I think about leaving sometimes.

বিজ্ঞাপন

I think about leaving sometimes.

It’s okay. I can’t complain. I go to work, go to school, come home, say, “I’d rather kill myself than go to the grocery store”, and go to the grocery store. I think about leaving sometimes, but maybe it’s not that I want to be gone. Perhaps I just no longer know how to be here.

Sometimes I feel like I owe the whole world an apology. For not being more. For letting things rot on my desk and in my mind. For forgetting to speak, to do my work, to reply, to show up, to try harder. I’m sorry for being so easily eclipsed. For giving in to torment when the embers beneath my skin begin to reverberate. I’m sorry for lying that I’m resting when I’m actually just hiding.

I watch people who seem to move through life so easily, who fall and recover, who have the drive for life, who put themselves first, and I wonder what went wrong with me. What sadistic part of me wants to bleed out and be buried underground? I’m tired of carrying every pulse of the world, and doing nothing, for even my fiercest attempts have crumbled to ash and dust.

I guess it’s why I drive past the gates of numbness and towards the desire to close my eyes and walk away. Every path I take eventually collapses into a dead end, and I’m suspended in immobility, trying to become whatever it is I have to be but finding no interest in doing so. I find no happiness in any direction I turn. In fact, I don’t see a point in running at all.

“I have these good days, you know, where I feel….. I feel invincible. But then there are a lot and a lot of bad days, when I remember that nothing….. nothing matters, you know? Nobody would care at all anyway.”

To me, it’s as if the world has dimmed. It’s as if the only candle on Earth was blown out by the fleeting yet unforgiving breeze. It’s as if this reality has been stripped of meaning. I can neither see the light nor find a road that deserves the effort of reaching it. I don’t see why reaching light would make me happy, anyway. The light would float around me, but I’d still remain in that dark hellhole.

I try to think about death, or disappearing, or leaving, and these thoughts are a solace sometimes. Honestly, the idea of it scares me a little more than it soothes me. Well, I wish I could stop existing without death having to be the medium to do so, and above all, perhaps I would wish to have never existed. That probably can’t happen, so as a consolation, if I could sleep forever, that would be nice. Really nice.

“But it’s the futility of my heart, are there any physical symptoms of an aching heart, a heart whimpering in pain? Are there? And I hope one day they would make a drug to cure heartaches so that I could gulp them down. And they say grief, remorse makes us more human but how much of it? How much of it till it strips me of my core?”

Now that I think about it, it’s kind of funny. I knew everything when I was younger. I knew which colour I liked, what I wanted to be, what kind of life would make me happy. I wanted to live like that. I wanted to grow into someone remarkable. It’s wild how, at 10, I could see my whole life stretched ahead of me like a field I could run across and at 20, I’m afraid I’ve already fallen deep into the mud.

Honestly, was I ever really here at all? I wake up to silence. I sleep with it. It follows me like a shadow that I no longer try to outrun. I got quieter. I wonder what it’d take for someone to notice the quiet erosion of self without bruises or blood. Would you only hear me if I left? Would anyone even notice that I’m gone? It’d be nice if someone noticed. Yeah, that would be nice.

Would anyone sit by my grave when I go? Not forever though, don’t you waste forever on me. Just for a few days, until the air stops remembering my breath, until the grass forgets my footprints. Maybe bring a chair, one of those old folding ones that squeak. And a flask, maybe a pack of cigarettes, and we can pretend that it’s one more late night under the stars. Tell me about the weather, the world, but just the good stuff. That’ll help.

I hope death feels like being picked up from the backseat and carried to my bed half asleep, where, tucked in and eyes closed, I can hear those who love me talking through a cracked door. I hope it smells like the fresh books I bought just to smell when I was a kid. I hope it feels like being wrapped in a warm blanket. I hope it feels like being patted to sleep. I hope it’s as gentle as a forehead kiss. May it find me at peace, with no battles left to fight.

And when I’m gone, go to the sea and stare at the moon. Stand where the waves break and close your eyes, listen. Each crash will carry the words I never said, the silent apologies, the quiet I love you’s that drowned in time. The tide will pull them to your feet, gentle as forgiveness. And when you leave, the ocean will keep calling, because it knows that I never will.

And when the days stretch thin and you think you’ve moved on, get up and brush the tears away. Let that old folding chair squeak one last time. Whisper that you love me and drive home slow. Don’t look back, I’ll be riding shotgun in the sunset of our memories. So for a few days, maybe, just sit with me. That’ll help.

Source: Medium/Solace

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