I know why people want to die.
Our hearts are evil—desiring what it should not and refusing what it should; even worse, inflicting incurable pains through its own misdeeds.
It is responsible for it’s own aches. And yet has not the wisdom to comprehend this, nor the capability to mend itself alone.
And because of an unstable disposition, a distorted state of mind, and our instinctive tendency towards survival, we begin to target that which, by keeping us alive, is killing us.
My emotions, unfortunately, have no off switch. Detachment has never been my forte. And pretending to be alright has always been the cruelest of punishments for me.
The ache in my chest is real. Too real, sometimes I can barely breathe. There exists no heavy stone where my heart’s positioned.
There lies only a vortex (I call it “the void”) that leaves me cold to the bone.
Is there such a thing as forbidden pain? What happens within us when our hearts grow heavy with want? And our longing cripples us?
When all you once knew and believed is distorted by a hurt you cannot comprehend.
What happens within—that even breathing becomes a task? How could something, not made of glass, break? And yet, ruthlessly keep you alive? And how are we able to celebrate one moment, succumb to despondence the next?
What happens within us? What chaos exists in our souls? That what beats to keep us alive only succeeds in tormenting us? And death can become the more humane experience?
How could the heart love so deeply knowing it subjects itself to deeper pains? How could time heal our wounds when every second of independence has become a tiresome struggle to keep sane?
Is there such a thing as getting well again?
Does such a thing exist?
Or have even our hearts adopted a mere medicinal cure—wherein symptoms are alleviated, but we are weakened just the same? While there is numbness and relief, we are being poisoned with by-products of what is supposed to kill our pain—not our souls.
The relief can get us by, but it can never make us whole.