Parade.

On Running.

I found myself spending more time with activities that make my mind fly into different places. Things that make me clear everything as if it (the mind) came into a blank slate, things that made me forget. Though the internet may seem to be the deadliest of all, thanks to some technological glitches, I was able to stop roaming around the web the reminds me of everything.

I started having wheezes when I was in my Elementary days. Anything that deals with sports, I say no to it. As I get older, I felt jealous of those women who are physically strong, swimming, playing tennis and all that shit.

Last year, I started to jog. I wasn’t consistent, like doing it every week but I found myself a little bit of less than being “physically challenged” whenever I do it.

This year, my friends started running because one of them just lives right beside Clark Parade Grounds (where most Angeleños run) and I decided to join them. We’ve all been training together every day offs. Then the next thing is we were joining marathons.

I may not be the fastest or the one who can go on the farthest distance but finishing what I’ve started is feels like an accomplishment, most especially when you’re just sprints away from the finish line. This is my therapy.

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Boiling Point.

It’s a big heartbreak, realizing you’ve been hurt too much for too many times for the past two years. It’s tiring as if you’ve never learned your lesson. It’s hopeless because you’re in the brink of giving up on Love. It’s like, Here goes another failure. The next thing you know, you’re pretty damn scared and listening to “High and Dry” of The Radiohead like a loser. Now, I feel like every man is now tampered with a letter “A” on their forehead.

You ask yourself what’s wrong, if you did something wrong. You’re starting to question your maturity, attractiveness, personality and more importantly, your ability to love. Was it not enough? Am I really never enough?

And when flashbacks arrive, you have no other choice but to look for a lonely place where no one could see you cry and tell yourself, those boys won’t be here for you.

I know that no one deserves to be in this place, yet I’m still here. Forgiving them is the only gift I can give (last). Moving on and finding happiness will be mine.

It’s pretty depressing, isn’t it? No matter how we try to look okay, we can’t help but admit it. Because maybe this helps… Or maybe not. I don’t care.

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Bubblegum.

No matter how many heartbreaks we got, let’s not lose the hope on God’s perfect timing.

 

Flowers In Your Hair – The Lumineers 

When we were younger
We thought everyone was on our side
Then we grew a little
And romanticized the time I saw
Flowers in your hair

Takes a boy to live
Takes a man to pretend he was there

So then we grew a little
And knew a lot
And now we demonstrated it to the cops
And all the things we said
We were self assured

‘Cause it’s a long road to wisdom
It’s a short one to being ignored

Be in my eyes
Be in my heart
By in my eyes, eyeyeye
Be in my heart

So now I think that I could love you back
And I hope its not too late
‘Cause you’re so attractive
And the way you move
I won’t close my eyes

It takes a man to live
It takes a woman to make him compromise

Be in my eyes
Be in my heart
Be in my eyes, eyeyeye
Be in my heart

 

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No.

We are in constant reminder that we are always in competition with others. Let’s admit it, we always want to be better than them and with what they have. Otherwise, what is the point of working our asses off with the things that keep us busy? The thing is, there are times that it becomes unhealthy. When we tend to become better and better, sometimes insecurities add up on the list. We keep on following their moves not knowing we lose our confidence in ourselves.

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Sweetheart.

I began to draw an invisible boundary between myself and other people. No matter who I was dealing with. I maintained a set distance, carefully monitoring the person’s attitude so that they wouldn’t get any closer. I didn’t easily swallow what other people told me. My only passions were books and music.

Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart (via bookmania)
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