My Suicide Story
Benjamin Sulle

I don’t want to intrude, or nudge you, or judge you

This is a spillage of some of the chemicals from my teeny, shallow brain (and the heart as well, but let’s ignore that):

You were born to write, and more. At twelve I don’t think you would have known that (and more that you still wouldn’t know. I don’t know you and hence am not sure if you have already found the secret ingredient or are still looking. Nevertheless, I am of the opinion that we are always looking).

Time reveals our true worth. The beauty of it is that everyone is a gem, yet not everyone is polished to shine all at the same time.

The tragedy of it all is that though the dust is outside, we subconsciously come to believe of it as our entire constitution (socially under influence of those that ripened long before we did/will). It’s an emotional belief that we develop at such a young age, that it comes to rest in our very bones. It stays. It grows. And emotional beliefs can be baseless. So much so that they makes us blind of our worth.

Those that ripened long before us (not all, of course, just some jerks) will show us their mirrors. They all have their own. Each will guarantee that theirs is the most accurate. There’s something about those that ripened long before us, and it makes us believe them. They seem like they have the power to inject their judgements into our veins, and their words flow in our blood to our brains, and we let them stay.

We let them stay.

There lies the crack in the wall, the missing brick, the puzzle piece. We never realize when it was that we became our own enemies.

So I have a reminder in my room stuck to my refrigerator:

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