I am a Cannibalist of My Own Body
a glimpse of how we survive — and how we do not.
I was in my room, the room filled with gray shades of voidness, that it was practically gives an aura of no hope at all. I was looking in the corners of my room; the cracked tiny holes of the wooden floor, where there was a complete darkness. I was hoping there was a hand, a buddy, a companion, or somehow a friend, whom I can hug, whom I’ll be able to say: I’m tired. I’m fucking tired.
Ofcourse, I have friends who are supportive, kind, and have compassion. A Family that is concerned of me, that is worried about me. I appreciate them, so much. My friends have empathy towards me, while my family is trying their best to empathize, because myself is a bunch of worn out colored and white clothes that need to sort from what’s colored and from what’s not colored; I need to sort out my thoughts, because, I am a mess, my laundry is a mess.
But, there’s always a but. I feel so lonely, even though I am always in my room with my mom every night, I feel so — abandoned, wrecked, and pounded. These words are not enough, it is not satisfying the lackness within.
Feelings are unknown. Feelings are untouched. They are the blurred images that aren’t seen by anyone, including you, not until it flourished, conquering every nerves that we have, every senses. Everything. It’s like you are from a post-breakup realm, then you put all the objects — the sachet of a condom, tanzan, pictures, or even dried flowers to a box, which you are committed not to open it all over again.
But then, there’s a tricky feeling that urges you to open the box, thinking that you might be happy again, from browsing those things — the sachet, up to the driest flower. You and I are in the same direction, I think. That both of us felt that feeling — of irreversible memories, which continuously flashbacking from morning up to the death of the night.
What’s the aftermath of opening the box? You are being sucked by that black hole inside that box; there’s a vertical subway path, surrounded by images of pain, regret, of yesterdays, as you are being sucked into the pathway. You thought, it was great to browse the untouchable, the forbidden, because after all, you think that it makes you happy.
Finally, you are in the stomach of that realm. There’s no doorknob; nothing to open in order to make you escape. It starts to corrupt your being, drastically, you are being surrounded by pure depression and black. Light cannot enter this realm, even the slightest hope, even the tiniest assurance that everything will be okay.
You’re starting to think of coping mechanisms, in order to combat the proliferation of darkness. Your bloodstream starts to clog. Your lungs start turning into dust. While your heart? Eventually, it will start to not start another day of living.
You thought, maybe I should embrace this realm. Maybe it’s a friend or someone who can help you. Until you accepted this is a fixed destiny of being a person with depression. Both you and I knew that feeling; Of survival, of derusting, of confusion, of destruction.
This blackness will not let you see yourself; until you feel that, little by little, you have no arms, legs, even a heart, already. Where did it go?
You and I just ate our own bodies. We’re cannibalist of our own loneliness.
This might be the end.
