurity wakes me up in the middle of the night and they know that. I’m also a professional jumper. I jump to conclusions. So when everyone has told their sides, I was petrified. I didn’t expect truth to be so derogatory. I guess I just have to live with that.

I don’t exactly know how to live with pain. I just do. And even though I have ridges in my ocean of tears, I still forgive. My friends are my epicenters, they are sources of my earthquakes. And somehow, I think we were once the Pangaea. But now we’re divided into 7 continental plates.

(picture from Baptiste, “Stunning Satellite Photos of Earth From Outer Space”)

It’s them.

“Write,” they tell me.

“But I don’t know how,” I reply. I have been confused lately, always over thinking about my crappy writing style.

“Just… write. Don’t be afraid to mess up,” they look at me with curious eyes, unable to determine the frequencies my mouth projects. They don’t seem to get me. “Frustrated? Write. Happy? Write. Not feeling like writing at the moment? Just write. In writing, there’s no good or bad. There’s no right or wrong. They can’t judge you because of what you like to write on that paper. We all have our own sides of mediocrity. Whether they give a damn about you or not, don’t stop expressing yourself by writing. The world doesn’t stop for them.”

I felt a hand hold mine. It pulls me up and out into this labyrinth. Now I can see where I used to be. Dark and lumpy, the stars around the maze get dimmer every second. I watch the sky fold into prickles of dust until it gets out of my sight. The hand continuously holds me. And then I look up.

It’s them. I look deep into their soul and I find my heart there. Their bodies are formed intricately, and with a delicate touch they can give you wings and make you fly. That’s what they did to me.

“What are your names?” I ask.

They look at me with complete genuineness. “We only have one,”

“Then what is it?” My eyes fill with solace. I think I’m going to burst. Peace, warmth, tranquility. That’s what I feel. I will finally find out the name of my saviors.

“Words.” they reply.


(artwork by Izza Thapa)

My View of Journalism and Creative Writing

Journalism and Creative writing are two mainly different things. I am quite captivated by how intricate creative writers describe each word of their texts, and utterly impressed by how journalists can broaden the way of thinking of the people with such great influence they pass on the masses.

I claim myself as a creative writer. The past me once wrote,

“I used to despise journalism. The studies I had about it explains why it’s so boring. Aye, I can feel you protesting in your mind right now…”

“The reason behind it is I’m really into creative writing. Poetry has my heart. I write things from the story- factory in my head. In other words, I like to make stories, not narrate truths. I still don’t know the formula on how to write an article, I’m confused by what to do.”

This is my self- explanation when I was trying to join the school paper. It took me months to do a lot of adapting to change, but it’s totally worth it. You may as well be confused and frustrated right now as I am. Listen, don’t over think it. But I have a few definitions of journalism and creative writing here so you won’t be that confused.

What is journalism?

The American Press Institute defined it as “the activity of gathering, assessing, creating, and presenting news and information, and the product of these activities.”

“Journalism can be distinguished from other activities and products by certain identifiable characteristics and practices. These elements not only separate journalism from other forms of communication, they are what make it indispensable to democratic societies. History reveals that the more democratic a society, the more news and information it tends to have.”

What is Creative Writing?

According to, “creative writing is most popularly understood to be writing that comes from the imagination, writing that is ‘not true‘. Creative writing is the very fine art of making things up, in the most attractive, apt and convincing way possible. It’s the telling of lies in order to reveal illuminating and dark truths about the world and our place in it. We tend to think of Poetry, Fiction, and Plays.”

Of course, we have our own opinions and that we must follow what our hearts beat for. If you’re good at gathering and presenting data whether by writing or by speech, then go for journalism. But if you can elaborate words with complex details and make a lot of stuff up, you would be better as a creative writer. So if you’re having a hard time making a choice, it will be best if you take a look in the mirror and ask the person in front of you. Would you be fit as a journalist? Or a creative writer?

At the end of the day, it will always be about our choices. We are going to be the ones who create our own destinies. In a more creative tone, we will always be the ones who write our own stories.


(Image by Ann He)