Me.

1

Have I changed ?
There are times, on sleepless nights, I ponder over that question.
I have. But for better or for worse? I was a critical nuisance. Am I critical now? Am I still that serene being I once was? Who am I kidding, of course not.

Being me is worrying about how I am going to survive the next day, or the day after that.

Being me is wondering how I managed to stay alive, after being put down by others, and by myself.

Being me is staying up late, even to just stare blankly into nothingness.

Being me is appearing to be on the verge of eradication or annoyingly cheerful, although sometimes my numbness prevents me from feeling any sort of human emotions.

Being me is bearing this ...flame inside of me, fearing it would break out at any moment and burn the whole world to ashes, then leave me alone with my unforgiving, broken mind.

Being me is being selfish, insecure, and cowardly.

Being me is having elusive and unintelligible emotions.

Being me is being pretentious as hell, unintentionally or not.

Being me is going out of my way to avoid falling in love. For I know, my love is a forest fire, is passionate, is scorching, is uncontrollable, is my redemption and my desolation. And once it's gone, only ashes and dust remain.

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On that particular night, the serene orb-shaped moon bathed me in her seemingly ethereal silvery light. Every gust of wind left me shivering. Night donned a deep violet velvet cloak, scattered with unreachable stars. And there I was, sitting on the balcony, contemplating my own destruction. As the raging thunderstorm intensified downstairs, I continued choosing a spot from which I could jump and my body would get disfigured the least whilst ensuring a certain death. Every knife they spat out pierced my furiously bleeding heart. And another. And another. And another. The wind could not shield me from undesired words. The night sky could not protect me from being consumed by my eternally dark abyss which I always kept in my pockets. The thunderstorm downstairs raged on, and on, and on.

I was the it's center. I was the cause, the reason, the root.

Suddenly, I was gone. Away from my own woe, my own dejected reality, my cracked home.
Nonchalantly, my mind wandered to lost possibilities, where I was never brought into this life, where my mother's dead fetus was not dead, where this version of me didn't exist. If , I asked myself, I had been a different unity, a different soul, would my life and theirs have turned out the way it did, or would they have been freed from such heavy burdens. Would they have been happier? Would I have been happier? These alternatives, all of which I once longed for, eventually faded away as time passed by.

And at that very moment, my tear-stained cheeks , my vacant eyes, my dying fire, all mattered very little. I chose to believe what I was trying to do was an act of selflessness. I intended to drag myself to the infamous seething Hell, taking all their anger with me, taking away all the damages I had done. In truth, I was finding a way to abscond. My guilt became unbearable; my hostile thoughts snaked their way around my neck, suffocating me slowly yet steadily; the perpetual screams inside my head stamped out any ray of hope I managed to muster.

"Let me decay, let my flash rot, let my soul perish. For I cannot bear to witness this catastrophic life of mine any longer."

Yet, one minute passed, then two, then ten. And it kept on going. And I was still sitting there, my silhouette against the pearly moonlight, so soft, so cold, so distant. I didn't jump. Meaningless words uttered to prove a useless point. I was not thinking of my loved ones. I was not thinking of my own selfishness and what it would have costed. My mind was fixed on the physical pain I would have to endure. Had I leaped out of the balcony, I would have had to go through who-knew-what for gods-knew-how -long. I chickened out. Not out of love, not out of thoughtfulness, not out of goodness. I stayed. Because I was a coward.

I tried banging my head against the wall. The impact was not enough to put an end to my pathetic life, yet just enough to leave me feverish and chipped. Once again, the coward inside of me took control. And I was punished by my own relentlessness. I wished I had killed myself. Also because I was a gutless, bratty git who could not face her own consequences.

The irony is over the top, wouldn't you agree ? What a Peter Pettigrew I am.

My body continued functioning. I kept breathing. The world rotated. And nobody in the family committed suicide.

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I should be happy. I am blessed. With loving parental units. With wealthiness . With friends. All of which I don't deserve. The same way a murderer doesn't deserve pity. The same way corrupted politics don't deserve power.

I should feel content. I don't.

I should be grateful. I am. To some extent.

I should . . . I should . . . I should . . .

I don't know how to feel properly. I don't know how to love properly. I don't know how to forgive.

I am trapped. Inside this invisible cage which I sculpted from my judgement, my guilt.

Yet I am free. To commit whatever crime I am capable of, should I be given a sufficient amount of determination and twisted, depraved notions. To manipulate. To mistreat. To deceive.

Standing before the gates of Hell, all sinners meet their doom. And their salvation.
What is hell, to be exact?
Your heaven might be my ultimate inferno.

What shall become of me ? Of sinners? Shall heaven open it's arms and embrace this lost soul, shall heaven bathe her in it's everlasting, celestial glow and wash away her sinful heart?

I don't know. I don't have the answers to my own questions.

I don't know anything at all.

How poignant, clueless little me.

How poignant, indeed.