Diary Entry 2-Second Reason: I’m Cursed In This State.

It's always the pain that I feel, the muted pain that sticks itself into my heart like a knife, staying there as it allows me to bleed to death—except it's not a real death that promises peace. And that's worse than dying.

These thoughts that swim in my head sometimes turn into a whirlpool, taking away almost everything I have left that can last me another day. It's like being deprived of something so fundamental to who I am and without them, I'm nothing but a puppet—no, a speck of dust that would be swept up soon. A dust? No wonder I'm useless.

But more than that, sometimes these thoughts would evolve and turn into the ocean that would come alive from my head, drowning me in the moving waves, and no matter how many times I tried to swim above these waves, trying to see that blue sky, trying to breathe in the air above, I couldn't fight against the waves that kept coming over my head and this exhaustion had weight my body down, rendering it nothing but a piece of meat. This body is nothing but a support for a life that I deem too painful to live.

I watch the sunlight filtering through the window and the dust illuminated by that luminous light. I pull the drawer open and play with a bottle, throwing it from my right hand to the left. If I am too pussy to take these pills then I can still go up on a roof and do it. It will not be difficult. Dying is easy.

I look at the wall in front of me. Marcus' smile was bright and his blue eyes twinkled with joy. Beside him was me, with his arm around my shoulder, as if he was proud of me. We took that picture in a cross country competition and I remembered Marcus telling me that if I had finished the race, he would bring me to the carnival and play whatever games I wanted to. It was one of those moments I can still remember and cherish, seeing colors in it for a moment, unlike everything else that have turn black and white—only that this world is turning darker and blacker as the day goes by.

I place the bottle on the table beside my bed as I put all my strength—inside me, I'm fighting against the wave that submerge me—and stand up. My hand grazes the wooden surface of the table and I catch my brother playing baseball outside with his friends, howling with laughter as my mother is watching with a gentle smile, calling out when my brother made a home run.

I love them. I really do.

I take the bottle and place it back in the drawer. I bite my lip and look through the window. Why do I feel so far from them? Why can't I understand the people I once knew like the back of my hand? It's like they are up in the sky, too far to reach as my hand reaches for them before the waves come back again. I no longer know the sky as my home but I know the ocean is the hell that lives in my mind, building and latching itself to every thought that I have.

It's my fault. I should have spent more time with them. I want a mask, a full body mask that does everything that shows happiness to them, so that I don't have to do it and risk having those moments that I rage, those moments that I show this raging ocean in me. I can't risk their derision of me. That's the only thing I don't want to allow to surface in my face, in my expressions.

I breath in. I'll not die today.

But I don't know when I'll slip and let go of everything that threatens to destroy what I have now and take away what I don't want—but still hold on tightly.