And then I wish at times I could make you understand that the sadness I feel beneath this glow isn’t like those earth wrecking hurricane and storms, which comes once in a while to wreck away the city tops and amusement parks that can be rebuild all the way back. It feels like a cancer; a galloping ache that now thinks my chest as it’s home, a sound of a thousand soul shattering inside this brain, a human dying inside with heartbeat ceasing to a shake. It feels like a cancer; here I am awake at 3am because I forgot to tske my medication. Here I am standing at the door, trembling, not aware if I will even wake up the next morning as everyone in this house falls asleep. And you call me naive because I’m not like you, because I am not the like the people you always came to know in your life, your life that revolves a million worlds apart from mine. I’m on a voyage of nightmare. And I wake up to people that are more haunting than the nightmare I got in my childhood. They speak of love, and they speak of kindness but I’m sure I wasn’t raised to feel this sort of love and this sort of kindness that only puts another tainted needle on my chest, and ask me to be happy for I have everything. But what if what I have is never enough? What if I’m not the mind you ought me to have? And do you ever lay back on nights you cannot fall asleep and think about the billion other people who are suffering a tragedy inside themselves, just like me.
Maybe he was told that it was okay. For the world was so much bigger than the amount of toys that his six years old hand could hold. Mayhe, at 15, his father contemplated that his son wouldn’t come to waste his life like his brother. His mother must have held his hand on the morning of his 18th birthday and convinced him that he had everything that was needed to complete a boy growing into a man, and he had his whole life mapped right infront of him.
And they only asked him to have courage. Maybe the courage to be a man who would look into the mirror and no longer remember the boy he used to be. Maybe the courage to hold the future that was ripped off from his dreams. The courage to love without emotions or the courage to just make it through every day without falling apart.
But then, I guess it also required him a great deal of courage to hide that razor in his sleeves, and slit open his left wrist on that Monday night of April. He must have closed his eyes and put his arms around his body. He must have had cradled himself to sleep on the cold sheets soaking in his own blood, the very blood that felt as though it spilled off a stranger’s flesh. He must have been so courageous, and he never came to know about it.