Sometimes when I read certain articles or posts, my mind automatically and immediately goes "Thought Catalog" material". Having been a relatively staunch follower of Thought Catalog since I first learned of its sublime existence, and especially so in the recent few months, the term "TC material" has unprecedentedly become my personal sweeping adjective for the plethora of exceptionally superb writing, that are somehow almost always (perhaps inevitably) uninhibitedly dripping with vast degrees of emo-ness (or emotions per se). So for one, I am hereby proclaiming my current ardent devotion for Thought Catalog and its mind-blowing magnificent articles, which more often than not have a way of striking all the right chords and pitching close enough to home to drive a message through without being overly blatant – especially pieces by Chelsea Fagan (yes I am now a fan of her work truly, she is magic)

Another thing I have to just put out there is, emo writing (as I shall choose to call it, which can casually be defined by my own terms as work produced in a particularly distraught or distressed state of mind) somehow always finds its way into the category of good writing. That's one point for Emotions, zero for self-control. I mean, honestly, we have to face this undeniable truth. That often seemingly unbearable onslaught of turbulent emotions, and the maniacal emotional upheaval that rips you apart and shreds the vestiges of your ebbing pleasant-state-of-mind-ness, do inexplicably and irrefutably give for incredibly praise-worthy writing. Or any kind of self-expressive art for that matter. I am fairly certain I have written about said connection between (negative) emotions and writing before in the past, with regards to my personal experiences of grappling with paradigm-shifting mood oscillations (pardon my tendency to exaggerate), and how it curiously translates into better writing. I do believe in this, really, that one who is perhaps in a rather dark place somehow produces better art.

Ok that was entirely not suppose to be the gist of my post tonight, but oh how I love to digress.

---

I was reading someone's blog tonight. And wow did the words of that author hit me. Hard. In the stomach. Like badly executed punches raining torrentially into me. Pow pow pow slamming hard in my abdomen, leaving me sore and defenceless as the aftermath of the figurative assault manifests in a heavy heart and a disquieted mind. I am speechless, aghast.

You make me feel as though I don't have the right – at all – to be unhappy. Silently, I am put to immense shame. As I read the posts, each and every one of them, line by line word by word, ingesting every paragraph in its complete entirety, I was drawn deeper and deeper into someone else's world. It was like falling down a bottomless rabbit hole; watching someone else's life flash before you as you plummet farther and farther into the perpetual darkness.

It's just, I never knew. We never knew.

I wish I could tell you I understand what you're going through, but I don't. For my personal truckload of issues and problems, unresolved or otherwise, appear so so trifle in comparison. For what I initially perceived to be a humongous pile of mess before me has now instantaneously disintegrated into a close-to-negligible pile of dust. Those problems probably appeared so large because we were standing so close to them. And now, they have dramatically reduced in size because you have taken a step back, maybe two or more, in order to take a look at someone else's share of crap, and as you turn to look over your shoulder at your amassment, you realise, hey it actually doesn't seem that formidable afterall. It does not occur to you that you are simply standing a couple yards away from the exact same heap that you began with.

I wish I could say, come give me a bit of your pain, let me lighten you load. Because the pain of others always seem more unbearable than your own. Somehow when you preoccupy yourself with the worries and issues of another person, it takes your mind off your inessential baggage. Even if it is just that little bit. Perhaps that is why I indulge in resolving conflicts and alleviating pain – as long as it is not my own. That is the power of comparison, isn't it? Yes, what you are dealing with it bad. But it is not at all as bad as hers. I would not consider myself having possess any outstanding martyr-like tendencies or the likes of selfless heroism, but I always feel the pressing urge to step up and offer to shoulder off a portion of someone else's pain. It pains me to see another suffer; in that moment, I overestimate the level of my threshold for pain, I forget what actual pain feels like.

I wish I could do something substantial to help – play god, change your deck, review your fate – but I can't. A mere bystander at the site of your tragic collision, watching forlornly as the vehicle of your sanity combusts into flames, as the remnants of the facade your artfully disguised past are greedily consumed by the uncontrollable inferno, leaving behind the ugly unmasked truth, shrivelling in the tongues of fire. Obliterated to partial oblivion; unwanted traces remain. Walking over the charred asphalt, watching the clouds of grey ash rise pathetically under footsteps before falling back down after what seemed like a futile attempt to remain suspended. I picture you, just like the ashes, struggling to rouse yourself from your unforgivable state of emotional wreckage, with the eventual concede to being trampled down thoroughly – limp, defiled, burned out. Just like the ashes. Formally I once wrote, those who are aware but stand by passively offering no help are just as bad as those who intentionally allow themselves to remain ignorant. The feeling of hypocrisy in the pit of my stomach is like soured bile threatening to resurface. I really wish I could help you, I really do.

And it is perspective-galvanising to realise how terribly small and helpless you can feel. I feel obliged to say it, but truly, I'm sorry.

---

Contrary to the supposed tone of this entry, I had an amazing day today. Beyond amazing, in fact, which is no doubt quite a rarity of late. But it was a splendid day -- seeing familiar faces and catching up with old friends, telling jokes and wiping tears (of glee), dishing gossip and trading heartbreaks, feasting on junk food and gorging on the beautiful sound of unrestrained laughter. It was lovely seeing my primary school friends again, even those who I failed to keep in touch with. Oh how I miss the days of '08, life back then was oh so good. Today was a good day.

