I feel as much as I think. I do both excessively.


by avrillorenzo

I can’t breathe.

There just too much going on and I’m having a hard time. I know I sound like I’m just whining and complaining like a wuss because other people have it harder than I do. But does that really take away my right to find things difficult? I’m just gonna stop worrying about that because I can’t handle it anymore.

I’m so tired.

I’m scared my thesis won’t pull through. Fuck, we haven’t even started and yet I’m already worried about this. I really like my proposed topic, but don’t know how to go about it. I’ve been reading, jumping from one proponent to another, and yet I’m still lost. There’s just so much pressure because this is my second and LAST chance with it. If I don’t pass, my life is ruined… and I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle that.

I started working recently. My only problem with it is time, it takes up too much of it. I guess I really couldn’t complain since the work is helping out with financial situations that I and my family are going through. But time is of the essence, all things considering; especially thesis and him. I make time. I distribute it evenly and make the most of it. But I feel like it’s not enough. He feels upset that we don’t get to spend time as much as we did before this whole fiasco. I do too. Dear God, I wish it was like before. I felt free, I had time, I felt like I can do a lot of things. But this reality is just getting so hard to face and I feel like I’m slowly losing grip of the only one who’s keeping me together.

We’ve been fighting a lot recently, crying. I lose sleep over it which is terrible because of how much of it I lose already. It’s just getting so hard to keep things together and I’m starting to feel alone. I’m not strong and I’m slowly losing it. My eyes hurt, my heart aches and I want to sleep but I can’t. I hate how whenever I make time, a bit of it is spent with us being upset or pissed. Why can’t we make the most out of it? I understand how he feels, really I do. Because if our roles were switched, if he was the one who had too much on his plate which would mean less time for me, I’d be damn upset too. But I would choose to make the most of the time that he’s going to give me. I’ll make sure that every time he’s with me, he’ll find his strength again. I’ll be his reminder that I can do it. I’ll be the one to tell him that it’s all okay. Even though it saddens me that he won’t have that much time for me like he used to, I won’t let that take over when I’m with him. He’s already having it hard as it is, why would I add to that? But that’s me, not him. I love who he is, how he is. But right now I’m having difficulty being strong enough for the both of us.

I can’t breathe.



by avrillorenzo

Looking out to a crappy view of buildings blocking the sky at twilight, I stand on a stool behind you, with my arms wrapped around your neck. You are tall. “The only reason,” you start, “that I’m not asking you is because it was your birthday yesterday.” I shake my head. What does it matter really? My birthday yesterday, us today. “As long as we celebrate both separately, I’m okay with it.” You turn to face me, your face seemingly like a shadow with the light behind you. The room is dark. It takes me a couple of seconds before I get a better glimpse of your face. But then you hug me. I can feel it, with your lips pressed on my shoulder ; the words are there on the tip of your tongue, my heart starts to dance. You pull away, I cradle your face with my hands. You are divine. “I want you to be my girlfriend.” The look in your eyes made me want to cry. “Then ask me.” You look at me different, my heart stops. Everything is quiet and your lips start to move. “Will you be my girlfriend?” I lean in, you meet me halfway. I feel the tremble on your lips, and I think you feel the tremble of my knees.


The crappy view, the dancing heart, the trembling knees : You are perfect. We are divine. I am tall.

20 février 2015

The scary thing about perfection.

by avrillorenzo

You called me perfect and it scared me.

I fail to find the perfection that you claim I am. But you argue that I’m perfect for you and it scared me. Sleeping on it made me realize that. I don’t want to be perfect for you. I don’t want to be perfect at all. But worst of all, I don’t want to be perfect for you.

Everybody strives to be perfect, one way or another. There’s nothing more satisfying than to be told that you’re perfect with something. Perfection is possible with one thing, but not everything. Tangible evidence? Perfect test scores, perfect run of a dance routine, perfect output or report.. Perfection is possible, but perfection is subjective. It is never a natural thing. There are factors that lead to such a state and it’s very much dependent on the person who does it and the person who sees it. It’s all based on standards and preferences.

