Day XI

Monday, September 28, 2015 Comments Off

Tell about the time you thought about ending your life.
It was a long, long time ago. To this day, I still don't know whether I should be fortunate or otherwise, for still making it to this day. It has been a journey, I assure you. But when do you consider a journey is at its peak? When you finally see the view? Or when you found bits of what you thought as home on the way there? Or when you found a fellow traveller, in the crossroad of uncertainty? For I am still unsure where is my view, or will I ever see it.

It all started way back when I was in elementary school. With my current mindset, I would probably think that it is a tad bit dramatic for me to have thought that way. But in the darkest, deepest part of my heart, I still think that it was warranted to feel that way. Back then, I wanted to get away––from my school, my parents, my enemies, my friends, my brother, even myself and my own life. It was a dangerous thing, thinking that way; after all, I was only nine years old. But the thought of breaking away from something that was unnecessarily holding you down sounds amazing. A small, little independence that I could get, back when I had nothing to claim as my own. It's the saddest thing when death is being thought as your independence––in retrospect, I was a sad girl.

I can't even be sure about my memories of when I was nine years old. Granted, I was not the happiest child back then, but all I could remember was nothing beautiful; dark and fuzzy mess. That year was more than bleak to me. It was hellish. What could you do, with a vocabulary palette so little, while feeling a whole lot more than the entire mass of your body on Earth? What could you do, with thoughts spinning in your head million miles per seconds, without so much as a handrail to hold on to, let alone the hands of your loved ones? What could you do, with a life, waiting to be lived, but would have met resistance from the Universe itself? Wouldn't it be better if you just end it?

Maybe that's why I have always thought that romantic love would have saved me someday. Even though, now, romantic love is just an impossibility.

With all that I am feeling right now, maybe death was a more practical, logical, proper option for me––since the more I grow up, the more I feel.

And I don't know where to put all these feelings.

What's this?

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