Sometimes when I read certain articles or posts, my mind automatically and immediately goes "Thought Catalog" material". Having been a relatively staunch follower of Thought Catalog since I first learned of its sublime existence, and especially so in the recent few months, the term "TC material" has unprecedentedly become my personal sweeping adjective for the plethora of exceptionally superb writing, that are somehow almost always (perhaps inevitably) uninhibitedly dripping with vast degrees of emo-ness (or emotions per se). So for one, I am hereby proclaiming my current ardent devotion for Thought Catalog and its mind-blowing magnificent articles, which more often than not have a way of striking all the right chords and pitching close enough to home to drive a message through without being overly blatant – especially pieces by Chelsea Fagan (yes I am now a fan of her work truly, she is magic)

Another thing I have to just put out there is, emo writing (as I shall choose to call it, which can casually be defined by my own terms as work produced in a particularly distraught or distressed state of mind) somehow always finds its way into the category of good writing. That's one point for Emotions, zero for self-control. I mean, honestly, we have to face this undeniable truth. That often seemingly unbearable onslaught of turbulent emotions, and the maniacal emotional upheaval that rips you apart and shreds the vestiges of your ebbing pleasant-state-of-mind-ness, do inexplicably and irrefutably give for incredibly praise-worthy writing. Or any kind of self-expressive art for that matter. I am fairly certain I have written about said connection between (negative) emotions and writing before in the past, with regards to my personal experiences of grappling with paradigm-shifting mood oscillations (pardon my tendency to exaggerate), and how it curiously translates into better writing. I do believe in this, really, that one who is perhaps in a rather dark place somehow produces better art.

Ok that was entirely not suppose to be the gist of my post tonight, but oh how I love to digress.

---

I was reading someone's blog tonight. And wow did the words of that author hit me. Hard. In the stomach. Like badly executed punches raining torrentially into me. Pow pow pow slamming hard in my abdomen, leaving me sore and defenceless as the aftermath of the figurative assault manifests in a heavy heart and a disquieted mind. I am speechless, aghast.

You make me feel as though I don't have the right – at all – to be unhappy. Silently, I am put to immense shame. As I read the posts, each and every one of them, line by line word by word, ingesting every paragraph in its complete entirety, I was drawn deeper and deeper into someone else's world. It was like falling down a bottomless rabbit hole; watching someone else's life flash before you as you plummet farther and farther into the perpetual darkness.

It's just, I never knew. We never knew.

I wish I could tell you I understand what you're going through, but I don't. For my personal truckload of issues and problems, unresolved or otherwise, appear so so trifle in comparison. For what I initially perceived to be a humongous pile of mess before me has now instantaneously disintegrated into a close-to-negligible pile of dust. Those problems probably appeared so large because we were standing so close to them. And now, they have dramatically reduced in size because you have taken a step back, maybe two or more, in order to take a look at someone else's share of crap, and as you turn to look over your shoulder at your amassment, you realise, hey it actually doesn't seem that formidable afterall. It does not occur to you that you are simply standing a couple yards away from the exact same heap that you began with.

I wish I could say, come give me a bit of your pain, let me lighten you load. Because the pain of others always seem more unbearable than your own. Somehow when you preoccupy yourself with the worries and issues of another person, it takes your mind off your inessential baggage. Even if it is just that little bit. Perhaps that is why I indulge in resolving conflicts and alleviating pain – as long as it is not my own. That is the power of comparison, isn't it? Yes, what you are dealing with it bad. But it is not at all as bad as hers. I would not consider myself having possess any outstanding martyr-like tendencies or the likes of selfless heroism, but I always feel the pressing urge to step up and offer to shoulder off a portion of someone else's pain. It pains me to see another suffer; in that moment, I overestimate the level of my threshold for pain, I forget what actual pain feels like.

I wish I could do something substantial to help – play god, change your deck, review your fate – but I can't. A mere bystander at the site of your tragic collision, watching forlornly as the vehicle of your sanity combusts into flames, as the remnants of the facade your artfully disguised past are greedily consumed by the uncontrollable inferno, leaving behind the ugly unmasked truth, shrivelling in the tongues of fire. Obliterated to partial oblivion; unwanted traces remain. Walking over the charred asphalt, watching the clouds of grey ash rise pathetically under footsteps before falling back down after what seemed like a futile attempt to remain suspended. I picture you, just like the ashes, struggling to rouse yourself from your unforgivable state of emotional wreckage, with the eventual concede to being trampled down thoroughly – limp, defiled, burned out. Just like the ashes. Formally I once wrote, those who are aware but stand by passively offering no help are just as bad as those who intentionally allow themselves to remain ignorant. The feeling of hypocrisy in the pit of my stomach is like soured bile threatening to resurface. I really wish I could help you, I really do.

And it is perspective-galvanising to realise how terribly small and helpless you can feel. I feel obliged to say it, but truly, I'm sorry.

---

Contrary to the supposed tone of this entry, I had an amazing day today. Beyond amazing, in fact, which is no doubt quite a rarity of late. But it was a splendid day -- seeing familiar faces and catching up with old friends, telling jokes and wiping tears (of glee), dishing gossip and trading heartbreaks, feasting on junk food and gorging on the beautiful sound of unrestrained laughter. It was lovely seeing my primary school friends again, even those who I failed to keep in touch with. Oh how I miss the days of '08, life back then was oh so good. Today was a good day.