I never found a way how to be really happy, for longer than a day or two. I thought of drowning and hanging and of sharp razors, to keep it all inside. Was it really selfish to want to be happier than just for 48 hours? I know now I knew nothing back then. I knew shit. Or even if I knew, I wanted more. More than I could get.
I wanted to be happy so badly that I ended up being really down and blue. Drowning in bloodshed puddles of pity. Hanging from a tread every second and every minute. Fucking collecting knives and needles. Whatever made the cut.
My life was a sad guitar riff struggling to be remembered. I had somehow found my strength in my own darkness, in my own flaws, and in my own suffering. I was protected and no longer adrift. I was no longer just a bad dream. Strumming strings of happiness that disappear like the angels. And they never said goodbye. They just vanished. Away from the light, I was trying to shine on them.
It all felt eternal to me. Everyone else seemed to have their time limited to only one horizon. Just to one last kiss. Just to one last lullaby and one last memory. They would just wake up to their last bad dream. And that would be it. Were they luckier than me? Was I cursed? Was I the lucky one? To be the one waking up and continue in this misery. Living each and every day in a routine that was just hurting me but not killing me. Oh sweet death, where are you?
Every night I would lay myself down. Sleepless nights would follow like uncontrollable tears you wish you could hide. Soaking up the only place in the world that I would call safe. Staining it with salt and rain coming down from my rusty tear ducts. My blinded eyes would itch and bleed. Did I enjoy all of this? Was I finally happy in my misery? Where did my mother go wrong? Was I really suffering or was I really living to enjoy this all?
Octobers had come and gone. Red blood moons had scared you away countless times. Yet, I remained here. Stoic and frozen to myself. Every day had become my last. I wanted this and at the same time, I wanted to feel something else. I was trapped in this entanglement of feelings and amends.
And one good day. I decided it had to stop. It had to stop and I had to move on. Even though I had moved on already thousands of times. I had to feel something else. Life, they told me wasn't black and white. I had to feel the waves of forgiveness. The gusts of excitement. The rays of hope and the rains of lament and sadness. I had to learn how to bleed without patching myself up immediately.
My 6 AM alarm clock went off. And like waking up from a nightmare, I jolted out of my sleep. I had to do something. I had to get away from all the things worth saving. I had to feel something else.
It was 6:05 and it reeked of dread and solitude. My right hand was numb and my eyes burned to the dawn light. Nothing new in my waking hour. It was all this monotonous fragility that had become like a pest, tedious vermin of hell that had been to my side since I was born.
I dragged myself out of the bedroom. Had I been depressed all along?
Like heavy chords from a western movie, when all of them die in a shoot out, I crawled out of that empty space I had been encapsulated in for way too long.
I headed towards the window and pulled the blinds up. It must have been winter because the darkness reigned supreme. I hadn't seen anyone for quite a while. I missed them all. I missed them. I truly did.
It was when I saw it.
Nothing had actually changed outside.
The kids were playing on the street. Lovers were courting each other and birds were flying.
It was like Valentine's Day for me.
How long had I been locked up inside myself? I missed my friends. But somehow I hadn't seen them for many years. I missed the people. Talking to them. Listening to their stories and looking at their scars.
How long had it been since I was truly alive?
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