ONE BIG SUNFLOWER

Month: May, 2013

by retrodiction

When the tides came in lapping gently at its shores I mistook its foamy waters for healing balm to an aching soul. It came and went with such hypnotic trance. I was powerless. So I went along, and I let it wash me out to sea instead. And I was stranded out in deeper waters. And all I saw were endless stretches of blue and green and grey. But the calm I thought I knew was most untrue. I tried to trap the endless liquid between the spaces of my fingers. And I tried to keep my head above its surface, I did. But the weight of my being could not be held up by water.

When the waves made sea walls six feet tall, I braced myself to push right through. But the strength of my body I thought I knew was most untrue. It was like running into brick walls, thinking maybe all my broken pieces could diffuse right through its pores, thinking maybe I could emerge on the other side — whole.

When I found a buoyant to keep me afloat, the darker waters scared me less. I had a device to help me cope, a sense of hope. A kind of friend, to see me through to the end. But the hope I thought I knew was most untrue. It became no easier to hold on, but a lot harder to let go. The ceaseless illusion of soon finding shore, set me adrift burdening more.

I thought I was being chained to a sinking ship, but really, it was the stone in my heart.

 

by retrodiction

In the dead of night, what jarring silence render futile all attempts at laying my head to rest. Though as silent as the world could be, the cacophony of fiends in my mind never seem to cease. Loud and clear they scream, such devilish things, only made more so by the quiet that enables it.

Yet to be rid of these static noises would be the equivalent of removing from me, a limb, an arm, a finger, a foot — a part of me most indispensable. These fiends are an extension of me, each one extrapolated from an undesirable trait, an unpleasant memory, an irksome emotion, tempting in me the most revolting of thoughts and actions. Except these thoughts that encourages my actions have become not so much repulsive as they are condoling. I pine for the end of each day, for my solitude and dark, dark ways.

At first, I supposed i could, if i had given greater effort, banish these bumbling voices that have overtime grown in strength and potent eloquence. With such fiery i had fought, and so it seemed that not all hope was lost. Yet it is most evident that i remain still, in this endless loop of shame, and guilt, and wanton self-destruction. It is an unchanging dance, practised to perfection, fluent in its execution and each sway, or leap, or twirl, enervates me to no end. Hope, is such a strange, strange thing. It hurts me more than my decaying heart. Had i had none to begin with… There are no words for desperate hopelessness. Had i had none, no longer would there be, every morning, my melancholic sight of the sun.

I have clamoured “Tired!” and “Enough!” and “Stop!” more times than i can count; but only, as always, only in my mind.

If my eyes are the windows to my soul, i wonder if any has peered in, deep and down below. And if so, can they see the emptiness  grow; the nothingness that is to be, a life, a heart, a whole of me.

Cowards die many times before their death

by retrodiction

Today I had one of the worst meltdowns I’ve had in a really long time. I stomped, and screamed, and smashed my fists against the walls of my bathroom while taking a shower— screaming: “I never asked for this. I never asked for any of this. I never asked to be alive.” Over, and over… and over again.

I am only eighteen. I have only been eighteen for about a month. I have barely lived my life, or pursued my passions, but already, I feel as though i have had enough of it. But the saddest thing? I am but one of the hundreds, thousands, and — god, i hope not— millions of people who feel this way. Who feel like seeing, and breathing, and touching, and feeling, is not enough to want to be alive.

If i really think about it, I have not had a hard life at all. In fact, all things considered, I’ve had it pretty good. So what i can’t understand is how this hole in my heart that can’t be filled came to be. What i am, is emotionally incapacitated. I don’t have the ability to feel, or understand what i feel. Maybe this is what it’s like to be numb, but then again, there’s a dull ache that never really goes away. I can’t really be numb if there’s an ache, can i?

Some days, when it gets extraordinarily bad, it’s like the ache knows to amplify itself. It’s a needle in my heart. Then many thousand needles. Like I’m a pin cushion, holding all the coloured pins in place, poked and prodded. Used and discarded. Then all too soon it’s a knife in a chest; A twist, a turn, pull out and plunge it back in. Except… it’s all only in my head (and in my heart).

The heart is a muscle. So maybe it needs to be worn out before it can grow. But each vein is a lifeline, and each day one stretches taut and snaps. Today however, at one go, ten were snipped into loose threads. One for my father and my mother. Two, for my brother and my sister. Three for my friends who i could never truly love. Four, for the grief of the girl in the mirror.

So you see, i am only eighteen. But already i have only sparse few lifelines left. I am hanging onto strands millimetres thick, dangling over a cliff. What i wish for, is the courage to let go. What i really want, is for everything to end. Because when i picture my life a year, a decade, a lifetime from now, i see the same. The same anguish, the same darkness, the same routine day in and day out. The irony is, if i want it to end, i mustn’t do anything.

I am not suicidal, and this is not a farewell note. My attempts at being heard is proof enough of my hope to live. Yet, this is what kills me everyday.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but feelings can really fuck me right up.