Traveling allows me to escape myself. Escaping myself means I get to be carefree. I get to let go of any thoughts, any problems, any anxieties that weigh me down and keep me awake at night. Escaping myself means I get to be truly happy, even for a day.
When I climbed my mother mountain, I was still in denial. I cried so many times. So. Many. Fucking. Times. But unlike in the movies where the characters let out their bottled up emotions by screaming and shouting and swearing and cussing, I did it in silence.
After months of writing my way through the pain, a thought suddenly hit me—I was glamorizing suicide by writing about it. At first I tried to brush it off, but anxiety got the best of me. I couldn't get over the idea that I was to blame.
With the majority of the population still turning a blind eye on mental health issues and with the stigma around it, admitting that you are mentally impaired is synonymous to claiming that you are crazy, psychotic, pathetic, crybaby, or whatever names they call mental health sufferers.
Although I believe well-read people have advantages over those who aren't, being a bibliophile does not give us a free pass to insult the intellectual capacity of non-readers.
Juggling three hobbies at a time may be tough, but I realize there's no harm in doing it. After all, these activities keep me engaged.
One day, she told me that I should not let those trivial things get the best of me. After all, intelligent people are land and idiots are water. No matter how we baby our idealist selves by dreaming about a goody goody world, intelligent people can never outnumber idiots.