Disconnection.

I write when I'm sad and I have the time. As you can see (or rather, not see), I just don't have the time to be sad. Everything moves so fast, I had to keep up. It finally came to a point that I have to give up and go easy on myself. So what ought to be just a five-day vacation was extended by another week. I dropped a class. I quit my extra-curricular activities. I extended my leave at my actual work, which is a big risk that I'm willing to take given my current state. And for the first time ever, I deactivated my Facebook.

Just last Saturday, at a drinking session, I woke up to a sorority sister recounting how I was the one who encouraged her to hold on during the remolding process four years ago. And how I wish that I'm as strong as my words are. That my life was as pretty and interesting as my social media posts. That I'm as happy-go-lucky and loud as I seem. Because now I feel bad that whenever someone confides in me thoughts of giving up and taking a break, I can no longer encourage them to face life's challenges. Because I've given up on life myself.

I write the things that I can't tell anyone. Even then, they remain drafts, notes, or private posts. I'm still anxious to share it for even strangers to read. It's about time for people to know that I'm not the person they think I am. I need to break out of my shell.