I believe something is wrong with me, as a whole. I believe it has to be the way I look. Beautiful people are helped instantly. You see nobody likes a pretty girl crying on a subway. Some times I think when doctors see me, they judge me. They judge the way I look. Ugliness and diseases fit in properly perhaps. They take note of my emotions, and write them on prescription slips as symptoms. Don't we all feel? Why are they trying to heal the only part of me that dares to feel sometimes?
Who is a good person? One who doesn't acknowledge that sometimes life is a matter of hearts? I am tired, trapped and nothing in this life can bring me back now. I am here but I have died years ago. My ghost inhabits this body and people cheer me for being a fighter. But when a spider gets trapped in its own web, does it count as mistake or fate? Spiders know their way out, humans don't. I keep recalling the days when I became sad and nobody writes down the dates of my brain falling down the rabbit hole. As if it was predictable. As if people like me were prone to life like nobody else. As if this wasn't a disease but just bad luck.
I have no more faith in doctors who proclaim to have cured people from their utmost will to die. You can mend a broken glass but the cracks remain as magnificent as ever. They say it is through them that light enters but does that count? Tell me, if light at the end of tunnel is so bright, why does it just wait at the seems of a never ending dark tunnel. Does this light has self esteem issues too? Does this light want to be validated? But who bears the cost?
These doctors ask me if I have tried saving myself and I nod my head because I can't look them in the eyes. They see me, my scars and still choose to do nothing about them. I see myself dying and still choose to do nothing about it. Do people save someone who don't want to be saved? Is that a murder or wish fulfilled?
Dear dadu, I wish someone would just listen to me but the music is so loud, of life, ambitions, success that my pleas become noise, my scream for help becomes a tragic wail. I don't want to die but nobody has helped me see the other side. Is there an other side? Who lives there? Do you?
Dear dadu, I hope we meet in a place where the rabbit hole ends. I hope we then grieve together for a life that was unfair, for people who were ignorant and for stories that never had the chance to be heard. I hope when we meet, it becomes a celebration more than a grieving. I hope to hope then.