all those rage, and i'm still here?

six

TW: Mentions of blood, gore descriptions, depression

"The Uncomfortable Truths of Existing."

It's uncomfortable to exist.

I walked out the door, mind in clouds as my feet took a step, one by one, as if it had a life of its own. It was 5 in the afternoon, and my body was slightly trembling, and aching, and my hand was cramping. It was cold, but it was summer. My sense of smell disappeared and my nose could have only survived if I had stuck two pieces of tissues, but I couldn't breathe.

And when I can't breathe, I become uncomfortable.

I walked past the city, and suddenly I found myself carefully treading the path of melancholy.

Somehow it hurt seeing this mindless body with a suffering soul, getting tired and tired each day. A body is almost weakening that it tells the soul to press pause, stop for a second, and just not continue to walk. Stop walking, I'm still trying to catch my breath. Being in a state of melancholy reminded me of how unfortunate somebody who was a nobody, somebody who's always suffered alone. I was trying to walk and get away from everyone I knew. After all, I hated seeing someone familiar. Somehow, I don't understand why I feel that way, but on the other hand, I think I do. Maybe seeing those people made me jealous.

Jealous in the sense that they seem to enjoy normalcy and not be bombarded with all these questions of whys. This mindless body with an aching soul could never live without asking why. Somehow there's life in the lifeless eyes of a human being that is real but doesn't seem to be there. Everyone looks back and wonders why such a human could exist, wondering why someone could carelessly walk and face the world with such apathy as if she didn't care about anyone's whispers. Yet in this sense, she felt everyone's eyes like a magnet capable of grabbing everyone's attention.

Some would have been happier. Some would have been confident. She wasn't some. She felt...terrified, she didn't want anyone to look at her. Those judgmental stares were enough to make her uncomfortable. The look of astonishment and both pity. Yet there's always this mask we use to face the world and so she acted like it wasn't something to be bothered for, when in fact, it did. She didn't want anyone to look at her. She despised everyone who looked at her. That lifeless eyes were a mirror to her screaming soul. She's screaming internally, and how she wishes she could have done the same like once.

The seemingly tranquil exterior conflicted with the blaring noises inside her mind. That mind felt like exploding, and the madness was overpowering. It was overwhelming as if she felt like ripping her flesh on the ends of her soul. She was tired, she was exhausted. Probably physical pain was something to equal the pain inside, maybe the madness would halt, maybe the madness could stare into her eyes and realize how much she had suffered for a long time.

As if there was growth in that. She still walked lightly, and without the earphones, she was still surrounded by all those thoughts. It was pity, it was a pity for herself. She was still broke, she still had to make ends meet, and there was still an unstable mentality. There's this lingering thought in her mind, that being alive is embarrassing, shameful, and uncomfortable. If living is all about going out of my comfort zone, then why should I ever leave? After all, I could never challenge myself to enjoy the normalcy.

It's not like I've always been comfortable with that. The normalcy had always made me uncomfortable. I just knew that there was more to it, there was more to this life. Searching for it felt like an eternity, but I'm still young, and the more and farther I understand, the more and farther I drift away from feeling human. I feel quite...odd, and different. Different in a way that is never validated through any human existence. Never much in any way. Probably in a psychology disorder book, it would be. There's no unique in that case, but it's always been shameful as it is.

I kept on taking a step into the outer world, surrounded by humans like me, yet the difference was how I walked as if I were a zombie. I haven't even checked in the mirror at how I looked before I went out, I just walked and walked and waited where my feet could take me. The more I took a step, the more anxious, the more embarrassed, the more emotional and terrified I had been. It felt as if I were ripping my skin just so I could feel the pain, at least in the most physical way possible, one that felt the most real, watching as blood flowed continuously towards the road of nothingness, covered in black. My mind continued screaming in agony until I realized the familiarity of that voice until it had been mine, and that was me. The more I took a step, the more I just...became inhuman. As if I wanted to take away all the humanity that has been left of me. I shredded all the parts of me into pieces, as someone so unrecognizable and even strangely, and more uglier, and scarier version of me. It was the sight I dreaded, but the sight I was most comfortable with.

The realest, the human, the ugliest, the darkest part of me–it was nothing but myself. Somewhat a shadow for some, but I knew it was a part of myself. Who was she? In that state, will anyone even look at her? Would they be delighted? Would they still be able to recognize her? Would they still feel the same way as how she was when she was still the same old self that they liked the most? In that state, will anyone, just even one person, be able to offer her love?

Truth be told, I knew at the back of my mind that no one would. It's not exactly as if your most authentic self is the most ethical self. Sometimes the madness is too much, and it's just inappropriate according to the natural law. And so it dissipates, slowly and steadily turning into ash, and disappears–not exactly. It merely becomes a shadow, the darkest part of oneself. One that even with immense avoidance, could never be escaped. It's a part of oneself, it's a part of existence. Somehow it's not the best self, but the more power and energy are given as the more hidden emotions are kept inside, it feeds off that shadow, creating a never-ending inner torment, which is quite ironic, considering it's only yourself.

That immense, dark, and powerful energy started to disappear, hiding–yet an immense grin was visible. She took another step in the world, opened her eyes, and gazed upon the sky, thinking to herself:

I had always been bothered by the concept of being alive, and I think I will continue to be terrified by the very existence of human life, nor even by the reason why I had to exist. It's always been uncomfortable, it's always been so difficult, so shameful, so melancholic. To be this terrified of being alive is such a funny thing, as it is just something so vague and meaningless, and messy, yet also extremely important to build an identity.

A chuckle now escaped her lips as she smiled sweetly as if she had not been close to losing her mind, to losing her sanity.

Well, wasn't that how it had always been?