Moving on.

Fuck this. I woke up this morning and took a good look at myself.

I am not going to feel sorry for myself.

So what? I am stressed but I'm only making myself sick stressing more about that stress and not doing anything about it but worrying myself.

No more. I am going to do what I have to do and I will do it and I will not be wallowing in self-pity anymore.

I can do this. I know my own potential. I know my strengths and my weaknesses and I will not let my weakness overcome me, not now. Not when I'm in a crucial state of my being.

I will do what I need to be done, not because it has to be done, but for me. Because in the end, all my stress about my issues, will they benefit me and I will do it right. I will reclaim my attitude of taking over my damn world because I live it, it is my world and right now I don't like it very much. And when I get a friend, a cousin, bitching and complaining about how depress, how sad, how stress, how much they dislike their lives, I tell them: there's only one thing you can do.

And that's change it. So here we go. I'm doing this. No more poor little me's. I know how strong I am and I know my strive and what I have, I am unlimited. The only person who limits myself from achieving anything is myself, and I did that for a long time. No more. I will not limit myself for I am infinite.

Just breathe.

So I did it, and as soon as I did it, I removed it from my facebook so no one could comment on it but they can still see it on their newsfeed even though it's not in mine anymore.

I don't want anyone to comment on it. I don't want anyone to notice it. I don't want anyone to question me about it but at the same time, I want to be a bit truthful with it, just thought I would put it out there and change it and see if he would noticed it, even though I know he won't changed his for the same reason I don't advertise my changed relationship status on facebook.

Because he knows, like I know, if we do make that changed, the questions, the need to know from our friends and family would be endless and we're not at that point. I don't know if we'll reach that point, I'm not thinking that far ahead. These days, I'm not even thinking, all I'm doing is feeling and not all of it is good, but even when it's bad, and it's hurting me, I rather feel than not feel. I rather not fall back into that state of uncaring, of numbness, of not being able to do anything because I pretended so hard that I didn't need it. Didn't need a heart, didn't need romantic love, didn't need any of that, that I can reach my self-actualizations and this idea of a person of who I am to be, of reaching my potential all by myself because it was better that way. But. He. Reminds. Me.

He reminds me of how intoxicating beautifully it can be. The feelings that I have held back in reserve, ignoring, pretending, not caring, all come up with such an intensity that I am enveloped in emotions I can't control but wash over so gently that it becomes a comfort, even though he is 'officially' gone. But even though he is, he's still here to me, for me, and he keeps calling me back again and every time I answer, I'm not thinking anymore, I am emotions in form of a person.

I don't know what I'm doing anymore and that's okay. I'm coming to terms with it. Coming to terms with him, with his past, with my past, with everything, and right now I just need to find that balance that will make me feel complete, not just in this, but in my writing, in my dreams, and I will be a form of potential that I thought I couldn't reach because I wasn't being love and now I am.

And because of it, I know what I can do now. I can write that novel that I couldn't write back in November because I felt like a charlatan writing a summer romance novel when my heart was dead. My heart isn't dead anymore, but I'm afraid still to tell him, to have him read how much my past meant to me, and I'm not talking about my ex.

I'm talking about that writer and how he touched me with his words and how much he means to me and how everytime I write I feel closer to him. How certain songs remind me of him and just makes me look back at that photo he sent me of him and that one of us, and I'm reminded of my second novel, SR, and how if I open it, I will see how I yearned to be another person and how much I worked to stand out, just stand out and hoped to make myself shine in his eyes as more than a reader, so he could acknowledge me as a writer and even as I write this, I start thinking about my third novel, of which I am full of hope for and I want to write in it, no matter how ugly it is to write it, how ugly it makes me feel because of the subject of it, and I want to write in it to make myself feel complete and to make him aware of just who I am.

I want to breathe in the ocean air and know that one day maybe. Hope alive, and hope burns. And my heart beats again and I hope, and with that hope I love.

Is it?

Lust can be a mistake, over and over and over. We make mistakes based on lusts and bodily urges that are fleeting and disappear once our satisfaction is attained.

But as I wandered in between the market aisle this morning, somewhere between the soaps and laundry detergents sections I realized that love, love can never be a mistake. The situation may be all types of messed up but the love itself isn't a mistake and never will be.