I woke up from my sleep. It was beautiful. I had a distant dream, a memory of old. It wasn't much, but it helped me sleep a little better.
Then I woke up to this nightmare called life.
Life was cruel, at least for me. I have been bearing its painful lessons deep within. You may see me smile and laugh. But even those moments feel fake.
You came to me when I wasn't searching. Now that I can't live without your presence, you also left. I have given my love only to be left stranded and alone. But I have done everything I can. I'll move on. I know you already have too. But moving on means nothing to me anymore. I feel no hurt or pain. Just the careful, undignified resignation of understanding that it was my fault.
It always has been, is what you said, right?
As I was speaking through the darkness that surrounds me.
I guess I have to go to work. I don't feel like moving. My anxiety is welling up just thinking about it—socializing and all that stuff. I was never good with people or crowds. I tried to blend in the best I could. To camouflage what I have always been: an introverted, anti-social coward who couldn't even manage to die by his own hands.
I have thought of it many more times than I could remember. How would people feel if I went? They would feel at peace, right? Or would they shed a few moments of tears? But life moves on in the end, then you will be forgotten. Does living even matter? In the end, death comes to us all, right? Was there ever a point in wallowing over it? Maybe, or maybe not.
Why am I like this? What is all of this? Haaa... Breathe in and breathe out. That's right. It's time to move, to find meaning even if there is none left.
On my way to work, I saw a truly beautiful scenery as I traveled there. The landscape, the air, the sun's rays as they hit my face.
It was warm, alive. I saw children and their parents eating under the shadow of a fruit tree. They were minding their own business and enjoying life. They aren't that rich, but they had enough reason to live. But what about me? I saw nothing. I too wanted to have children one day. But I guess I'm afraid I'll pass on my own scars. Would I be a great parent? Would I do better than my parents ever did? They gave me life and also pain—scars of their own past.
I don't think I will do better. I don't think there is a single perfect parent. There is always a flaw, just as we are all flawed. I guess you understand these things when you grow older. And you learn how to forgive, to understand your anger toward them when you were young. But it doesn't mean it didn't hurt. It hurts even now—words they may have not meant to say. It hurts even now, even if it was just a passing comment. It was one that has deeply scarred me.
I don't speak a lot. Yes, I have no voice of my own. I couldn't speak, only when I was much too angry. But even then, words don't come out right. They are words that hurt others. That much I understood. I wanted it raw, just as I felt when I was young. I wanted them to suffer my wrath. Yes, it was wrong. But I've been bottling it all up—emotions and all.
As they say, there will come a time when a jar will be filled and it will erupt into a fiery explosion, spilling all over onto others. Is that what they also felt when they said those words to me when I was younger?
Maybe. Maybe that is where my lack of emotional depth comes from.