So why am I scared of being perfect for you when it’s such a good thing that I meet your standards and preferences? Because no matter how satisfying and amazing it is to be perfect for you, I don’t want that. I want to be imperfect. It may be that I am what you’re looking for, but I also want to be something you aren’t looking for. I want you to acknowledge my flaws and consider them as flaws. I need you to see the ugly side of me and understand that it will always be there.

Another thing… I think being perfect for you is selfish. Does that make sense? It probably doesn’t. You see, for me it’s as if being perfect is unfair for you in a sense that there isn’t a ‘you’ in the reason why you love me. I’m not sure how I can explain this better but let me try. I would prefer it if the reason why you loved me is because of how I make you feel, not with how I meet your standards. I’m not sure if it’s right to claim that as selfishness, but I feel selfish if you love me because I’m perfect for you. It’s all me, no us in the mix. I can’t articulate myself properly but I hope I got my point across. If not, then consider this an imperfection then: failing to articulate and rationalize a claim.

After all that I’ve said, the real reason why being perfect for you scares me is that perfect is boring. There’s nothing more to me because I’ve already met your standards, I’m exactly what you prefer. There’s nowhere to go from that. Excitement is lost as well. There’s no thrill in being perfect for you. And it scares me that you’ll end up getting tired of me because of that. I don’t want you to get tired of me. I would like it if you keep finding flaws and have them become endearing to you. I would like it if you see my imperfections yet fall in love with them still. Because I have a lot of flaws, so that means that you’ll keep falling in love with me.

That statement sounds selfish but it’s the truth. I would know because I keep finding something about you that veers away from my standards of perfection and I keep loving you more for it.

I keep falling even more for you.


by avrillorenzo


I vividly remember the dream I had last night.

I was walking down a familiar route, the route which would lead me to where my friends hang-out: a stone table with benches. I had ‘meeting’ running through my mind while walking. When I got to my destination, I saw my friends at one side, and a few people who I didn’t know on the other. There was something like an invisible barrier between the two and it was only when I sat down that it broke and the two parties on either side started interacting.

I saw a pack of cigarettes. I even remember the brand: it was one of those cheap ones that you can get anywhere except for 7-11s. I was shocked to see who was holding the pack and offering it to a new friend I just made, who was sitting beside that person. Then, it was offered to me and I declined. All of a sudden, everybody stood up and moved to another stone table near by, except for me and that person.

It was you.

All of a sudden, my friends started teasing me and you were grinning at them. I was seriously confused as to how that could get such a reaction from you. When you turned back to me, your pack was gone and you were looking at me expectantly. I searched the bag I had with me and didn’t have my pack. So I told my friends that I was going to buy a pack and I asked you to come with me. You said yes and started walking away. Without even looking, I called you and told you to come back. I never got an answer. I continued to riffle through my bag, looking for something. I figure it was probably my wallet since I was to buy a pack of cigarettes. It probably took me a while since I remember repeating what I was doing, exactly from opening my bag to riffling through it to pulling my hand out. That happened around six times before somebody sat in front of me. When I looked up, it was you. You said, “I’m back.” I replied with, “You came back.” And you smiled and said, “Because you told me to and you waited.”

We were well on our way to buy a pack when the scene morphed to the grounds of my high school. We walked up to this one vendor who’s pretty popular back in my school and you asked for a pack of my cigarettes, not the one you were holding. While we were waiting for him to give us our purchase, you asked me if I still had some of the things you gave me. I immediately answered no and you were disappointed. You took out your wallet and opened it wide for me to see. The pocket where you put pictures in was vacant, not like what I was expecting: your picture with her. I thought you were going to pay for my pack so I started looking for my wallet. But then you tapped my shoulder and then took out a red and green yarn braided together. You dangled it in front of me and I smiled. You still had it.

