We start with the overrated mantra that self-love can actually fill deficits of happiness in oneself.
It doesn't. At least, not in my case.
I tilted my eyes towards the picture frame standing beside my palm. It has peered through several moments of me, attempting to relocate books which might have sounded fun and tedious at the same time. In fact, I wasn't actually searching for books — there are several poorly-designed letters stuck between pages that I'm looking for.
I haven't thought of an answer yet, so let's put it this way — I don't know, the same sentence read under the breath of a student in a recitation as he flips towards his seatmate who probably knew the answer, or not?
I still don't know, and I wouldn't want to even if I get there.
Several papers crisped across the table, taunting me to arrange them one-by-one. There's this thing about wasting your precious energy, and I am doing the same thing for searching meaningless letters. Then, why not arrange them?
As I run my fingers along, forbidden images beeped on and off in my memory. Images of my past. Of what I have become.
These wacky pictures I have suppressed. I didn't mean them to exist, but they still did.
It hit me.
In an instant, I am flooded by some ignorant tenets spiralling within my subconscious. My constant urge for control has backfired long before and I've only known it just now.
To begin, an empty vessel cannot fill itself when it doesn't have the material needed to be filled with. I can't love myself if I do not have love.
I clutched my face to hide my grin. In a way, it felt as though every pound makes my heart heavier than it was before.
So, this is how reality feels.