On Stages of Love

The puzzle pieces are scattered, surrounding me in this crammed room.


I wanna vomit, but I lose the courage to do it.


Courage, huh.


Courage is dangerous. In fact, courage is the face behind my mask of stubbornness and strong will.


There is too much courage, too much vigor—it is overwhelming, suffusing the time to pause and think. Thoughts are alien in courage. All the while, I have been thinking about making the most out of everything yet losing everything still.


Courage can be pretty much ironic.


So courage it is.


It is but fuelled by courage that I painstakingly lay each piece around me as I try to make sense of the whole puzzle. Just so you know, I am not provided with a guide. The pieces I find inside a box neatly wrapped in manila paper, untied. The box is neither enticing nor mysterious. I happen to open it, for I get curious. Plus courage, mind.


Curiosity is the mask; courage remains the face.


How do the pieces lay in disarray before me? I am clueless where to start. What am I solving anyway? There is ample time—and courage—but I am also having second thoughts, what-ifs, hypotheses… As much as I do not know where to set off, these doubts I am mindless about whenever they may take me.


Courage and doubts: what an interesting pair.


But I pick a single piece anyway—one nearest to my left hand. I dispossess a hidden layer of the hand I choose. It just is that I think of at the moment. Oh, maybe courage has willed it.


The single piece lay on the floor. It is still. And quiet. I think of death. And rainbows. Both are magic. Both are ends. And beginnings. As I look at the rest of the pieces, they may have also been randomly picked by me. They may have also looked as the first piece to pave way for the rest.


This courageous move is ridiculous. Well, courage is the face and all others can be masks.


Imagine a thousand pieces on the floor, and I have yet begun with a single innocent piece. What are the chances? What are the odds?


Nevertheless, I am not sans hope; for the seemingly random pieces contain seemingly random colors seemingly suggesting a pattern—the whole point of the puzzle. The sense of my beginning choice.


A pattern with courage: not a hideous idea.


I follow the pattern. I take courage with me. They are inseparable—a match made in heaven. I must say the pattern is the stalwart ally of courage, for it is through the pattern I gradually make both sense and progress. When time comes and I have to share my story of this formerly clue-less puzzle, I will gratefully confide to anyone that solving the puzzle is possible with its pattern. So is with any type of problem. The pattern is the lighthouse. Through pattern, I gain a repetitive form of conduct; through repetition, I earn a habit. And habit is breakable. Plus the fact that I possess this whole lot of impossible courage: anything is possible, breaking habits included.


A pattern is a chain. It contains a series of strong points, but there is an unmistakable weak spot. To break a habit, a pattern, or a chain, always aim for the weak spot. When the weak spot is vulnerable, no habit, pattern, or chain is formidable enough.


And oh, make courage as the hitting blow.


I spend about an entire week to almost complete the puzzle. On the sixth day, the image slowly appears. I get the big picture. I am never struck by lightning before, but that’s how the revelation of the image comes to me. It is like jumping off the cliff (cliché as it may sound), but I have tried jumping off a cliff once (courtesy of my helpful courage) but finding a cool and soothing sea below. But with this, I hit a solid, firm ground. Unlike the former, I trust my jump is purely adventurous and fun; but the latter is totally risky. Like I’ve said, I do not know what lies ahead.


Now that I finally have the slightest hint, courage to solve the puzzle has withdrawn. I regain it by burning the pieces altogether.


I courageously set the whole puzzle ablaze.


Me In Hindsight

As a kid, I always imagined myself to be living in my own apartment in New York as a writer, all alone, when I grow up. I was so sure I would be a writer when I was 15. There was passion, drive, and extreme lust for more knowledge, different techniques, and newer styles that I would like to learn about in writing. I had it all planned out—me, an accomplished writer, solitary and endlessly writing.

Or so I thought.

I don’t know what happened. That’s the truth. I just started losing interest in writing. Or I took it for granted, thinking that I was already good at it, that it would be wasteful to spend lots of energy and time for it. Also, there were a lot of things going on that writing is the least yet most luxurious thing I could do.

To be able to write, I had to be at peace with myself. It would be an ordeal to write when my mind was at war because the words would only seem worthless and I would just criticize every word I could think of. When I wasn’t in the right headspace, writing would be a chore. It would feel a hefty work. Or maybe that was just how I thought of myself then.