Suddenly, we were walking back to where the stone tables were with the route I was on at the start of my dream. It rained but we weren’t hit by it. It was like we repelled rain drops so we were dry. I don’t know why, but I started walking faster, leaving you behind. All of a sudden, I stopped when I felt you grab my hand. I looked back at you and there was a slight change in your demeanor and appearance: your hair’s a little longer and you looked tired. You even had new clothes on. I felt a sort of panic and I’m not sure what from. But all of that disappeared when you said these three words. The three words that I last remember before waking up.

“Wait for me.”

What a dream. The weirdest thing about it was the fact that I knew what you were saying even though I didn’t hear you say them. I just saw your lips move and I just knew what you were saying. It was only then that I realized I forget what your voice sounds like. That’s probably the reason why I didn’t hear you say the words you said. And only then did I realize that I want to hear your voice.

I’m not sure how to interpret that dream. Dreams have a lot of interpretations. But the funny thing is, I’ve had a lot of dreams about you, some the same and some different. I still dream of you. But this is the first one that I’ve ever shared because maybe it meant something. Funny how I don’t actually have the things that you gave me anymore. That bit was probably the only truth in the dream. But you still had that thing, the yarn, which I doubt you do because you found it ridiculous and useless.

I’ll probably never know if you still have it. I’ll probably hear your voice and never know it’s yours. I’ll probably never know what you want me to do about you.



by avrillorenzo

She stood outside his door, contemplating whether to knock or just leave. This isn’t a good idea, she thought. And of the minutes that she stood there, all of her memories of him flashed before her. She remembered how the hall of his apartment smelled of candle wax. He wasn’t one for using electricity at night. He likes the soft glow of candles. She found this weird trait of his dangerous, but he would always blow out the candles before they slept. The first time he held her hand was when she was trying to plug in her laptop one night because she was running out of battery. He stopped her because of his ‘I-don’t-use-electricity-at-night’ thing. She was too overwhelmed with the sensations brought about by one touch that she forgot that she had to send her paper that night. But it was worth it, she mused; that was when they first kissed: sitting on the floor, surrounded by candle light and the city noise masking the silence. She was looking at one of the paintings he had on his wall, the one that screamed autumn because of the crisp browns and oranges brushed across the canvas. She thought of autumn when she thinks of his lips. That was the last thing she thought of before he pressed his lips against hers for the first time. It was a clumsy kiss, considering that he leaned in the moment she turned towards him; he didn’t have his sights on the target but he barely missed. Barely, and then he moved his lips against hers, brushing them like how he brushed autumn into his canvas. She wondered if he still had it. She also remembered the cold nights. They wouldn’t need the heater because they had each other’s body heat. She could still feel how his arms would brush hers so faintly and how it would burn. And at nights like those, she would be lulled to sleep by the sound of his snores and heartbeat, mixed into an unorthodox melody that always made her smile before she slept. And often as not, he would always breathe against her hair. And in his exhale, she would always feel him say ‘I love you’ in the faintest of gestures. And she remembered how that fleeting moment before she succumbs to slumber told her that she was in love with him.

She blinked and looked at her hands with an envelope with 2 things inside. She knew what she had to do.


There was a knock on his door. A second later, he wouldn’t have heard it for he was about to go to sleep. Grumbling, he made his way to the door asking who it was. He looked through the peephole and saw that nobody was there. He cursed whoever it was and made his way back to his bed. But before he could fully turn around, he stepped on something. He bent down and picked up an envelope. He caught her scent on the measly stationary and immediately opened it, heart racing. Slowly pulling out the contents of the envelope, he fell to the floor. He looked around his apartment and his eyes landed on that one painting that she loved the most and immediately remembered her lips. The feeling of them against his were still there. He carefully opened the invitation and felt his world fall apart… The only thing that was going through his mind was whether or not he was to finally burn that painting.

It was her wedding invitation, dated exactly a week ago. He burned the invitation with one of the candles he had nearby and threw it in the bin. He held the other piece of paper found in the envelope, crumpled and stained.

You’ll always be the one, even though I’m not yours.”

And for the first time, he turned the lights and the heater on.

