Sometimes, distance is what keeps the love alive.

On a cold winter morning, she lay in her bed not wanting to get up.

She could hear parents talking in their room. The fact that the noise was reaching her ears meant they were not really talking but fighting.

To merely avoid the attention of her angry father, she chose to pretend to be asleep.

Her father was a loving man. Down to earth and a very modest person. She knew her father loved her. He was the one who taught her how to ride a bike, get back up whenever she fell, cleaned her wounds and nurtured her courage. He was the one who had given her some of the best advises about friends, boys and life in general. He loved her with all his heart and she knew it.

                                                 

But there was something about his anger that scared her to death. She feared for herself and her mother. More than that, she feared for her father's health. But a human cannot think about anyone else but him when he's in trouble. In rage, he would sometimes hit her. It was acceptable when she was young. 

Only now, she wasn't a young girl anymore. She was a grown up and with every hit she took, she felt her dignity being hurt.

Laying in the bed, she closed her eyes and found herself sitting on the beach. There was serene silence and the only noise was of waves crashing against the rocks. In the background, birds chirped their lovely song. This was her (imaginary) mountain top.

She did this often, imagining herself far away from house where she couldn't hear her father shout or fear his beating. She dreamed of finishing her education and running off to someplace else. She had vowed to not take up a job in the same city for it would mean she'd still be living at her parent's house.

Don't get her wrong. She loved her parents and the idea of leaving them hurt her inside. Her life with them was smooth, where she was pampered and they had their good moments where everyone sat together and laughed. They joked about random things and made fun of television characters. She was happy. But then there were moments that, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get them out of her head. 

Those occasional happy moments, no matter how much she wished, were not good enough for her to bear the pain.

She loved her father, more than anyone in this world. And only to keep that love alive, she had convinced herself that she will get out of there the first chance she got.

After all, sometimes you'd rather maintain your distance than lose the love.

Confessions

There was a time when the "Confession Pages" went viral. Millions of people confessed, about their love, revenge, guilt, loneliness, and every other emotion or situation possible. Some made stories up to get reactions, some just poured their heart out. 
Wikipedia defines, "A confession is a statement made by a person or a group of people acknowledging some personal fact that the person (or the group) would prefer to keep hidden."
Over the time, I have read 100s of confessions. But it never made sense to me, the whole concept of confessing. 
How will confessing to unknown people help you to save yourself from bullying? Or not being able to propose? Or make people acknowledge you?
Sure, it'll give your mind some peace knowing you're not alone. But do people seriously need an anonymous confession to know that? How do you differentiate between a complaint and a confession?
Every time I read a confession, I wonder how much writing that stuff down would have helped that confessor.



Nevertheless, there are some confessions that I really liked. Here they are: 

- I think everybody hates me and excludes me from everything. I think that they don’t put the effort in, truth is, I don’t put the effort into my friendships. It took losing everyone to finally realize this.

- I lack the social understanding and emotion required to function properly in this world. I cannot form relationships, I cannot feel people's pain, and I cannot feel happy. Every day I go about pretending I’m okay, but the truth is I feel nothing but hurt and regret. I’m a waste time and space because I lack the motivation required to achieve things. I simply can’t see the point anymore. Out of the millions of sperm that could have made it, all those people with the potential to be something great, I was born. And I hate myself for it. Therefore surely I deserve the quiet and comfort of death, if not because of what I've been through then surely because I've done nothing to deserve this so called “gift.” Nothing to contribute to the world I live in.

- He broke your heart, you haven't stopped crying.
You've been texting me the entire time.
I feel so bad that you're hurting like this, and I am sorry,
because I've been sleeping with him.

- I have met a few wonderful ladies in college that are now my best friends. We get along so well and now that I have these ladies in my life, I feel completed. As I have grown to know these ladies, they have let me see behind their smiles and pain. I feel so guilty because there are no secrets for them to see behind mine. I am truly a happy person. I am a child of divorce and it has been a blessing in disguise. I have four wonderful parents who would do absolutely anything for me. I feel so guilty that my life has been so easy. I am a happy person. I hate that  my dad thinks there is something under my smile like every other girl I know. There isn't. My smile is genuine, and I feel so bad because mine is the only one around.

- I haven’t had a birthday party in 18 years because i’m afraid no one will show up.

- I loved you for many years. You loved me too. I know that our break is tearing you up. But, I feel great.
I don’t have to make time for you anymore. I don’t have to constantly build you up, only to see you fold to your insecurities. I don’t have to “check in.” I am free to do what I want, when I want without you crying about it.
I don’t have to wait around for you to get your shit together.

Good riddance.

- I have different a different persona for nearly every situation. I adjust myself to however most fits the specifics of the moods of people, the environment we’re in, who is there, etc. It is never quite the same as another time, so I’m always a tad bit different. I act however best helps me, whether it be to gain favor with someone, or advance in some way, without arousing suspicion in my companions.

Different groups of friends, different characters. Hyper, chill, deep, ditzy, laid-back, angry, combinations upon combinations- all mask I wear. But they are not so completely fake as a mask. Yes, they are an act. But they are also part of my personality, in some way.

These are visibly confessions, and not ranting.