As soon as I lost my interest in writing, I started to get lost into other things that would divert me from the overwhelming-ness of things as I was approaching my 20’s. And had I known those things would only give me more things to write about, I wouldn’t have had given up on my craft. Nonetheless, there were things that I did before that I couldn’t write about. I couldn’t see why. Maybe it had to do with me not having to deal with it yet or something. But there were also things I wouldn’t write about.

I missed it. I missed it so badly now if I think about it. The consolation writing had given me before was the tranquility of coming to terms with certain things I could barely process if I wouldn’t write it. It would always stand true that writing, for me, was my tool in exorcising my demons. This isn’t an understatement when people would say that, but I would hope more people would discern well which demons they’re exorcising. At times, we could look past our own demons for thinking they are a part of us just because they feel comfortable and familiar; and instead stifle the urgent need for us to change our minds—to consider that we, too, deserve the good things in life.

This was my mistake then. I always thought I couldn’t be happy with myself. I was so sure that I wanted to be all by myself. But sometimes, when I was so certain of my aspirations in life, a whole set of unimaginable events would take place that would always question my certainty. Things that would change my mind about me and would compel me to rewrite what truly mattered to me.

Reason Why Not

I know there definitely can be plenty of reasons to let go, surrender, and give in from the hardships of this life to embrace the void, where nothingness is, but I am also sure there are existent reasons why not to.

For days, I have struggled to come by to my own hassles of life. I haven’t asked help even from anyone who I deem is the closest and most intimate to me. While others may see this as effect brought by my menstrual cycle, hormonal surges, I can tell it really isn’t. To be honest, there is no telling what this is, only what it does to me.

Oh yes, I am tired, exhausted even. I am feeling disinterested to do things I normally do. I am unmotivated to check on to my classmates about school activities. I am powerless to conquer whatever this is.

But I am not asking anyone’s sympathy. I just need time, I guess. I need time to figure out what is exactly happening to me, for knowing and understanding can be half the battle already. I want to have a definite response to anyone who may ask what is going on within me. I have to come back to the reality of me. I still need to face my challengers and their challenges. There are still a lot of things left for me to do. Most of all, I must graduate.

I don’t know where is this rooted, this thing I am feeling, thinking, right now, but I suppose it must have come from somewhere nasty, a recessed part of my mind, a depth apparently unreachable but has resurfaced to claim its rightful place inside my brain. It is consuming me. It is owing me, even. For people who feel aggression (disguised as ‘clapbacks’) from me, they may think I am being sarcastic. They may even think I am intimidating, as if there’s no point in reaching out to me because all I can ever say unto them is mere meanness coming from seeing to the ‘dumb’ part of them. But I am not mean, or trying to be. And this isn’t an excuse of the super mean things I said and did to them. Maybe, at that time I was conversing to them, it was all I could ever think of–or I could ever muster to say to them. It takes much energy to be nice. During those times, I find it pointless being kind and trusting to anyone. Even now. I can’t blame them. I can’t blame myself either. I just don’t know what is the most right thing to do or say unto them. I can’t always expect myself to act according to their own liking, and I have neither obligation to explain my side to them all the time.

But this time, I am only trying to understand myself, dissecting my innards, to expose whatever affliction inflicts on me. Perhaps, in the process of trying to understand myself, I have to come to terms with my bad side–the mean side. Perhaps, in trying to understand myself, I must let go and be neutral towards my own self. I don’t have to pick sides: bad or good. Being good doesn’t always guarantee goodness from others. Being bad may also elicit goodness from others. It’s full of paradox, the world that I belong to right now. I can hardly fathom its nuances. And it doesn’t help that I barely understand myself at the moment.

A Handful

There are facts, and there are truths. It is a fact that education is not always accessible for everyone. It is a truth that education is a vital tool in changing lives. It is a fact that education is least prioritized in many impoverished communities. It is a truth that education is costly.

While these facts and truths remain as they are, there is another, either of these two, that will hold me accountable for not admitting: I am an educator.

I am actually capable of educating, for I have been given the exact privilege. I can nurture minds and hearts, for I am honed by remarkable educators during my schooling years as well. I can give something that I absolutely have, and that is education. And while this remain doubtful for a second, I believe in the following thoughts at the moment:

That I am an educator, and it costs me several years before I finally embrace this notion.

That I am an educator, but I have always complained about the requirements of my degree program.

That I am an educator, yet I tend to deviate from what the limits of my privileges offer me and the grounds of my responsibilities demand from me.

