twenty fifth.

Frantically searching for a reason to go on and the inability to find it. Maybe having no reason to stay is a good enough reason to go. All the optimism I have gathered throughout my damn existence has jumped overboard and I am left with the thoughts that I’ve been trying to hide behind what I imagined was a dark, ambiguous oblivion. They’ve been lurking, waiting and have now found the perfect time to come out. And with a passionate vengeance they came. I can no longer keep them away. I can no longer push them further into the shadows of my manufactured cage. I am simply too tired to do anything. So I let them come. I hold out the key and let them consume me. 

Maybe 25 is the best idea that I’ve ever had. It’s a good number to end with. They say it’s selfish and stupid to do what I’m planning to do. Well, maybe at some point but nothing is as selfish and as stupid as living when you have absolutely nothing to live for. Selfish is forcing me to take every gooddamn pain and expecting me to deal with it with a godforsaken smile plastered on my face. Selfish is letting me hurt myself over and over again with the images of my ruined past, undefined future and unbearably horrible present. How could anyone let me be haunted by those flickering memories in my head each and every day? How could anyone let me cry myself to sleep each night just so I could keep those disturbing monsters out? How could they let me go through all shit without even having to question if I could still do it? Now, tell me: WHO’S SELFISH?

 “Child, are you okay?” 
 “Dear, do you want me to drive those monsters out?” 
 “Are you having nightmares again? It will be alright. I promise, okay?” 
“No one’s going to hurt you anymore. He’s not going to ever again, okay?” 
“Mama’s just sad. She doesn’t mean to leave. Those are just pills for sleep, okay?” 

No one asked. Nobody did. I never held that against them. I figured everyone is fighting their own battles and my constant rebellion with myself is too petty for them to even bother. Not once did I try to wince from my bleeding wounds. Not once did I close my eyes from our burning home. You think I couldn’t have scarred? You think I could try to forget? I tried my best to not scar, to forget but hey, time’s up. Game over. I was too young to see all that, to feel all that. But you see, I tried to grow. I tried to deal with it. I eventually got over my “angry phase”. I even convinced myself to be annoyingly positive about all things. And I was stellar! Exemplary! I was almost like a warrior killing monsters for a living. But guess what? You all sent me away. I had to make higher barriers and bigger distractions. I wanted to prove that there could be so much good in the world so I went for the less destructive option to destroy what’s destroying me: Friends, pens, notebooks, books, photographs, poetry, music, religion and delusional dreams. All too soon, they fade. They no longer pin me away from my predators.

They’re catching up with me now. And I have no intention of running away again. I am simply exhausted. Exhausted of everything; exhausted of being me. I thought I had something going for me. I thought I was someone; someone that mattered. Lo and behold! 
I AM NOTHING.  Silly girl. I've been alone in my journey and the world would never stop when I go.

The thing is though, I never understood how I could be up so high in the sky at one point and then suddenly feel drastically drowning on my own fears. The night has always frightened me. My thoughts are dangerous on late hours. I can't seem to hold a stable thought and emotion so I tried writing and reading more. Feverishly, I read and write. With so much intensity that I suffocate from my words. It helps at times but on other times, I think what I'm doing only worsens me. I can never seem to talk to anybody about what's happening to me so I grabbed tight of my pen and never let go of words that console me. Is there something wrong with me? I've wondered. And more often than not, I’ve wondered how it was like to feel genuinely happy. I’ve always wondered how it was like to wake up not wishing you didn’t. Always wondered how it was like not cursing yourself for thinking such and begrudgingly tell yourself to get over it. I guess I’ll never be able to find out because I’m going away with those invisible monsters. 

See you in hell, everybody. I’m done.


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