𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen

The most beautiful thing about suicides 

is that they can dedicate their lives to someone.

Today I'm telling you everything, because I think I'm growing old, and I want to stay small. A child for life, without tissues and without screams. So go on, make yourself comfortable, sit down because I'll tell you everything. About the drama I'm living, every day living in hell, that's where I am, and I'd like to leave, to escape far away.

But I don't know where the keys are hidden, and when I have them, I'll surely leave, I don't know where, but I have to, that's clear enough. Because this world strangles me, it destroys me and keeps me from living in my bubble. Because if God says suicide is a sin, well then, God, you don't know what happened, well, you do, because you know everything, but let me tell you anyway. And please, I'm asking you to give me the instructions on how to do it right, reach out to me and tell me how to leave without hurting anyone.

Let me become what doctors believe is incurable. And maybe then, just maybe, they'll let me go in peace. So, dear God, help me. I can't do this alone, especially not in this world.

I get up early and I keep hearing that there are so many colors, but all I see is black. I'd like to write a whole world, my own planet, a planet where I'd feel like myself. Create a new universe, where tears and sorrow would just be a myth from an urban legend. So, let me go, tell me how to flee. Aren't there too many unanswered questions?

Answer me, I want to leave everything. The only thing I love about your creation is sleep. And being a creator of one is my dream, fewer tears and more laughter. Don't you think we have the right to dream with nothing in our pockets? I only beg for hope, but the night is very stingy. And when the lights don't come on at home, I end up spending most of my time outside.

So, sir, keep your wallet, I'm not just any beggar. I'm just a kid, with parents who have wealth, and, of course, in this world we live by the numbers. Each month you earn more, each day you lose me, Dad. Because the account is grave, and yes, I admit I can be defeated, I confess it, but I won't accept it. Can't you hear me screaming? I'm that sound that tells the story of a stupid pessimist with no social life. And I feel so damn lonely, no one to hold my hand, no one to share this despair with, no one. No one?

So every night as I accelerate, I feel like this will be my last breath. I don't understand this feeling very well, but it's there, pressing in my chest. Wait, I'm lying. I don't feel anything but an emptiness inside my chest, right where that heart rests that I sometimes forget I have. I don't pretend to be honest, but I take a few puffs to calm the stress I don't have, to forget that, deep down, I'm not really alone, that this is just part of the process—or so I suppose.

Some clowns will say I'm overdoing it, but I'm just a young man craving freedom, and freedom for me means doing what I want, when I want, how I want. Sometimes I don't even know what I'm going to face, but it's okay to feel that no one else knows either. Because once your heart is broken, she will arrive. With a name but no face, and there's no need to call her. Don't wait for her sitting down, no. She comes without knocking. She asks, Who are you? Deep down, do you know? Because I don't know who I am anymore, I'm lost or confused, not quite sure of the difference.

But everything gets worse when my ambition grows, and it becomes harder and harder to satisfy. My happiness tastes bitter, so, sir, I confess that I'm unhappy, and yet every night before bed, I dream of who I'd like to be before a heart attack claims me. Before that bottle of pills saves me for no reason. Are there pills that do that? Meanwhile, my therapist scribbles in her notebook, and I can't help noticing that it's black, and specifically, velvet too. Really, she's wasting such a beautiful notebook to jot down the traumas of a life that isn't being lived? Wow, I feel flattered—or more like a stupid failure who at the smallest hint thinks his existence really matters. Anyway, let's continue with the session.

I can feel the concern in each of her unanswered questions. Today I'm feeling kind, so I decide to stop being an idiot and answer a few. But she just nods her head. Is she stretching, or does she really understand me? She wants me to keep talking, but it's six in the evening, and for a minute, just a minute, I thought I could get out of this. But she doesn't stop charging cash. Another twenty euros in her pocket, she wants me to keep talking, but I know that it doesn't matter what I say or how I say it, she just wants me to keep talking. And time passes, and now it's nine, and none of this is getting better. I think I'm screwing up.

I'm confessing many lies, and I thought about calling my father. But who am I kidding, as if this were that important, right? No, of course it isn't. I have to be strong, because I'm just wasting time and money. So I stay silent for a moment, reflecting on what I've done. But there's no turning back because she's already heading to her desk to offer me another bottle of pills. I'm not sure if a lot of time has passed, but something inside me has changed since my last session. I don't know if it's because of the advice she gave me when my thoughts turned against me, or if it's those damn capsules taking effect.

Surely, after all, the same thing will happen as always. I'm barely remembering who I was before all this. But I still miss what I once was, though certain comments killed my spirit. I'm like this, and I don't intend to think otherwise. Well, it's not like I can, but the thing is that in this world full of madmen, they all inspire me to try to be less unhappy, because now I am someone new. I write when I mess up, and I laugh when I sense something bad will leave me with a black eye, and then my smile is accompanied by a few salty tears, because I feel peace, and at the same time, I feel selfish. But I swear I don't care what those narcissists who pose as realists think of my name. That's who I am, okay? And each time, I feel a little less unhappy, and I pray to create a god within me and confess my sins to him without covering my ears. And when that happens—oh, how embarrassing, God.

But now I have a group of friends, and every Sunday night, we confess our sins with a few jokes in between. And then there's only laughter and stupid problems of amazing people. I can't overlook that I'm the leader of the group; everyone adores me, I'm sure of it, but they don't really know my name. They don't need to know everything, not that it's irrelevant, right? I can't wait to hear what they call me. Call me all the names you want and create all those stories, but while you're at it, emphasize that I'm the most handsome one, haha. Because sure, I am many things, but I don't feel them. We're all just skeletons, you know? And I only join the fight when I see more than one person getting hurt. Whatever, some adrenaline now and then isn't bad.

But sometimes it's hard not to fake who I am, because I feel so comfortable, and I have no intention of changing any of this. At least not for them. But some people get to me, make me feel something that sometimes, well, I don't know.

Like my father, he makes me think of similar things. Sometimes I think about things like, about you, you know? When I have kids, you won't be there, you know? And when I stay away from you, I'm happier than ever. I wish I could explain it better. And I wish it weren't true. Give me a day or two. To think of something smart. But write me more often, just in case I forget to call you or maybe miss your funeral if I'm running late.

But I suppose you won't be there waiting behind the phone for my message, none of that, maybe I'll never see you again. And sometimes I wish I'd picked up the phone for you more often, but there are rumors about some fake crap.

They're calling you all sorts of names, and you're not even realizing it. But when you do, that's when you'll beg for forgiveness, and it'll be my turn to answer badly, for some reason. So Dad, please, I'm begging you. Don't read my humiliating messages until then.

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See you in the next writing, spoiler: it's about unrequited love😔

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