Ok. I am going to say something here. I’m itching to buy a couple of clothing that I know I don’t need from out of the country. This means more money will go towards shipping but I’m thinking about it nonetheless. I’ve been at it the whole day (now that I have more time in my hands and ignoring the garage clutter), I’m just a click away from buying. For the record, it’s a local brand that I love from my home country and surprised that they do international shipping. I know I don’t need them, and I’ve been hesitating, but the urge. Oh my the urge! I will fight this! I can fight this! Pardon my post, I feel the need to let it out.
Nobody asked if you’re okay, while you lay sleeping, pillow wet with tears. Nobody asked how you were doing when your heart shreds to pieces, nobody hears. Nobody asked what keeps you moving, when your movement trudge slowly and painfully. Nobody asked, while you look far beyond what you can’t see, lost in the moment of utter confusion. You came back from your deep thoughts, what they are, you don’t know. You shrug off your melancholy, and carry on with life.
Most of the time, people are afraid to ask if you’re okay, not because they don’t care but because they are uncertain how to handle your truths, and that is fine. Because, human as we are, we continue to live, and…
My husband works, while I stay at home. So, I do the laundry. I alone do the laundry, and that’s the way I like it.
In general, moms do all the work while having full time jobs. I salute them because I don’t think I would be able to do all the work around the house like in the video. I wasn’t built not to share the load. My husband on the other hand, was raised helpful, he was brought up to help around the house, along with his siblings, hence…
When I’m busy, or doing nothing at all, he helps me in the kitchen. He washes the dishes most of the time, prepare food for us when I can’t or won’t. I know at times he doesn’t like it, but he helps me anyway.
He helps me around the house most of the time, so I wanted to do the laundry all by myself. He can help me fold them though, but the laundry is mine.
I know it’s different for everybody, and I can only share what is mine. Yet it comes down to the family, how we were nurtured, and if it’s in our nature. Outside of that, I presume change?
At times, the mundane makes me unappreciative of the little things that makes up my life and my family. Like the light I see in those eyes, and the smiles on those faces when I say I love you. The touch of milk that left happy marks, the markers written on those walls, on those legs, on the mattress. The jumps of joy when I brought something you all really like. The pretensions of sleeping because I told you all to do. The disappointments on those faces when I don’t listen enough, the creases on those brows when irritated. The fear on your faces when I give that certain look. The contentment of holding you all in my arms.
How can I ever put that in words?
I don’t know what to say.
I’m filled with emotions
that cannot be identified
with mere words.
I want to come up
with a better description.
to express how much I feel
but I can’t.
In the end,
I can only smile.
Everything leaves me
When one writes a list, what comes to mind? Does it always start with likes and dislikes?
Mine’s a mixture of wants and to-dos, of chores and priorities in listed queues.
Those that I needed to finish today, and ones that are bound to be listed come what may.
Like the laundry that seems to be never ending, and the kitchen that I use for family feeding.
Then there are some that I can cross out my list, for once they are done they cease to exist.
Like calling to cancel a reservation, or taking an exam for certification.
And then there’s a list of the things that I want, and some that’s exclusively all about rants!
One list includes all my favorite shows, the other one lists all quotable quotes.
See my list is mundane, accounts of my chores. There’s nothing special, it’s a little bit bore.
Yet it helps me a lot when crossing a task, a sense of relief when I finish at dusk.
I write to ease myself from the winding thoughts inside my head.
I write to make sense of all the things I’ve left unsaid.
I write to give myself alternatives.
I write to capture my thoughts before it leaves.
Why do I write?
I write to make myself remember.
I write because I’d like to look back in September.
I write to give my mind some space.
I write to keep small memories from dwindling in a haze.
Why do I write?
I write because I love to write.
I write because it keeps my sanity in a bind.
I write since it is my therapy.
I write simply because it makes me happy.