The Moment I First Learned How To Listen

I thought I was so in love with myself. And it is important that you understand that I do not fall easily. You see, I only fall for those who see the world in multiple of shades and pages. And that was how I thought I was back in 2019.

I remember when everything used to move freely and when touch was something we could still devour just anytime we wish, I thought I have found who I really am. I was 18 and everything felt real—it was all far from good and right, but I saw things and how they really look like. Or so how I thought they do. This perception of myself, I believe, stemmed from how I grew up blessed to have the opportunity of indulging myself in the comforts of knowledge written down in books around me. I am a big fan of storytelling and I was able to hear and read stories of people all around the world and witness the immense stretch of magic a person has in their body and all the treasures they could do with it, and that inspired me to become a person who sees the better in everyone and everything and the kind who has their doors open wide for understanding differences. And with that, I thought I was better. I thought I understood that the realities in life goes beyond the multicolored dreams we have projected in films and songs. And maybe that's true. But I was a firm believer of that—of how life is more of a grey than white, and I built my youth thinking like that. I was cynical and I did not noticed how detached I had been not until the lockdown hit me straight in the face.

When the pandemic happened and the first quarantine lockdown was implemented, I realized how I took advantage of so many things all in the name of proving myself upright. I learned that amongst the many unfortunate events and negative influences that killed my youth, I, myself, also stood at the front and was even the one who pulled the trigger. I now understand how cruel I have been to myself all those years and time in the past for keeping myself from breathing and actually living just so I become something that would fit the little miss perfect of a narrative that people around me have of me. And all those months in isolation from what used to be my world have been a rollercoaster ride. I had my bad days. And they were so bad and they lasted so long that I have learned how to accept the fact that it's okay to be messed up. I have learned how to recognize the things that are out of my control and that it is fine to yield and step back once they happen. And with that, I had my better times.

I have told you about my fascination with storytelling and hearing other people's stories. Yet with the silence of the vacant spaces the lockdown has left beside me, I have come to see how hypocrite I was with that specific fancy of mine. Because for years and years, I have shut down the own storyteller in me. And although I am not very good with words, I know I have so much to say. I held my silence, craddling it in my arms like a trophy despite the heavy and the bruise it cost me for years, and I am wounded. These wounds painted me another picture of myself—crimson and abstract, from where I realized finding ourselves is not a one-time thing. Because in us is a vast cosmic novel of lives created with the every single memory, song, flavor, and step we make, included the ones we have gained from how our strings got tangled with other people's. This journey is what marks the truth as to how life changes like the weather and how we can always choose to live that multicolored dream-like subplots in our favorite rom-com movie. For you see, anything can be done. Because truly living is a choice just as like how letting yourself be human and learning how to still love yourself still despite the bad is.

(I hope you guys enjoy this article, haha! the title is kinda lame because i could not think of anything better especially it's already 11 PM here and this is my first time so I'm still all over the place and still trying to get the hang of it all. Thanks for coming by if you did. I appreciate it a lot. xoxo)