What?

Have got this whole sucky feeling, again.

It all came again, the time when you think all is well, and knowing also all is actually not well.

I think I am speaking no more than a 100 words everyday. Again.

The need for communication? I don't think it is exclusive to women. A majority means there is a minority. The minority is often ignored.

It feels as though I have hit the glass ceiling. And the sky is too far away.

It sucks to miss cell group. It sucks to want to talk but there isn't really anyone I really want to talk to.

It sucks to go to sleep with a headache. It sucks more to wake up with the same headache.

It sucks to be full and not to have the hunger. It sucks more to know that malnutrition is still there despite feeling full.

Is there really anyone in this world whom I can really bare my hearts to? Or is there anyone who can really take these raw stuff?

Two is better than one. Yeah, right.

It sucks to wake up in the middle of the night knowing that I have to go back to sleep. And yet I can't.

It really sucks to wake up to a struggle against carnal flesh. And the cheerful face isn't there to help me, whoever it might be. It is not as though I have woken up to anyone cheerful before. To "FALL IN!!!", yes I have.

My hair has never felt the brush of love ever since I was 16. And I do yearn for it. It is quite sick of my own fingers, hair gel and shampoo actually.

The pillow has gotten all the love from me, for I hug it to sleep every night.

There are seven "it sucks" here. And I got to keep running, literally. It sucks too. Okay, eight.

Keep running alone that is.

He feels indifferent nowadays. He has turned His face from me. Let me get around Him then. But I don't know how many miles that is.

"The gates of hell shall not prevail against it". I have no strength to proclaim.

Persistent faith, dry and hard. Yet it will never die, I will hang on like the black figure on the pull-up bar at the top level of Vivocity. He is still hanging there, still doing pull-ups.

Feels like screaming, fear of complaints. It sucks. Nine.

Hate to be obliged to hang out, but yearn to really have a group of people to hang out with.

Where is that young love? That innocent, heart-racing, adrenaline-inducing confession we used to experience. Now it is all corrupted with lust, sex and alcohol. Those short skirts and plunging necklines, and those rubbish mambo music. Thank God I haven't seen and touched drugs. I hate it.

Cigarettes smoke really stinks, but smoking it is actually really quite therapeutic, despite that tarred advertisement. But no thanks. No more.

Some of us might already have it, that nice morning kiss. That nice morning greetings. "Good morning darling." Let me pass on, abrogate the need please.

Where is that cozy hug and the chat till day break? I said pass on already.

And that sunrise. Ugh stop it.

The fishing jetty, the tango of the evening. The breeze in your hair. The eyes shut wide in ardent serenity.

The tied hands above the corals, the glistening blue, the golden yellow. And that two sets of footprints impressed upon the edge of the tides.

"......"

So that is what happens when there is only myself. It is myself VS myself. Not so fun.

Some perks but more troubles? I don't agree. Or at least I don't want to agree. The power of confession. It is going to be great in the name of Jesus Christ.

But I don't know when. I am not sane. 'Cause it's driving me so to even ask.

It all sounds just like gibberish, sorry... Well nobody really understands anyway. Or it's really not an obligation for anyone to understand. Or as though anyone really cares to understand. Or does anyone really need to understand.

Perhaps the only thing that makes sense here is "the minority is often ignored".

Gibberish is what there is left when there are no obligations to be obliged to, no worries to attend to, no social functions to perform. When world news doesn't really matter. When no news is good news, and good news because I wanted no news.

It sucks, really, to know that my heart and mind are all troubled by gibberish. Yup, I told her that we all feel like this once in a while.

Ten. I surrender.