This always happens. I want something so much that it unhinges me. I hold on to it so tightly it breaks, from its solidity to fragments. From my sturdiness to doubt. So, so much doubt.
Did I fuck up for leaving my work hanging from last year? The already-little confidence that dwindled when a local publishing company finally replied my e-mail, only to reject me.
Maybe the mistake started from the moment I decided to center my first novel around Wind, Rose, Flame. A story that has now long expired, a useless friendship tattooed on my back years ago.
Maybe it was the coloured-paper storybooks I made in primary school, or the diary entries from secondary school. Maybe it was the blog posts I furiously typed out in year one in place of overdue assignments. Or the poems I scribbled in my notebook on the morning bus rides to work.
I have fallen in love so deeply that I am now unsure. The happiness scares me sometimes, I think it's me at my most vulnerable. Anything can happen. Anything can break. Flames die out, except the ones sparked from anger. Nothing has changed, yet everything is different. I am high, but I am in the best place to fall to my death.
Once upon a time I thought a better man and a better job would bring me out this pit. A better man brings tiny nephews and a better job brings colleagues exactly twenty weeks pregnant. A better me brings silent cries and carefully hidden pain. Who do I blame when everything is okay?
Now it's dawning on me that the higher I am, the deeper my trough.
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