(Written May 2007, at age 20.)
There are moments in life when your heart feels so heavy, you can hardly move. Even the strength to walk down a set of strairs seems like too much for life to demand.
There is a pain so real, so palpable, and so agonizing, that it is a wonder the people around you are not on the floor writhing.
Time feels like an unbearably huge price to pay for life.
And life too small a price for death.
Seem impossibly one.
And yet so, so , so very distinct.
You have to ask - why?
Why must I have the capacity to think?
And such a tremendous capacity at that.
The sheer depth of your potential is tragic,
because life will never let you achieve it.
You will never let you achieve it.
The mirror threatens to crack at beauty it cannot contain.
You threaten to crack.
Life is not so much a series of disappointments as it is a series of apologies - for being incapable of fulfilling the very capabilities it endows.
The numbness of your fingers, your toes, your arms, your legs, indeed any part of you that you become aware of. Except your heart. You feel it beat relentlessly, definatly. It thuds and pounds, and the cavity in your chest begs it to stop. It cannot handle the rhythm, the resonance, the rebellious red.
The life force is crushing.
The inevitability of pain laughs while you wince and contort.
Your body winces.
Your person contorts.
You feel different parts of your person bending, twisting, trying to ease the pain, to a find a less painful position.
But the only thing that happens is that the bending and twisting make you feel. Feel something. And feeling anything, anything at all, that...that is the end of you.
You crave a self-induced parallysis, a moment of release.
A moment of physical pain perhaps?
You crumble in a heap of life.
You wish corpses would walk by and slowly suck it out of you.
So you can savour the process of ceasing.
The mere process of thought - so ingrained in life - makes life unliveable.
The desire of illusional reality.
The desire of fog.
The desire of finding something to touch in empty air.
The desire to feel alive at the sense of touch.
The warmth of another body.
The reality of another body.
The desire...to be found.
The fluidity of movement.
The sensitivity of touch.
The sweetness of sound.
The thrill of taste.
The moment of writing this.
The anticipation of finding more in life.
The aversion of eyes to light...
What bigger rejection of life can there be?
I feel darkness, I sense it, I feel it with bare fingers in the day all around me. But my eyes, they betray me.
And what looms in the darkness?
What is the worth of a person?
What are the lines?
What sits in the pit of my hollow stomach and howls in such pain? Its screams reach my throat and paralyze it.
It isn't that I don't know who I am.
It is that I do.
It is that given I know who I am, how do I reconcile with the shortcomings of life? The largeness of me that life does not have the capability to fill?
The singlemindedness...the beautiful, pathetic, unending, singlemindedness.
The inability to cry.
The fear of sacrilege against me.
The blurred vision.
The incredulousness of the blood in my veins.
The resistance of the thoughts in my mind.
The grief of the tears in my throat.
The lack of choice of the motion in my fingers.
The waiting... to burst forth from my cocoon.
The fallacy of logic.
The existence of non-existence.
When the anticipation of what will relieve fear is so fearful, that fear is scared away...