I might be leaving you all very soon — for good. Sometimes it’s better to have a little warning beforehand, you know? Instead of it hitting you all at once like an off-schedule train. So I thought that I’d leave you a tidy, little note, in case there might be some of you wondering what had ever happened to me. Do not ask me for the reasons as to why I am leaving… I will only break your heart. Maybe this is for the best.
I can’t be tied down by this — but at the same time, I can’t just let go.
How the smattering of stars droop with a tragic sadness, writing out the devastating destinies of those below, concealed by the cloak of the haunting night sky, the color of obsidian sorrow.
No wonder my face has been wearing thin these days — cheeks hollowed, gaunt, complexion ghastly pale, and eyes sunken inwards — so much so that people have taken notice and have been lightly commenting. I can’t seem to stop starving myself or vomiting in poor attempts to empty out everything that I hate about myself, about life, and about things that I have been carrying for too long. And even though I know that this can never be a cure to any of my problems, somehow I feel slightly relieved and much better at the fact that I have forced myself to upchuck; this surge of power that I feel coursing throughout my body, a feeling of control.
This letter was originally drafted towards ‘nobody in particular’, but I guess that that is still something in particular, so here is a jumble of nonsensical gibberish towards certain, significant people in my life.
Like the feeling after you lose the ring that you’ve been wearing on your fourth finger on your right hand, the one that your mother gifted to you after your eighth grade graduation, the one symbolizing maturity and trust; this feeling of loss and gaping emptiness is what I have with you. Out of habit, I keep extending my thumb out to spin the ring around in a full circle, a sort of reassurance and part paranoia to see if it’s still there — but it’s not, and my muscle memory won’t accept this.
Why won’t you take me for who I am, including all of my sadness, my pain, my bruises, my sore wrists, and tears? Even if I put my heart out on a platter for you, you only want it when it’s for your convenience and benefit, not for the sole fact that I simply want you to be there for me. I open myself in fear of you breaking the broken me all over again, but inconsiderate you is so selfish and so blind to this; after all, you’re only compassionate towards people who have had nearly the same, exact experiences as you. Everything after that is blank stares and forced, polite smiles.
Rip out all of the pavements from my childhood, the ones I used to topple over on, stand out in the rain on, and dance on. Take them with you. Strip these memories from me and everything that I have found so unbridled, liberating and beautiful. I don’t care anymore because you’ve already taken so much from me. I’ve shared so much of my life with you and this is the best that you could do for me — Take them. I don’t want to walk on these pavements anyways. I’ll settle for the sand next to the sea.
I’m right here and you’re looking towards somebody else for help.
Nietzsche always said that people don’t want to hear the truth because they don’t want their illusions destroyed, but how can anything really be objectified without a slightly biased view? Isn’t truth relative? We are all human. And who ever assumed, without seeing the contrast, that illusions were such terrible things? Why do you think that we built such a huge, enchanting sanctuary (Central Park), in the smack dab center of busybody Manhattan?
Stop looking back and stop making me look back — even if we so badly want to turn back the clocks, we can’t. An imitation can never be the real thing, the first touch, smell, sight, etc, hence ‘imitation.’
It has become this awful habit of mine to find something wrong with something, whether it be with myself or with you or with all of my surroundings… Maybe it’s my Catholic background that makes me feel such heavy self-loathing that stems from my constant repenting and reflection upon wrongdoings; I could be doing nothing but breathing air for the rest of my life and that would still be a sin.
I need to rest. Rest. Rest. Everything: mind, body, soul, bones, frail hands — eyes.
This, lately: dskjflaksjcklajsd;lfkja;lwei.
At first I felt like crying, now I feel like dying.
A very somber soul today. All I want to do is: lean back on my brown, adirondack chair that sits by itself on my backyard porch, that is already covered with speckles of winter frost purporting to be tiny ghosts trapped in glistening crystals, drink an endless pot of hot tea, and stare at the rhythm of the sun rising and setting, wrapped around in blankets that don’t even keep me warm. Either that or sleep for an eternity.
I can’t do this anymore.
Here is a picture of me because I have officially lost any morsel of creativity that I have had thriving inside of me, the ability to think intellectually, and the thirst for motivation; that ignition of inspiration. Parched, I slaked the part of my lips with an ice cube for renewed acuteness and refreshment, but I only ended up with water dripping down my slashed wrists, reminding me that everything is ephemeral and impermanent.
I am one fucked up child who breaks everything that I can get my hands on and wastes too much time on being so sad. Who else but brainless old me would kick away second chances like this, slaughtering what little light there is in my future? I can’t do this anymore. I’m back to those days of failing to get myself out of my own bed because my mental illnesses have been plaguing me, increasingly affecting my physical state, and paralyzing me. Things have been scrambling to catch up to me, these ghosts and goblins, to inflict more pain upon me than last time because I ran away like such a pitiful coward. I’m not sure. Maybe I deserve what I’m getting… I always did go down, defeated, and despondent without a proper fight. And I can’t help but to push away everybody who I love in my life, no matter how much I adore and care for them. This is how I have been conditioned to be, by the many who have afflicted me, and my natural instincts refuse to budge. Is that selfish?
All I know is that I am in serious trouble and I need help. I don’t know how much longer I can go before this sensation of not being able to breathe very well and this feeling of a truck rolling over on my chest lands me unconscious and bleeding on the cold tiles of my bathroom floor.