What are their names?

Its 2 am. I’m lying in bed, listening to sad songs. It makes me feel beautiful but broken. Evoked some feelings I thought I’ve forgotten. I used to be sadder than this, but stronger. Always ready to face another day. Life seems futile, but I try to find meanings in various things. Sometimes I try finding meanings by meeting strangers on the internet. Sometimes I go out alone in my adventure of finding meanings. With or without people around me, I feel incredibly lonely.

It’s the people that I have lost that I wish to reconnect. Not the people that I haven’t met. The friends that I have lost because of my depression and anxiety. The friends I left because I don’t know how to keep them. I don’t know how relationships work. I thought they just are. I thought they just be. The friends that I have forgotten their names, but I remember their faces, their voices, the kind words they spoke. Their names were forgotten together with my efforts to forget bitter memories. Their names were forgotten because they were in the same timelines of neglecting parents, of shouts of hate across the living room, of the sound of broken plates thrown to walls, and of “I divorce you”. Their names got lost in between the women my dad slept with. Forgotten with the moist of late grandad kiss on the lips. I forgot them when I tried to forget why I never comb my hair, why I hate maths, and why I plucked my hair bald. I start to remember little by little the bitter memories I tried so hard to forget. Like flashes of thunder in a thunderstorm. It rained on me so hard that it flooded my face. I remember that I watched all dad’s pornographies that he kept in a box, in my room, on top of my closet. I tried to forget the images because it freaks me out that I don’t understand. I tried to sleep it away, but woke up and puke the night away.

 I remember it now. Not all but enough to cripple me. But all of these bitter memories hitting me back and I still can’t remember their names.

Now I look for their faces in every passer-by, in every passing cars. Longing for a piece of the past that doesn’t suck.

Crazy over anti-heroes and kinda okay when everybody dies in the end.
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