Years back, when this twitter was born and came into scene, never did I imagine getting hooked into it. “Duh, that’s only for stalkers and bashers following and despising their idols, respectively “- and here’s what I made up my mind then. Not until I learned how it affects my routinely, boring life. Twitter spiced up those blunt, passing moments. Twitter proved it’s worth tweeting sometimes.
Hopping into my home tweets yesterday, something confronted me on the left pane of the screen. It was like tons of stormclouds carrying heavy rains (just in time for the cold weather) mashed down my being when I was left hanging for a series of seconds thinking of what I can respond to that simple trending hashtag behind. That moment seemed to be in synergy with my current dull mood. Radically, I’m pushed by my inner self to be upset, knowing that this would just rewind some good old memories that can barely happen again as of the meantime. It may be the doomsday one has ever expected. It may be the most disappointing feeling of unanswering the one-million peso jackpot question of a game show. It may be the “worsest” way of welcoming the New Year indeed.
One year had passed after I’ve walked on my own path. It’s been one year already since I learned to grab a bite in places I never used to be with solitude, engage to malling and buy stuffs my way, and simply sit on the benches while others’ hands tightly grasp those of their partners and sway during a long walk. Blame Kühbler-Ross for his DABDA grieving process and my bipolar nursing professor as well. Your ideas truly lifted my spirit now and made me the contrasting figure of The Script’s single: The Man who can
‘t be move d, I guess.
They tease me. And I can’t deny the fact that some thoughts linger deep down my senses. More often than not, when such things came into scene in front of me, I’ve somehow had regrets, especially when parting became the reason of us being happy in our own ways. But no, I came up with it so as to focus on our own tracks and personally, to chase my dream (but not that she wasn’t a part of that) to become one of the best fascia-slicers in town. I suppose that made me courage the cowardly dog then, and that hurts. The fact of yielding and deciding hurt more than being stitched. Relative to the gist of this post, I collected some tweets with such hashtag and I opposed to almost every thought I’ve read.
“#WhatHurtsMost being catheterized” – Tsk. But that may be tolerable.
“#WhatHurtsMost Stepping on a lego”? – Poor you, I have a high pain tolerance.
“#WhatHurtsMost Paper cuts”? That is a so-childhood-fear!
But hey, I guess this one’s made me accompanied:
“#WhatHurtsMost Being broken, it’s like you don’t want to get out of bed, don’t want to talk to anyone, and get mad at everything.” – Exactly. High five to that*
The firsts are always the ones most enduring and the one that can withstand the test of time, despite everything, in spite of everything. More than any superficial pains one could undergo, this may be the worst thing we can ever experience. Recognizing the fact that you were hurt is as patching things up towards acceptance providing you with serenity and inner peace.
That simple twitter hashtag that popped out may have caused agonizing mementos of the past, but then again I am grateful to what it brought for me.
Now #WhatHurtsMost for you too?