The Brain is Never at Rest

20

Today was the day I died. All the empty sheets I left behind were now being placed together in a box that will be set on fire later. I carefully watch as they emptied the cabinet I had used for the past years, and I realized how fast time flew and passed. I saw stuff, of which some would be placed inside the coffin and be buried six feet under with me. Others, I suppose, would be thrown out or shared by the cousins in our bloodline. It does not matter to me anyway. I would be happy to see them taking care of the things that used to mean the whole world to me.

Today was the day I died. And my favorite dolls and old but sealed toys, which have always been kept inside a cabinet I asked my father to make, were being placed inside a box one by one. I have heard that these would go to an orphanage where kids barely receive such toys. I was against it, but I could not speak up about what was inside my head. Maybe it was because I was aware of how useless to keep these when I wouldn't be playing them anymore.

I was scared of dying. I was not prepared to lose myself and be forgotten for who I used to be. I could not imagine not being a part of the narrative, not being seen in family pictures, not being counted in family reunions, and not being offered the comforts that the world used to give to me. I was scared – what if I get lost along the journey? What if people would erase me from their worlds? I was not ready for that.

But when I woke up with beads of sweat racing down my forehead and neck, I knew I had long been prepared for that death. Dying was a part of living – it was true. For me to become better, I had to die first. I had to bury my version that would easily crumble whenever I lose track. I had to erase the personality that held me back from achieving the life I'd always dreamt of. I need to remove the traces of weakness that people might use against me and stop me from becoming the person I am supposed to be.

I had to die and be reborn.

I was just curious how many times I had to die because that part of me that I killed kept coming back like a hungry zombie, craving something that lingers at the back of my mind. I kept dying and dying, and I had to be reborn several times after every death.

But on nights like this, when lights are off and the moon shines bright through my uncovered window... the hunger becomes harder to ignore. And sometimes I ask myself...

Was the world worth dying for?