That I am an educator, for it is logical to give back what I have been given.

That I am an educator, so I need to continuously develop and enhance myself, intensify the light my torch is capable of exuding.

That I am an educator…

I have been wondering if whatever I am doing right now is getting me closer to what I want to become soon. I have never known what I really want most from life and out of myself. But to finally realize that I am an educator–I have not been more assured all of my life. There is no guarantee that I will become a teacher, but I will always work hard to become a competent and credible educator. And while teachers and educators may sometimes be interchanged and used in similar degrees, they aren’t. There are teachers as facts, and there are educators as truths.

One short film has prompted me to write this down. Its title, “Cup of Tea”. A cup of tea is the least the villagers could offer to a tourist in exchange of educating the whole village. However, the willingness and sincerity from the eyes of the villagers, with their determination to obtain what they truly need, that is too much of a price already for an educator to actually realize his duty and right to exercise both.

All the facts I have learned in the university are just a handful of the mountains of truths I will later encounter as both a teacher and an educator in time.

Cha-Cha (Character Change)

Foil is a type of character or characterization pertaining to a minor character who basically parallels, supports, or opposes the major character; it helps in emphasizing the role of a major character in a story.

We all have foils in life.

At times, we think they are significant players in our experiences. We are often battered, bruised, and broken by their presence. We nearly neglect which role dominates in our stories. Admittedly, we do sometimes think the foils do have the power to dictate our roles. We usually acknowledge their importance more than ours. We recognize their effects on us more than our own strengths. We believe they are the better actual ‘game-changers’ than ourselves. Our days are dictated by how we are terribly hooked with foils arriving at any moment. We are completely engrossed with the idea of them. It is as if foils do come naturally, and all we have to do is accept their comings as strong as they can be. However, the truth is: they remain foils.

Foils are minor characters to help the major ones in emphasizing the role of the latter. We need to ask ourselves a lot of times: whose story is this after all? At the end of the day, either we feel bad or nice about it, but it is ours. Our story may revolve around a plethora of characters, portraying various characteristics, and influencing how our story goes, but them and especially foils are mere supporting characters. They are there to help us instead in remembering who we really are. They are the pressure that will soon turn us into diamonds. They are the harnessing and welding of the sharpest and deadliest weapons. We want to think of their impacts towards us, but have we ever thought how our own thoughts affect us directly? We need to know about their normal effects in us, but have we known about our capabilities?

Recognize the foil in life: the infuriating traffic, crammed spaces in public transportation, one-minute late, stepped shoes, forgotten IDs, lost keys, missed assignments, lacking requirements, demanding bosses, unfriendly colleagues, unfair wages, unsolicited comments on our attires, uneven makeup, drained power, etc. It is a must to keenly pinpoint these foils. Gradually, they will turn into our ‘regular stressors’. Either we develop the favorable habit of avoiding these stressors, or grow a tolerance about them but not doing anything about them at all. Identifying the foils, before they turn into stressors, may benefit us in realizing how much of our total resources are consumed spent in paying much attention towards them.

In other words, we should examine the fvcks left in our stocks before they run out of supplies; worse, the source is absolutely fed up.

We are each the major characters in our own stories. There are those supporting characters, the foils, who may catch us off guard in discovering our role in lives and may steal us of our own worth. In contrast to literature, the foils in our lives are not always actual people or characters, but they play roles. Nevertheless, one thing stays assured for us: foils remain as foils.

Jovita: Best Story

via Daily Prompt: Captivating

I was told that I am good at my craft: writing. I believe in that idea for a long time until now. I am not only good at writing, it is also the best thing I am capable of; it must be the sole thing I can do half-right.

And if you’re good at anything, or believe it’s the only thing you can ever possibly do, come hell or high water, no matter the obstacles, you will certainly take everything at stake to make room for your thing and to let light shine upon it.

It’s like giving light to the murky smudges of yourself, exposing the scar, except this time, you don’t see it negatively. The patches you will reveal are battle paints, war marks. In my case, it is one helluva hurdle indeed.

But I will not be talking about my craft as something really ‘captivating’. This post doesn’t even amount to what really ‘captivating’ means. Let’s just say, that through my unfurling, I unravel strings that drew attention.

It was impeccably astounding. Everything was truly celebratory, and I must say, it was almost perfect. But through it all, I had reckoned, nothing great would come out unless I worked it out. Whatever my heart ever desired, my mind visualized, wishing and goal would only transpire if my hands would dare move. Will it, and it will, they say. But I must also work for it. Work. Make a plan alive. Build. Behold.

