Willing

We lie. You lie. I lie. Everyone lie.

I lied because you lied. You lied because I lied. I cheated because you cheated. You cheated because I cheated.

We hurt each other in retaliation. When I hurt you, you hurt me back. It is an ongoing cycle.

A glimpse of you is all it need to break me. Is it guilt, or leftover feelings? I don't know. That's why I keep on writing. By writing, I feel like I am talking to people, confiding my secrets, my worries. I do not own journals anymore. They are all over the place now, passengers of the heavy wind that blow yesterday.

No more hurt. No more secrets. All of us are exposed already and there is no way we can get back to the innocent days. We are growing up, and with it we also gain the ability to discern the right and wrong. I am growing up and still wondering if I can keep the purity of a child inside my mind which is biased.

Bidding my past farewell, I shed a few tears. Watching the flames as it ate its way into the pages where I once scribbled both our names, I wish I could just disappear forever. I cannot describe the emptiness inside me, and the flames are permanently inside me all the time.

You are supposed to come out of this stronger.

I am sure I will dream about it again. The past that I wished would last forever. The future that I hoped would come one day. The present is no more than a bed of nails, and I am getting sucked into the earth by the intensifying gravity that threatens to bury me alive.

I am losing control of my dream world. More and more, my own private world is invaded by reality and replays the time which I want to forget. The jet that were supposed to crash onto the surface of the bluish moon was not there. I was strapped onto a log that was shot high into the sky by a geyser of hot water from deep inside the earth. I could feel the scalding temperature of it on my skin, and the rope that bound me snapped before I came plummeting back onto the ground.

The person in the red dress was there all along. Why won't you extend a hand to help me out? Pluck me away from this faux-reality and bring me into your world. I don't want to spend more time here, where my imagination runs unchecked and is killing me slowly.

I need to wear my heart on my sleeve a little bit more. I need to show the people out there that I am normal. I also like the things that they like, and I prefer to read instead of having empty talks all the time. I am not weird, I am not abnormal. We are all not normal, so we are all the same.

Let's burn this world, where I am tormented all over again. I despise the gallows that keep on swinging before me from that old, giant tree in my dreams. I am sick of the wailing mannequins that beg me to complete them again and again. I am tired of the phone that keep on receiving non-existing messages.

All of those are of the past. I want to start new. Do I have to burn myself to achieve that?

My medicines are running low, and their side-effects are starting to bud. Will I be permanently damaged before I can be healed?

A car crash on the news. Can I be the one inside the car, instead? The life that is on the brink of destruction doesn't deserve to go early. It is sad. Do not die before your children repay you for you effort. It should be me. I am tired of living a repetition of yesterday, and waking up to a tomorrow that holds no value of me.

Why are people happily spreading the drawings of the suspects happily as if they are handing out invitations for a part? Wipe that grin off that face. It is not something to be amused of. A person died, and it is disrespectful. She has ascended life itself. She had broken out of the cocoon of life and is now fleeting away with her new wings.

This old flame, can I snuff it? There is no point of keeping it alive. A new flame, where mine once burned, is dancing proudly. This birdcage is now empty.

No.

It is not empty.

There is another being inside there. A shadow. A dark-feathered bird whose cries are foul and glare so sharp it is chilling.

Nothing I can forget. Nothing I can't forgive. Those are what I told myself over and over again. No point in forgetting the painful memories, and no point in holding grudges against something that has passed.

Sleep used to be something I can do to escape this corrupting world, but it is now tainted with the ugly reality. I do not want to sleep, but the pills inside this bottle want me to. 'Be careful', they said, 'take too much and you'll die.'

My mind is running wild, and those white circular pills want to cure my anxiety. 'There, there', they said, 'there's no need to think too much.'

I am starting to lose something else. I don't know what it is, but I can feel that I am slowly breaking apart and the pieces are being blown away.

I am back inside my cell. Even after all this time, it stays loyal to me. The walls are white, free of dirt and stains. I am here, I yelled. Nothing can touch me here. I am free inside here. No one can take me away from me.

The smell of citrus is replaced with one of that cloyingly sweet scent of lavender. I never liked lavender but why is it replacing the one scent that I loved so much.

I am holding a glass of water in my right hand, and the medicines in my left. If I take them inside me, that would mean I am admitting I am weak. That I need outside forces to figure out what's wrong with me. I am normal. I am not crazy. My mind is just undergoing a major reconstruction, that's what. I can still think straight, and I won't need to reach for the razor again. The wires are safely stored away from me in a place where I myself don't know. I am being monitored 24/7, and I am eating good food on a regular basis.

I don't need a doctor to call me and ask me if my mind is quiet or not. I am well. I am healthy, doctor. Are your children healthy too? Maybe you need to see me as not a patient but a mere distraction from your own family. Do not concern yourself over my well-being anymore. I am nothing more than a withering husk, and awaiting my turn to a combustion.

I am okay. I am doing fine.

I am still alive and well, and I want to keep living.

I am thankful of all the things that befell me. A gratitude to all those who do wrong.

So I am printing another page to burn. The demon needs to go away. Again