I Am The Architect of My Own Destruction

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For those who feel suicidal, alone, destructive, broken, tired, lost, depressed, existential anxiety, pessimistic, detached from reality, sadly in love and the meaninglessness of human existence. This book is for you and me and for everyone who’s searching for survival, healing, recovery, and understanding.

I hope this poetry collection gives you the hope that you deserve. I hope this poetry collection brings out the dreamer that’s within your tender soul. I hope this poetry collection touches your heart in some way and encourage you to live your life despite the suffering because suicide is not a choice and there’s nothing selfish about wanting to end everything and all I’m simply saying is that you deserve to be okay and sometimes that’s better than happiness. 

Truthfully, I myself am not yet completely recovered, and I still feel suicidal sometimes, and it’s a very dark place to be in and I want you to know that I created this collection inside that very dark place and I still want to live because I choose to believe that I am loved even if I don’t matter much at all as a person. I choose to believe that I am loved and that matters. 🙂

I Am The Architect of My Own Destruction is available on Amazon. For every review, I promise to dedicate a piece of writing to you. 🙂

You can purchase the book here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1721578641 

For Goodreads users, you can leave a rating/review here: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40603073-i-am-the-architect-of-my-own-destruction 

I am deeply grateful for your support in this dark piece of my soul. 🙂

I wish you all hope, love, and healing. ✿ 

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Late Bloomers Club

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Don’t worry too much about blooming late in life, my friend. As late bloomers, we ourselves understand that great things take time. We tend to learn from the experiences of others who’ve bloomed so early in life in order for us to make the right choices and in order for us to avoid making the wrong ones. We tend to appreciate our milestones more for the very reason that we ourselves know that life is not a race. Life is about focusing on the progress we make on our own fucking pace for we weren’t born to fit in—we were born for the sole purpose of blooming patiently, gracefully and without a doubt—brilliantly. So be brave, my friend and be your own kind of magic.

millennials

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suddenly,
you’re twenty
and you have nine
years left to be a success.

 
that’s what 
the world wants
to tell us these days.

 
it’s either 
you’re twenty-nine
and happily married
with a business like a 
cupcake store or like a 
carwash

 
and if you don’t
have any of those, 
well,

 
that’s it for you, 
you’re finished, 
you’re doomed.

 
but it doesn’t
have to be that way.

 
life is not
about the destination
and life is not about the journey
either.

 
life is about
growing for yourself
on your own healthy pace.

 
late bloomers are 
real and things take time.

 
things take time.

mind dump, suffering, pure-ocd.

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This is more of a mind dump than it is a properly structured post. I want to write freely, quickly and confidently like before. I guess behind writing poetry, prose, and quotes I also want to write personal essays, and I’ve been reading some stuff about how to create one, and this is one way to create one—by writing in a stream of consciousness to keep the creative juices flowing.

I actually like writing in freestyle because it reminds me of the time when blogging was simply blogging. Just taking everything that’s in my head and writing it down and feeling good about doing so. It’s therapeutic writing about anything, but it can also be self-destructive. For me, at least. 

Anxiety and Pure-OCD really do affect my writing even if I don’t want to and if something feels wrong, I will delete it. You see, I even have this thing about the word count being perfect. Let’s call it “word count ocd” just in case someone might search this term on google. I like the feeling that bam! It’s exactly 500 words or 300 words or 60 words since six is like a “magical number” that my brain likes to think it is and eight is like a “bad luck number” that my brain likes to think it is.

This is one of the things that makes me want to kill myself because it’s so fucking weird and it makes me feel so fucking alone. I’ve already picked my destination to jump, and there are simply 108 days left for me to live.

I’ll be leaving my last collection which is beautiful nothingness. I have nothing to say about it for now. I’m sleep deprived again, and I can feel the weight of darkness pushing me deeper in this sea of uncertainty.

If my cause of death could be summarized in a single word, it’s uncertainty 

Healing Is Boring

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Healing is not always soft clothes, a bubble bath with scented candles, acoustic music, and black coffee. Sometimes healing is boring. Sometimes healing is sleeping early, taking your medications at the right prescribed time, cleaning your room, taking mindful afternoon walks and meditating at least ten minutes per day.

Healing is not always a magical moment you get from watching a Ted talk or reading an online self-help article. Sometimes healing isn’t glamorous. Sometimes healing is simply doing the boring work that takes daily practice, self-control, and strong commitment because it’s not something that happens overnight. Sometimes you simply have to take a step back and cleanse yourself from technology every once in a while and discover parts of yourself that you can cultivate into helping you survive that next panic attack.

Healing is not always as exciting as looking at the stars but focusing on your progress and making serious efforts in taking care of yourself as you remember to breathe will eventually lead you to a place where you can find some beauty in your road to recovery.

Life’s but a walking shadow, Shakespeare wrote.

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If there’s no other way.

If there’s nothing that can make these obsessions go away.

Then nothing in this world could make me stay. 

 

I have a date in mind, and that’s March 3, 2019, my original plan since I was in the process of writing my second poetry collection. I guess this is my fate and I have 122 days left on this blue planet of ours.

Sometimes I wonder what’s beyond this human existence. I hope it will be lovely. But there’s always an idea in the back of my head that there’s nothing. It will be like fading into an eternal sleep where I’ll never wake up.

Suicide is now my shield for suffering. I’ll focus on the things that matter to me before I depart. In the end, I’ll always be alone, and it’s better to die alone peacefully than to live alone and forever stand at the edge of insanity.

 

Life will be over before I know it.