Three things I believe are worth a thousand words: A smile, a kiss, and a picture.
She makes me feel alive, and she’s the person who encourages me to keep on living. She makes me feel loved and she’s the person who inspires me to find ways to keep on healing.
I’m afraid of turning twenty-two, and there’s a darkness inside of me that says twenty-one years of existence is enough. There’s no need to suffer further anymore, but then I’d be thinking maybe I’ll survive if I choose to remain patient because maybe there’s a miracle that’s waiting for me in the future.
In the past, I was a very futuristic person with a lot of hope and dreams and chased magic every chance that I get, but here I am now with a lot of broken memories and doubts.
It will be Christmas soon, and despite many saying that depression rises on December but paradoxically suicide rates drop as well, it’s still my favorite season of the year. And I feel like she’s my Christmas and she’s the light inside of me that I will always treasure and feel grateful for.
She’s the light that I am always seeking in times when all I can think of is to end it all.
And I am starting to learn that when someone says ‘I want to die’ it doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re holding a gun to their head, ready to jump from a forty story building or swallow the pills they’re hiding under the bed. ‘I want to die’ could be the same as ‘Look at me. I’m in so much pain. I’m failing my classes on purpose. It has been five days since I last took a shower and my breath smells like too much alcohol.’ ‘I want to die’ could be the very definition of ‘I don’t care about anything anymore, and I need someone to help me’ and of course you’d have to help them because they are tired of life or at the very least—send them to someone you know they can trust.
Loneliness is having a party
in my mind again and that’s okay.
I am surrounded
Some treat me like
sunlight and some treat me like
I cry myself to sleep
and no one knows that the truth
about loneliness is that it protects
ones heart from everything but itself.
There’s a funeral in my heart,
and the casket is too small for my
childish soul that screams ‘Let me out!’
I want to live without thinking
about who will miss me when I’m gone
because I’m tired of writing all these goodbye
letters that mean nothing without a recipient.
There’s a funeral in my heart
and there are no flowers because
nobody wants to give flowers to a suicide.
I wish I can say sorry for being
so selfish but that would mean apologizing
for the nights I’ve tried to hold it all together
like rebuilding Rome for a day—I have nothing to say.
There’s a funeral in my heart
and I am all alone here with the lights closed
because the window might glow and I am not light.
I am not light.
This is more of a mind dump than it is a properly structured post. I want to write freely, quickly and confidently like before. I guess behind writing poetry, prose, and quotes I also want to write personal essays, and I’ve been reading some stuff about how to create one, and this is one way to create one—by writing in a stream of consciousness to keep the creative juices flowing.
I actually like writing in freestyle because it reminds me of the time when blogging was simply blogging. Just taking everything that’s in my head and writing it down and feeling good about doing so. It’s therapeutic writing about anything, but it can also be self-destructive. For me, at least.
Anxiety and Pure-OCD really do affect my writing even if I don’t want to and if something feels wrong, I will delete it. You see, I even have this thing about the word count being perfect. Let’s call it “word count ocd” just in case someone might search this term on google. I like the feeling that bam! It’s exactly 500 words or 300 words or 60 words since six is like a “magical number” that my brain likes to think it is and eight is like a “bad luck number” that my brain likes to think it is.
This is one of the things that makes me want to kill myself because it’s so fucking weird and it makes me feel so fucking alone. I’ve already picked my destination to jump, and there are simply 108 days left for me to live.
I’ll be leaving my last collection which is beautiful nothingness. I have nothing to say about it for now. I’m sleep deprived again, and I can feel the weight of darkness pushing me deeper in this sea of uncertainty.
If my cause of death could be summarized in a single word, it’s uncertainty.
If there’s no other way.
If there’s nothing that can make these obsessions go away.
Then nothing in this world could make me stay.
I have a date in mind, and that’s March 3, 2019, my original plan since I was in the process of writing my second poetry collection. I guess this is my fate and I have 122 days left on this blue planet of ours.
Sometimes I wonder what’s beyond this human existence. I hope it will be lovely. But there’s always an idea in the back of my head that there’s nothing. It will be like fading into an eternal sleep where I’ll never wake up.
Suicide is now my shield for suffering. I’ll focus on the things that matter to me before I depart. In the end, I’ll always be alone, and it’s better to die alone peacefully than to live alone and forever stand at the edge of insanity.
Life will be over before I know it.
The strongest ones are the ones who have every reason to die but still live.
—I Am The Architect of My Own Destruction, page 143