I need to write myself out. There is no way for me to talk about this. And there’s no one really with whom I could share it. It’s for me to deal with myself. I owe it to myself.
There is a lot of disagreement in me. I disagree with a simple fact of life, of being alive. Nobody asks us if we are willing to come here and then we are fed that everything else is up to us. Nothing is. About the most important things like own life and death, we don’t decide. Those who decide about their deaths are called cowards. Why is that since death is the ultimate thing that scares human beings? They embrace it, they do it on their own terms, and they are not afraid to do that.
We come here with a cocktail of genes for which we are not responsible, nor we were able to pick them. We come here burdened with our parents’ pasts, their mistakes and failed decisions. We come here and in certain cultures, we are automatically endowed with the original sin.
And then we are left entirely alone to figure it out on ourselves. We keep forging, moving, running, walking, crawling ahead in the dense mist which never seizes to paralyze us.
Nobody asked me if I want to be here. I hear that I HAVE to be here.
Every day is another exercise in dying. We are so good at it, we don’t even realise it. We don’t admit that we are rotting more and more every day. Every day takes away some hours, some energy, some dreams and some will – and they never get restored.
I’m tired. I don’t care if I’m only 25 years old. I’m tired. I see doom and gloom ahead of me. I see the life with my condition as an endless crawl in the mud. I see already that I cannot exist without drugs, which brings me to the question – who am I really? Which one is real? The negative, pessimistic, tired out of her mind with a perfectly post-apocalyptic mind and heart or the one that is pumped up by the hormones of happiness? Can I find out? Would I if I found the way?