UNSPOKEN REALITIES

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What are your hobbies? What are you passionate about? What do you want to study when you grow up? What makes you happy? What is your purpose in life? Who are you?

I used to have answers to all those questions. 

You start a drawing, but halfway through, you become frustrated and what you see no longer pleases you. You decide to erase what you've done, and now you see the eraser particles scattered across the page. Particles that were once white have absorbed the color of the page, turning into shades of gray and black. It's easy to get rid of them... with a breath or a movement. Now you are left with a completely blank, yet crumpled sheet. What should I do now? I had no plans beyond this. I thought that by erasing everything, I would finish the task, but now I find myself staring intently at that page which once had color and meaning. I search the surface, looking for remnants of what was there before, but it is too late. I chose to eliminate it all without considering the possibility that something more could follow. I take my pencil and place it against the page in front of me, but it seems that the charcoal has turned into some kind of obsidian. I try to draw, but this material, so sharp, ends up cutting the page.

This is the representation of my life. I had plans, I had dreams, I thought I knew what I wanted for my future, until I decided to throw it all away. I believed I understood what would happen after making that decision, but the outcome was different from what I had anticipated. The impact was so profound that it convinced me I didn't need those plans or dreams. No one would ever achieve or fulfill them now. Here I am, without a plan, without direction... desperately trying to gather the pieces of what I once believed was my life, hoping to repair what I myself destroyed.

It is exceedingly difficult for me to envision the future. What is a normal experience for many feels nearly impossible for me. I strive to focus on my present, but what lies before me is a distortion of everything from my past. A distortion that daily reminds me of my attempt to discard everything... a reminder that I do not deserve to enjoy the pleasures of life. Every time I laugh, I am reminded of what I wanted to achieve, and the cycle repeats itself.

Do you believe that a murderer has the right to be free after attempting to take someone's life? Can a thief offer moral lessons after trying to rob a bank? Does someone who has tried to take their own life have the right to live as though nothing has happened?

I know I may be very wrong. They say we are our own worst enemy, and that is precisely what my mind constantly tells me. I haven't been able to change its opinion.

I thought I wanted to end the story with a full stop, but the plot took an unexpected turn, and I ended up with a semicolon. I don't know what I should continue, as I'm afraid of tearing the page further. The story is supposed to go on, but my pen has run out of ink. How can I write the continuation of an incomplete work that has already ended in the mind of the author? It's even more difficult when I am that author. I started the work with a purpose that faded over time, and now I don't remember what it was, nor can I find a new one.