Chopper97
Member
- Jul 29, 2023
- 8
I looked through my old belongings. A black agenda from 2006 I was 8. I cried as I saw what I was. I managed to capture a part of myself that no longer existed In a little black book. Page after page filled with birthdays of people I no longer knew. Looking at this fragile book with stickers and pictures hanging by threads of old glue. Pictures of my family and me, pictures of cartoon characters, pages of birthdays of family and friends throughout the calendar months, little doodles, writings of my name and the name of others. To think throughout all the years this book is probably the closest thing to my past self that I have.
I remembered what I once was. A kid trying to do what he thought was right, already riddled with enough guilt to last a lifetime. Ruined by life even then. I was broken and yet, happy; able to get lost in the small moments long enough to call it happiness. Unaware of what was to come and who I was to become. I cry for that small part of me that still exists and that did exist. I didn't deserve this life. The person I was didn't deserve this life. The child who wrote down the birthdays of every friend and family member he knew. The 8-year-old who wanted to capture the happiness he felt, not knowing what was to come, and who he was to become. Time ruins everything.
What I was Is no longer what I am. I don't feel the same way about life and people as I did back then. Death ruined me. I died before I died. I died for the first time when I found out my grandparents would die, I died again when I realized I would die. How could people who loved me condemn me to death? And if death was the last act of a good life, perhaps I could bear it. But as causality would have it, the tribulation of life would slowly destroy me. Sadness into indignation into animosity and, then, into apathy. I no longer feel human. I have no love to give and am incapable of receiving it. For love died when I died. To love life is to be ignorant of death. For how can one love the disappearance of everything that they love? There is no life without death. For me, death and life are one and the same.
I was attached to what caused my suffering, and so I detached. I can't ignore the ignorance that caused my suffering. I cannot turn a blind-eye to the cycle of life and death and the role those who say they love me have in it. A deep sickness in my stomach. Dread. To realize how deeply sick everyone Is, myself included. If someone brings you to hell but loves you, what does that love mean? Everything I say is dramatic or extreme until you lay on your deathbed, and you realize everything will be gone as if to never have existed. Mothers and fathers condemning you to a life of addiction and then death. I Just ask myself why? Why do people think it's alright to die? To lose everything. How many people must be obliterated? And so I must reject life in order to accept death. You can't miss what you don't love.
P.S I'm a breathing corpse.
I remembered what I once was. A kid trying to do what he thought was right, already riddled with enough guilt to last a lifetime. Ruined by life even then. I was broken and yet, happy; able to get lost in the small moments long enough to call it happiness. Unaware of what was to come and who I was to become. I cry for that small part of me that still exists and that did exist. I didn't deserve this life. The person I was didn't deserve this life. The child who wrote down the birthdays of every friend and family member he knew. The 8-year-old who wanted to capture the happiness he felt, not knowing what was to come, and who he was to become. Time ruins everything.
What I was Is no longer what I am. I don't feel the same way about life and people as I did back then. Death ruined me. I died before I died. I died for the first time when I found out my grandparents would die, I died again when I realized I would die. How could people who loved me condemn me to death? And if death was the last act of a good life, perhaps I could bear it. But as causality would have it, the tribulation of life would slowly destroy me. Sadness into indignation into animosity and, then, into apathy. I no longer feel human. I have no love to give and am incapable of receiving it. For love died when I died. To love life is to be ignorant of death. For how can one love the disappearance of everything that they love? There is no life without death. For me, death and life are one and the same.
I was attached to what caused my suffering, and so I detached. I can't ignore the ignorance that caused my suffering. I cannot turn a blind-eye to the cycle of life and death and the role those who say they love me have in it. A deep sickness in my stomach. Dread. To realize how deeply sick everyone Is, myself included. If someone brings you to hell but loves you, what does that love mean? Everything I say is dramatic or extreme until you lay on your deathbed, and you realize everything will be gone as if to never have existed. Mothers and fathers condemning you to a life of addiction and then death. I Just ask myself why? Why do people think it's alright to die? To lose everything. How many people must be obliterated? And so I must reject life in order to accept death. You can't miss what you don't love.
P.S I'm a breathing corpse.
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