2018: On Losing Faith and Hoping for More

Twenty-thirteen was such a good a year that the years after that felt as if I were only allowed to feel happiness and content—without envy, anxiety, and insecurity—in one year. I was getting more and more depressed about my physical appearance, and I was more and more unsure of what path I should take. While ideas on writing peaked this year, time to do it was nowhere. My greatest downfall was my mother’s death, and until now, I cry whenever I stare at a void as memories of my mom would suddenly appear then disappear like dust-forming images being swept by the wind.

This year, I have surely lost faith in my country and life as a whole. The senator I campaigned for years ago turned into some parasite, ready to be an enemy of the masses but a friend to a misogynistic ruler. People are killed here and there by others and by themselves. And by all means, I want to seek for this so-called purpose before my life is taken, whether by myself or others—a reason I have not allowed the black hole to suck me yet. However, nights when I am being dragged by a dark force are happening more often than the past years. Even tiring myself won’t even make me succumb to rest.

But if there is something positive that 2018 taught me, it is to keep on moving, even when all odds seem to tell you to stop. But in truth, odds and evens never tell you to stop or continue; it is ourselves. I have survived betrayals and toxicity in 2016 and 2017, so I came as a stronger fighter to the bitch that was 2018. I wrote more blogs, continued stories, posted pictures of places I’ve gone to.

I do not wish to be stronger this 2019, remembering how I wished for a #stronger2018, only to be surprised by a flood of challenges, hence making me “stronger.” Last year taught me that in hoping, everything will not follow. Hope but do. Hope but act. Hope and move forward.

This year, I’ll just go with the flow. To a calmer and fruitful 2019, cheers.

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