So, with tears and effort, time and sleepless nights, consultation and pieces of advice, amazing people who did and did not believe, and a lot more I could not mention, I did untangle a part of my mind, did pour my heart out, and did move my hands to make something possible.

I did not run out of inspiration, yes; in fact, I could say, there was more than enough. What I almost ran out was probability. So I made a choice. And I made it.

Here is an excerpt of Jovita:

One more try.

I’m giving this choice one more try. If I’m not going to make it this time, I might as well be dead. My life is worthless. Everything becomes blurry by then. So here I am, giving another shot to my future, my life, myself.

Holding the syringe, her fingers lost the grip for some time, and after a few quick and short breaths, the skinny latch clasped on it as if its security and stability were assured.

It wasn’t. Jovita knew about that. But she couldn’t help it. This was the only way she found to make herself higher, though little did she know, the lower she sank throughout the process.

Lucky for Elora. She has Mahalia. Mahalia is always around. Mahalia stays with her though she hurts Elora. But that’s fine. That’s okay with me if I were Elora. I’d rather choose someone, even if she causes me pain, than nobody at all. Elora must have felt the same way. She also wanted Mahalia, I know. We both do. We both do.

Jovita held her knees closer to her body. She was quivering. She felt anxious.

Who is there for me now?

Elora is really a lucky girl. She and Mahalia seem really happy. They stay close to each other. Wherever Elora is, there is Mahalia, and vice-versa. Mahalia is smart. She seems to know what’s best for Elora. Elora merely listens to her. Maybe, that’s how it works. Someone talks, and someone listens. Maybe, in this way, nobody leaves.

I should have listened more.

Marcello entered the room. Its sheer whiteness never failed to give him shivers. He kept his fists inside the pockets of his jacket. He saw the bed, seemingly undisturbed as the last time he visited it. Jovita sat motionless on the bed and hugged her knees tight. She stared ahead of her and was slightly rocking back and forth, using both feet as support. Marcelo stepped closer, unzipped his black hoodie, and wrapped Jovita with it.

Jovita did not seem to notice. She showed no response or sign to acknowledge his presence. She was spaced out. Marcelo merely held her hand, watched her closely for awhile, and stepped out of the room.

Mahalia is right, Elora. Listen to her before you lose her. Don’t be like me. Listen to your only friend. Take her advice. Follow whatever she says. It’s the only way you can save yourself. Take the drug. Take it!

That’s a good girl, Elora. You have pleased Mahalia indeed. It’s guaranteed that she will never, ever, leave you. From now on, just do listen carefully to whatever she tells you. Mahalia is your only friend. You’re lucky to have one than nobody at all…unlike me.

Marcello saw Dr. Daniella on her way to Jovita’s room. The doctor smiled at him as she looked up and saw him from scribbling on her notes. Dr. Daniella had been with them for almost four years now. She had been most considerate and brilliant in her field of expertise. She helped not only his sister but also him in coping up throughout the therapy. Dr. Daniella never failed in filling him with the essential and significant updates concerning Jovita’s condition, but most of all, she was the sole person nearest to Jovita when she used to be a resident-student in the hospital, before she finally lost it all. But Marcello didn’t think it as ‘the end’ of his dear sister. He knew she was there somewhere inside. He knew she needed help. He hoped he wasn’t that late to give it to her.

There were times Jovita showed progress, and there were those she was at rock bottom once again. This bothered Marcello the most. He feared Jovita might come at a point where she would no longer show any sign of hope at all.

What if she would allow the void to completely take her?

Marcello could only trust his sister, but he didn’t trust himself enough if he could prolong this agony for her. He hated it the most when Jovita seemed spaced out, and there was nothing he could do about it but to wait. It was Dr. Daniella’s medical advice: to wait. For Marcello, the wait was letting the chance of his sister’s healing pass. He thought it wasteful for a whole four years to wait he was clueless about.

Do I wait for Jovita to go back to her old self, or do I wait for Jovita to be renewed?

Marcello couldn’t tell which was better.


Speaking Poetry

To separate the artist from his work is indispensable in appreciating art in its purest form.

