Life is really strange. Sometimes it goes your way. Sometimes it doesn't go your way. I can't seem to understand people who say life is easy, life is enjoyable, or life is worth living. Like, seriously? I don't even feel like putting in the hard work of lifting food to my own mouth and chewing it because even that feels hectic and you're telling me life is interesting and good? Strange, isn't it. Either you're too naïve or you're too confident for your own good.
I was thinking all of this with my face cupped in my hand, still holding the pen, thinking about how strange and irritating life is, when I realized again that I'd had the same thought process, the same wasted time, when deciding on the salutation in my earlier letter. The blood-blotched one.
I raised my head and started writing, finally.
"I am well. I am happy."
Am I? Am I really happy?
Leaving my house. My family.
Do I really have not an ounce of guilt for leaving them behind out of my own selfishness?
They raised me. Brought me up. Fed me. Protected me.
Am I mocking them by writing, after leaving their rosy life, "I am happy finally"?
Have I gotten my salvation? Isn't that too assured of me to say?
What is a "rosy life," by the way? Eating? Drinking? Being able to smile?
I can't even stand on my own definition of a rosy life here. I can't eat or drink without fear of wasting money. And I can't even smile. I don't know what to smile about anymore.
I think people who can smile easily have no fears.
But I have too many fears.
Fear that I might be found.
Fear that I might not be found.
Fear that my family might be suffering without me.
Fear that they might not be suffering without me.
Fear that I'll run out of money.
Fear that if I don't run out of money, I'll run out of life.
Fear that if I keep writing, someone will open the door and read over my shoulder.
Fear that if no one ever opens the door, this room will eat me alive.
I scratched that line and started writing again.
"I am well. I am alright."
Am I? Am I really alright?
I looked around at this messy, smelly little cabin with its dim yellow light. My suitcase sitting in the corner, its contents spilling out like an uncontrolled vomit. And the piles of old pages and books of the previous tenant still there.
You thought those piles were mine? No, no. I'm not that much of an intellectual. I even find reading a novel a task. I'd rather spend that time on something else. The only things I brought with me were a suitcase with a few necessities, some money, and a file with A4 sheets and two or three ballpoints. That's it. The rest of the things aren't mine.
I scratched again.
"I am well. You don't have to worry at all."
Don't worry? Are they even worrying about me? Isn't that too opinionated of me to say they'll be worried about me? That's so pathetic of me, isn't it? To write "don't worry," when they might not even be worried. Am I trying to tell them they should be worried? Is that what I'm doing putting words in someone else's mouth?
I shouldn't presume.
I shouldn't assume things about others on my own.
I scratched it out again and started again.
"I am well. I am safe."
Safe? Safe from what? From who? From myself? The lock on the door rattles at night even when no one's there. I sleep with one eye open like a fugitive. What kind of safety is this where even the silence feels like it wants to strangle me?
Or am I really trying to say I wasn't safe before? That I felt unsafe in my own family's house, and now I'm safe only because I'm gone? Am I mocking them with that? Insulting their inability to protect me? Or am I just casting my own failure to feel safe onto them because it's easier? Am I not too old for that now too pompous, even, to write it this way?
I scratched hastily and taking a deep breath, focusing my gaze on the words I was about to write. My mouth was twisted. I could feel it. I wrote again.
"I am well. I am alive."
Alive? Am I?
I glanced at my reflection in the grimy window my eyes hollow, my hair tied in a loose knot, lips dry and cracked. Alive? Sure. Breathing? Yes. Living? Not sure. Maybe I'm just existing in a borrowed room with borrowed air, writing borrowed words.
Alive? Am I?
Or am I just a ghost, leaving notes for people who may never read them?
I wrote it again, slower this time.
"I am alive."
The pen hovered over the page, trembling. I added a period, then scratched it out, then added an exclamation mark instead. No, that looked ridiculous. I changed it back to a period. My hand shook so much that the ink pooled into a tiny black blotch just like before.
I laughed, a small, cracked sound. Déjà vu. Always back to the same loop. Always back to the same blotch.
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