estella where art thou

my fingers freeze and i don't know what to write.

don't know what i can write.

don't know what i can bring myself to write.

it's come to a point where i have to force back my honest emotions.because they will only destroy me once i let them out.without sounding wilful and stubborn,i shall ignore the stiff dull pain stirring inside me today and pretend no one ever said anything.pretend i don't miss you.pretend i didn't want to talk to you.pretend i'm just like anybody else.pretend you're dead to me.

but isn't that what life is all about these days? frantically steering our boats away from the shore towards the wide open sea,as we hold tightly to the rope connected to land,refusing to cast off,yet refusing to remain bound to where our hearts truly lie.

It always begins with us running away. Or maybe it always ends that way. But as what T.S. Eliot profoundly noted in The Four Quartets, what we call the beginning is often the end, and the end is where we should start from.

It is this very irony our worlds revolve around. How the end is too coincidentally the bringer of many things more. When what should have been the ending of a perfectly happy, or more realistically, tragic story, rarely fails to spark off yet another chain of beginnings. They say the end never comes.

So we run, but you probably want to know what we're running from. At times we convince ourselves we're simply trying to escape our dire situations. Nobody thinks much of this explanation, of course. People like us are envied, despised, looked down upon, dead frustrated over. Deemed immature. As though every moment of our sorry lives is spent trying to spread our wings and fly in desperation to leave the nest. But in all this turmoil, all this confusion, we assure you we have not even lifted off.

People our age are too prematurely stereotyped, carelessly forced into the perfect fit of what them older and wiser people think we should be. Our fears, our thoughts, our hearts, good as condemned men - the world's burden, joy, and future. Sometimes there are just too many things we want to be ourselves, too many things we are made out to be. It's enough to push a young mind over the brink, over and over again.

But all this is not what we're running from. In their bid to get us over and done with this reckless stage, the fathers and mothers, ours or not, altogether renounce their days of angst and choose to see us with hardened, old eyes. They have seen everything, they say, your problems were our problems. To them, we exaggerate the picture, we live in perpetual overreaction. Our age speaks our ignorance; it will all be okay.

Will it?

We thought they were right. We thought it would go away, leave us alone. This ravaging beast called Fate, snapping feverishly at our heels. It wouldn't stop at anything. Not even when we scream and beg it to stop, let us off because every ounce of our blood has drained and dried. This is what we're running from, friends - we're running from what is to come. We believed wrong. What they told us was wrong. And they themselves read our story and are suddenly reminded of our desperation. A feeling they once felt, now buried under Time and the grace of forgetting, discarded and annulled.

Don't you realize? Everyone around us were traitors after all. Deep down inside where the blood has ceased to flow, they knew. They knew everything. They pretended otherwise.

And did you see us? We were always there. All your life, lying in your memories, you and us, one and alike. Look at us, and see your weary self. We look at you, and in your pain-filled eyes we see the broken images, all bits and pieces torn and tattered. Traces of us.

This is the end we start from.

And you know, of course, that it has already begun.

Possibly one of the worst pieces of writing i have ever done.found this in a notebook,dated 2005.good emotional therapy,however.

gdnight.