I have learned in my previous literature classes that knowing the background of an author may provide better and clearer lenses for scholars in perusing through his literary work/s. As a student, I appreciate this notion; it is helpful indeed and easier for me to deepen my understanding towards any piece of literature when I prior knowledge about the author. However, I often contradict myself when it comes to poetry.

In poetry, it is not always necessary to gain pre-knowledge about the poet to understand beyond the denotation of his poem/s. Poetry is taken as an entirely separate entity of a poet. His poem is a manifestation of the desertion. However, it is commonly mistaken to take a poem as directly relevant towards its poet.

It needs more than hasty allusion to a certain poet in order to vividly unearth the authentic surface of a poem. Otherwise, poetry is a mere form of expression and entertainment. Poetry is a serious art. The elements of poetry, even, are insufficient to wholly grasp the overall implication of a poem. Each element is a key perhaps to unravel the total wrap of a poem.

On the other hand, the mentioned features above are but a few of the complete characteristics of seeing through ‘a pure poetry’. In today’s time, poetry has taken a paradigm shift. Its conceivably most palpable shift is the increasing number of fascination to the spoken-word poems.

I have penned several pieces of spoken-word poetry induced with frequently indistinguishable metaphors and other figurative language. Spoken-word poems must be simply written since its other significant factor is the performance of the poet. A performance poem, it is termed. In spoken-word poems, the audience is engrossed with both the ‘what’ and the ‘how’ of a piece. The ‘what’ refers to the piece, per se; the ‘how’ means the way a piece is delivered. I know countless spoken-word poets whose performance and writing style I sometimes cop. There are Sarah Kay, Phil Kaye, Rudy Francisco, Neil Hillborn, Juan Miguel Severo, Alfonso Manalastas, etc. Their poems characterize the most common issues in the present times-some entertaining, others grave.

Before I immersed into writing pieces of spoken-word poetry, I studied about pure and genuine poetry and creating them as well. In my multitude attempts, I usually noticed this particular ‘zoning in’ to the moment of holding the pen and directing my fingers to scrawl the selected language I could use to channel art in its purest form. Still, my reason would instantly rob me of my zone. Emotions would generally mess with my art. I felt guilty towards these particular instances, for I upheld the idea of taking art objectively.

I couldn’t tell if I ever succeeded in wielding a pure poem at all. Nevertheless, I am on a crusade. This isn’t yet my last say on poetry.

How I Live With Depression

Sometimes, I have this feeling of being capable to save every person struggling in his life. Sometimes, I have this feeling of being incapable to get up from bed.

Sometimes, I think I am able to achieve great things. Sometimes, I think I do not mean anything at all.

Sometimes, I like to listen to and observe my surrounding. Sometimes, I like to stay indoors and cover myself with a huge blanket.

Sometimes, I know myself enough. Sometimes, I know there is more to me. Sometimes, I know I am way less than I often think of myself.

There is no definite and precise moment to determine if ‘the depression kicks in’. I don’t even admit this is exactly depression; I tell myself this must be hormonal surges brought about by my period. The latter is a more acceptable explanation, one I like to believe in, one I like to live up, and one I like people to label me with…except it isn’t.

This isn’t a typical hormonal surge and a regular one. It isn’t the terrible feeling I get after arguing with my significant other or a friend. It isn’t a mere sense of discouragement and being not good enough. I can’t even tell its actual intensity and accurate magnitude. What I’m sure of is how it affects my normal activities.

But what I want other people to know, especially those who are simply clueless or apathetic towards this mental condition, is that living with depression doesn’t directly mean I am sad all of the time. I am still functional. I am able to do things I usually do. Outwardly, I am completely fine. What I want them to know more about living with depression is that just because I seem perfectly fine and do things I usually do doesn’t mean there is nothing wrong within me. Living with depression entails emptiness inside no matter what I do. Living with depression pertains to feeling hollow whatever I hear and see from the surrounding. Living with depression is unintentionally being numb.

While other people, especially those I deem who should know more, label symptoms of depression as being dramatic, lazy, and a lot more stereotypes, they are beyond my control really, after I finally have the sheer courage to acknowledge and eventually accept them as signals of help. There are others who will rather say to get over with ‘feeling down almost all of the time’ as easy as we shrug off an annoying fly. However, they do not realize that the annoying fly is me.

How I truthfully live with depression is by putting up a seemingly hard, sarcastic, and unbreakable guard, a wall to fend off ignorant intruders and the superficial succor. I cannot blame those who are sensitive towards my mask. I feel sorry for them for knowing least about this rather rampant and pervasive, sometimes uncured, mental illness.


