after both of my grandmas got really sick and I got desperate

After a lifetime of running – running away from problems, from people, from worry – life finally catches up and grabs me with its heavy, slimy hands. They are too cold and too weird, complete with long, bonny fingers: hands of death and of darkness, the strongest of grips. And after it grabs me, that’s it – suddenly, the world falls on my head, its shrapnel piercing my skin, a sound of realization that’s deafening. And it is only after the blow that my senses awake, that my numb conscience is jolted up and that I finally, once again, can feel the flow of blood and life through my legs and body, making me remember that I am only mortal.

Let me tell you: it is tiresome, this whole ordeal. My heart craves peace, craves sleep, my head hurts and so does my stomach. I am dizzy, exhausted and caffeine no longer will cut it. But I am afraid of sleeping, developed a hatred for it – things die and go away while I sleep. However, I can’t deny the appeal: the world of dreams is good – irresistible – with Morpheus inviting me to the sit down in his highest throne. I start to fall, resisting as much as I can. See, I have to fight it with all my strength, or else darkness will take over. So I won’t give in, like a child, will only say no and no – for I must thrive. But it is impossible, too hard and my eyelids fall like lead and I fall deep and drop, as dead to the awake as the cold, lifeless bodies that haunt my peace.

The following day, when I wake up the world is still there, and apparently it is still the same. Maybe it was me that changed or, perhaps, the only who sees it changing. I feel so trapped feeling like the only one with this vision. Routine offers me none if its usual comfort but I suck it, gulp it down. I have to keep this facade. So I drink my coffee, put on my pants and, as I brush my teeth, half an hour later, I’m thoroughly suffocating. Normal is, indeed, too much at the moment, the experience of being alive too vivid and bright. All I want is to stop and scream and give up.

Yet, I fight it. I push the thought to the back of my mind, hide in the in the farthest mental drawer that I possibly can. I bury it, together with childhood shames, bad dreams and other skeletons, and spit the foam in my mouth and flush down the morning, the conscious thought in order to, in this moment, breath automatically only.

The whole experience, though, is senseless. It yields nothing good. The thoughts in my mind, my attitudes – none are comfortable or even agreeable. Matter of fact is, I am lonely, more lonely that I have ever been. I am surrounded by people, but I am as lonely as one can be. I realize that what afflicts me is the very destiny that awaits me in a future not so far away: a never ending cycle that repeats in loop, generation after generation, a realization that we are born and raised to give birth and raise other people, more people and more things that will just end up leaving us.  The desperation that we, at most, can be joined together in different lonelinesses but that we never really share, nor touch or reach another. That this whole charade is all but a consolation prize.

For in the end, we are truly all born alone only to die alone.


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