Much Like Falling

Prologue

My dreams are real, my life isn’t.

You can call me melodramatic, a failure, or a no body. But there is something I will always be that others aren’t, and that is reliable. I guess, in ways, I am proud of who I am. I just need others to be proud of me. If they aren’t, then all I’ve done, all that I am will be nothing. I would have no purpose. I would be a waste of time, or a burden. I would be nothing.

If I’m not nothing, then who am I?

I just want people to understand me, to understand what I am going through. But everyone I talk to, they don’t know who I am. They don’t understand. I mean, they think they do, but how can someone possibly understand what life brings another person? I don’t believe it’s possible, because no one’s pain is greater than any others. We all handle things differently, and things affect us in individual ways. Something may hurt me tonnes, but if the same happens to you, it might only add up to a tiny pin prick.

So please tell me, Dad, how can one be alive when their heart has already stopped beating? I’ve lost hope, I’ve lost faith, I’ve lost the will to live, and yet, I am still alive. I can barely breathe these days, so I come here, by the ocean, to cleanse my soul with fresh, salty air. It’s all I know what to do, other than to write my feelings down, to write down things I wish to say but never do because who is here to listen to me? No one…

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, sinking into the long, cushiony grass. I can hear the ocean from up here, the large waves that crash against rocks on the cliff below, the seagulls perched upon those rocks who have precise timing on when to dive for their food. I would love to be a bird, to soar across the sky, to laugh at those below who don’t have the freedom that I do. Yes, I would love to be free.

After taking several deep breaths, I open my eyes, completely gobsmacked at the view before me. It always leaves me breathless. The grass is so green, the trees fairy-tale-like, twisting together to give a mystical feel to the look-out, and don’t get me started on the ocean, my favourite colour. The water is so blue here, holding the sun’s beautiful reflection and rays. I wish to be amongst it. I’m far off track, closer to the edge than what my parents would be comfortable with, but they’re not here. I am alone.

My arm is still stinging beneath my (fake) leather jacket, from the wounds from the night before. I once was able to turn away from the blade’s stare, but now it holds me in its deadly embrace. It’s something I’m not proud of, and I want to stop, but when I get even the slightest bit angry or upset, I yearn for the feeling it gives me. Focussing on my pain takes me away from reality. My wounds and my scars hide the true smile that beats in my chest. Still, people do not see passed my mask. To them, I am happy, and that is what matters.

I guess for now we will continue to tell our children lies, only until they grow up and realise for themselves that true love and true happiness, only exists in fairy-tales.

So tell me, how can one be alive when their heart has already stopped beating? I’ve lost hope, I’ve lost faith, I’ve lost the will to live, and yet, I am still alive.

If I’m not nothing, then who am I? I am Emerson Clyde, a seventeen year old boy, barely surviving in this society-driven world, and I am yearning for a purpose… for love.