I would always know those people with low self-esteems.

Those who seek affirmation and approval from other point-of-views;

those who are always on the look towards others;

those who ask one’s whereabouts from other perspectives;

those who easily get intimidated by one’s outward bearing;

those who plan on strategies of taking a particular individual down just to prove themselves right;

those who have anything to say about anyone;


There are numerous determinants of this kind of people. Their minds twisted by the concept of others based on what they only hear and see. I cannot emphasize more on this, but what they usually say or think or act towards others is basically a reflection of their own selves. They perceive a part of other people as, maybe, a reminder of their own, particularly one they don’t favor, and this is why they project it outwardly. And I think what this kind of people truly want is not approval or affirmation, not the best explanation of other people’s characters, not tactics to bring those whom they feel dominated, but simply an escape.

They merely need to vent out every overwhelming feature of their own towards others, so they may finally reconsider those aspects they don’t honestly see favorable from their own.

Sometimes I would reckon how wasteful their time is to spend on sparing a thought or word towards other people. It is indispensable knowing to have no control at all towards this specific type of people, but what a shame it is to share a trait from them. How pitiful are they to be the kind of people they are.

It would be a more empowered society if people simply accept who they truly are, compare their current selves to their pasts, and work out on bettering their own damn selves. Everyone could enjoy living every single minute of his own life if all would just focus on their own lives.

And for those who want to know about WHY I don’t give a fuck, it’s just merely HOW I am.

Why I Couldn’t Care Less About Photographs

If there was one thing imminent about the Pinning Ceremony for Pre-service Teachers, it wasn’t the name engraved on the nameplate that signified the formal commencement of a pre-service teacher towards his profession, vocation, and mission. It was something to remind about everything that took place on that precise moment; it was photographs.

When the whole program ended, I watched everyone taking flight off the venue, climbing up to the stage, and loitering in the assembly: TAKING PICTURES of themselves, their nameplates, their certificates–alone and accompanied. I am guilty of taking pictures with my colleagues: it was compulsory for the yearbook, the ‘gram, etc. But I only took pictures with peers closest to me. I joined the ‘informal’ picture taking outside the venue when we queued for the processional.

Any program only sets off as soon as somebody starts taking pictures. By then, one realizes the event is really happening.

Photographs mean significantly to us nowadays (What uses are there for iPhones, DSLRs, etc. anyway?). Perhaps, the greatest confrontation with ourselves occurred between the cue and click: Do we pose because we are in an event that called for it? Or do we pose because we mean to?

Photographs bring us back to a memory, but like memories, there are always different angles thus different interpretations on that particular memory. What we choose to capture is what we think matters the most. Hence, I won’t blame my contemporaries capturing their nameplates during or after the Pinning Ceremony. I won’t also blame some of them taking pictures with their families, friends, etc. Maybe, they need symbols, objects to interpret the single event. Maybe, they want to live back to that event and think about who matters most to them. Maybe, they are obliged.

Photographs are the best mementos. However, photographs may capture the best moments, but I always prefer living in those moments.


I apologize for everyone whom I have hurt terribly. Nobody deserves to be treated the way I treat someone. Everybody should feel loved, appreciated, and cared for. There must only be ceasing ache in this world, not increasing apathy. And I guess I only made it worse for everyone.

It’s really funny how I rethink about what I have said after they come out from my mouth and find out that my words don’t usually build or empower someone. I realize as I look back to these words that they must have been a reflection of how I see myself.

And this is something I should keep in mind: just because I called out someone in the ugliest way and expected them to be hurt, didn’t mean that they were in the slightest idea affected. Perhaps, they must have thought how pitiful I am when they heard the words that rolled out of my tongue. Perhaps, they already know about this notion: that the words I normally utter are also the product of my thoughts, and that my thoughts represent how I think, and that how I think is typically negative.

But it does not come as a surprise to me. I am perfectly aware of how I really see myself, and it isn’t honestly positive. However, I don’t want others to think negatively of themselves just because I do. At some point, I want them to see how wonderful they are when they think nobody is watching them because I see them as this way. And this really concerns me.

The way I perceive people is usually good, but what comes out of my mouth isn’t. So if how I see others is a reflection of myself as what I say unto them, isn’t my particular attitude baffling? What really am I? Am I good, or am I bad? Do I really mean well unto others, or do I not?