In Between

by avrillorenzo

And as I watched her lecture me

on love and loss and all that’s in between

I couldn’t hear her.

I couldn’t understand.

Because I knew, she was talking

to herself more than me.

For my love and loss and

all that’s in between

Reminded her of what she’s forgotten;

Of who she’s loved,

Of what she’s lost

and all that’s in between.

10 Gut Feelings You Should Never Ignore

by avrillorenzo

Thought Catalog

1. When something feels “off” even if everything looks perfect, and logically, there’s nothing wrong. Because logic has nothing to do with it.

2. On the contrary, when something feels inexplicably right for you, even if the after-thoughts are that of fear or embarrassment.

3. When that little voice rears it’s ugly head and tells you at the most mundane moment: but you don’t really love them.

4. If you feel as though you are in danger. Don’t worry about looking “crazy” because it seems like there’s nothing plausibly risky to anybody else.

5. That there’s something wrong with your body; an illness, whether it’s benign or not. If you even have an inkling that something feels off beyond your usual day cold, have it checked out. It is always worth it in the end.

6. The moment something happens and you say to yourself instantly, this isn’t going to…

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by avrillorenzo

I’ve been thinking about you… and nothing. Yes. Dare I say it: nothing. Everything seems clearer now, lighter, better. I stared at myself in front of the mirror with this thought, or lack there of, of you and my smile reached my eyes. I feel as if I’m in a daze, but a good and spectacular daze.

Before, saying your name was as if I would get the fucking plague because your name leads to the thought of you and everything that you were to me; I’d fall down on my knees and crumble. Now… nothing. I’ve been saying your name over and over again and I’m kinda sick of it already. Light, I feel light.

Nothing could faze me, not even sad tumblr posts. I’ve been seeing and reading them all day and all the while I felt sad. Sad not because it burned because of you, but because I sympathize with the people who blog and reblog these sad tumblr posts. I know how it feels. That’s just it. It’s not because I know how it feels because of you. God, I’m already tired of the thought of you. Not everything is about you; nothing is about you anymore.

You… Nothing.
I got the closure I needed. It’s confirmed: you’re with her. And I actually am happy.
Acceptance leads to happiness. I’m happy for you because first and foremost, I am happy for me and how finally I’m here where I am.

And let my happiness be the last of you in my life. I am glad to part with your part in me in such light and good terms. Maybe I’ll miss you in this new state of mine. But it probably wouldn’t be as often as I should.

by avrillorenzo

You know those nights when you just understand how things happen and you figure everything happens for a reason though reason knows nothing of it yet? No? Me neither. Because, yes, things happen for a reason. I acknowledge that but I can’t understand it. I won’t. Because maybe things happen for the reason that they shouldn’t have happened to you, with you in the first place. That’s something I refuse to understand. I acknowledge it, yes. But understanding means accepting it. I don’t want to believe that. And that’s where the problem lies.


by avrillorenzo

There is something wrong with me.

I sit here; idle as people pass me by. Some take notice, others ignore. Some are oblivious, others are aware. I sit here; idle as people pass me by.

I rummage through my bag for a pack without even looking, acknowledging the fact that I wouldn’t take this long if I were to look. But I am in no hurry. I find the pack, I grab one stick and I fiddle with it before I light it. I hate the first inhale: it is premature smoking. The second is bearable. The third is fine. The fourth I like. The fifth I adore. I throw away the stick, the end still glowing. The smoke calls for me but I refuse to pick it up. It is soiled, now useless. There is no point in picking it up for it to die a few puffs later. It is better to be left with that fifth puff, the fifth inhale. All I can remember is how I loved it. Every step: from the filter on my lips to the smoke in my lungs. I remember everything about it.

I grab another stick and fiddle with it before I light it.  And it’s the same thing all over again.

I want to stop smoking. But I always stop with the fifth puff, the fifth inhale. I never learned how to hate it.

I sit here; smoking as people pass me by. Some take notice, others ignore. Some are oblivious, others are aware. I sit here; smoking as people pass me by.

There is something wrong with me.