To Want To Feel Alive


When you are alone in a dark room, your mind lights with thoughts of memories and unanswered questions like, “Did he come in me that time?” or “Will my father ever find peace within himself?” and the weird one’s like “What do I have to show for all the years of my existance?”

There is something slightly depressing about not having the answers even though no one ever really has all the answers. they just pile up and I don’t know if it’s okay to have all that workload on my to do list and nothing under achievements.

Let me die here

I wrote in my diary the other day that I wanted to die. I was being honest with myself and somewhat satisfied that the privacy of this book I call diary would be respected. I wrote the truth. I wanted to die, more so because I was deep in my depression and I couldn’t seem to get out of it. The longer it went on the more I feared that this would be it. I romanticized the idea of jumping from my window on fifth floor but the snow was still thick and would cushion my fall.

I didn’t want it to fail if ever I did try. A failed suicide was not a badge I wanted to wear like an invisible tattoo.


Then I thought of my mother and how one time she mentioned someone else’s kid who came back from mother Russia in a coffin and my heart sank. I was sad again, a new kind of sad that made food taste like cardboard. I was ready to starve myself into happiness. I listened to music that was scientifically proven to alter certain parts of my brain to change my mood; make me feel better and I prayed to my God for help. I wanted to feel better. I was (still am) tired of the heavy cloak that burdens me. For the sleep that never comes but drowns me in bed.

Oh! To be cursed and blessed by the things you love to seek. I always wanted to be dipped in feelings, I want to write about tingles, and butterflies in bellies, and hearts ripping at the seams and God cupping your cheek in his palm when the sun shines but sometimes God uses those same hands to send in the nimbostratus clouds to hang heavy over my soul.


I feel abandoned. In the odd silence of a noisy fridge and voices floating from a speaker somewhere. In the weird light of an unwatched movie playing. I find hell tucked in between my sheets and as I sink into them I know that I must get out.
I know I should be able to control it. But it just burns and I cry.
Engulfed with love that does not see it’s own reflection.
To be caged within yourself.
To find words to describe the cage or your emotions while trapped in there.

This is not my last letter nor is it an invitation for you to pity me. The need to write is overwhelming and I can’t seem to find the right words but the burden is lighter. The nightmares aren’t as scary anymore


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