lucky day

I'm containing the tears. Trying hard to. Dad's here. Can't cry. Don't wanna cry.

One tear fell. Then another. No more. My hands are shaking as I held my phone. As I touch my face. As I write these lines. My friend is not here. I texted three. Two replied from the same number. I am not alone.

You have to be valued... you have to value yourself as well."

The lines make sense but I cannot hold it in my hand. If I could only go inside a mirror and stay inside for all time: a reflection of the eyes that stopped existing.

My intuition is flashing a warning sign; I am aware of the worst possibilities. But I'm helpless. I'm strong, but I'm helpless. If I could only let my tears flow, I'll be strong again, but a knock from my dad would cost me a lot. Pride, you might say. I don't want him to see me this weak. I've never cried in front of my dad. I've been angry in his presence, and often the anger was directed at him. But I haven't ever cried in front of papa.

Now, I am tempted to knock at his door and break down. But I won't. I want to, but I won't. I can't.

I want to go away. Walk. Get lost somewhere. Go to an isolated place. Or a crowded place. Where no one could hear my heart drown in its own addiction. Happiness. Misery.

Masochist.

7-7-7. 7/7/7. 777. Lucky numbers. Lucky day. Maybe for the rest of the people in the world.

Swallow me whole just so I can stop thinking. And feeling. And writing. Turn me into a lyric poem, with my personal tragedies and pains. And my luck. Such luck.

I've done my part well, I said to the Heavens on my way home. When will You ever do yours for me? I still exist. I'm also Your child.

Insurance cases. Torts. I'm damaged and unproductive.

Tried my best to be happy during his silence and coldness. To be patient. Understanding. Told my dad to stop being so cynical and self-righteous. That pessimism is bad. But as my spirit is crumbling down, I can't help but wish I were like that too. It's true. Idealism smashes your faith in the end, so much that you don't have to sit in the curb and wait for a car to ram against you. To crash into you.

I made patience my virtue but for whatever my efforts were worth, they obviously were wasted.

And so I wait for my niece, my 16 year-old niece, who's as childish and as unfeeling as can be, to come home. I'm hoping her presence can give me comfort somehow. Or that maybe she can make me forget my tears. Momentarily.

Maybe later, when all the lights are out, I'll let myself cry.