I will be turning a year older tomorrow. On the one hand I feel so young and insecure, as though I was born yesterday. I am filled up to the brim with a swirling energy to spread my wings and to conquer the entire world. I am jammed with passion for things and places that are yet to be discovered. Most of all, there is so much curiosity in the depths of my soul for everything unknown in the world; the kind of yearning portrayed in movies and novels, and in the lost sad lives of the young and the careless. Every second of this goddamn life feels so much like an unfolding Bildungsroman.
But on the other hand I feel so old, like someone who has lived through the end of life. There is too much in my soul that begs for calmness, for repose, for a supertemporal silence in a world full of noise. I see myself in the faces of old people around me, and how I lose myself every time I trace the crooked lines in their wrinkled faces, the fading life in their graying hair, the smell of breath and old age in their every uttered word. I admire their composure as they stare unflinchingly at blank spaces in front of them for hours on end without feeling lost in the emptiness of the surrounding void. I admire their complacency and their courage to confront the staring abyss, and to feel no ounce of doubt in the reflection that stares back at them.
I will be turning a year older tomorrow. But the restlessness of my youth has finally died away. I look at my life now with a vision of everything that is to come and realize that there is nothing in my life anymore that seeks for anything else other than the present. When I think about the future, all I remember is the distant past, and how one day in time —four fucking years ago— I have buried myself six feet beneath the rest of the world. Carl Jung said that sometimes you have to do something unforgivable in order to go on living. And for that, I have killed myself: punched myself in the face until my eyeballs fall out of place, slashed my heart relentlessly until crimson blood runs out, stabbed myself in the back for as long as the blades could carry, chopped myself into pieces until there was nothing left of that pathetic little girl that I was. I am nothing now but a living corpse of earthly memories, a [dam]aged fractured soul. But then again, who in the world is not? Who is not broken, shattered? Who does not bleed?
I blame myself for the fear with which I let myself be consumed. I blame myself for thinking I deserve love when it was all too clear that nobody deserves anything from anyone. We live our lives with the assurance that somebody has our back, only to find out in the end that we are completely alone in the world. We live in the age of the digital where we are simply a click away from the rest of humanity, but inside us is a faceless void that cannot be cured nor mended. I blame myself for the kindness I gave to people back in the days when I still had so much to give, and how I wish I could take back everything I have thrown away. I blame myself for wanting to be out there in the world, for wanting an adventure, for wanting to flag my wings into the open, for wanting love even when love is dead, and non-existent. What I learned from these years is that to want is the most dangerous and destructive of all human intentions. To want anything and everything in the world is to court annihilation for oneself. Desire steps upon the self and leaves it wanting, dying even. Desire does not care.
I will be turning a year older tomorrow. It’s funny how time rear its ugly head and deludes into believing the foolish idea that there is hope in the future. But how could one be so sure when the present is all that we have? Sometimes I would drown in my roaring silence, and blame myself for the withdrawal I imposed upon myself. Sometimes I would convince myself with a thousand reasons to take another try out there. But in the end it would not make sense. There is nothing I would wish, or ever will wish in life, other than silence and for silence to speak nothing but itself. There are days too when silence would turn its back on me and make me feel sorry for my selfish ways. I would ask, if there is a God, would he burn me for the wasteful way I have lived my life, and am living still? Or would He welcome me with the open understanding that I am simply not capable of adapting as a human, let alone a girl? There are days when their words would ring so powerfully in my head that it almost sound too convincing to point the blame on myself. But then again what have I done to people that deserves blame or contempt? Fucking none. All I ever did was to give, to give, to give, until there was nothing more left of me to give.
I will be turning a year older tomorrow. I live my life now like old people live theirs: always in anticipation of death, always ready to spread my wings and to take flight. People brand it as anxiety, depression, mental disorder, neurosis. I call it rejecting human. I feel like I have lost myself at 19, and never found it again. I live now with the hope that soon enough my body will wither away so that my spirit could finally take flight and be reunited with its long lost half. I don’t want to fight anymore for everything that I have given up. I don’t want to fight anymore for words that have ceased to have meaning. I have lost respect for every fucking concept in the world, including my own. All I ever have now is nothing.
There are spaces in this brand new year that are waiting to be brandished, polished, exposed. But I have lost interest in them all. When the clock strikes twelve, I will be right here patiently waiting for the reflection in the abyss to stare back at me. I tell myself I am ready for this.