I don't know when I have incurred such a scar; obviously flossing alone will never bear a power so destructive. I postulate it must have come from a long time ago; for vaguely I remember getting hurt, and have forgotten when and why. It does not, and will never bar me from eating though. In fact, I just ate a box of rice - I need to gain a little weight and at the same time, eating seems a fairly convenient way of being oblivious. The haunting noise of that mishap will alleviate when I commit myself to the act of chewing, not that its volume or degree will lessen, just that it will associate with me in a different form - since the front of my mind is occupied with the enjoyment of food, it hence becomes unlikely for me to harp on something less tangible. Similar to when I am drinking at the barbecue stand or hastening for a subway door that is about to be closed - the door did close before I set foot in the cabin, but the operator was kind enough to reopen it for me, the affliction will always be tuned down, implausibly as it would feel like to me in these other moments. And so I ponder, how will it play out, if finally the clingy emotions slacken and wounds cure, and I am occupied externally by everything that cheers me up, and the memory ends up wandering in the dusty shelf less used, when I know that the past is still quite there and would, however, retain my dispassion in the face of it? The answer eludes my brain, in spite of the fact that I, most certainly, will not care. Ultimately, just like the same many pinkie-swears I made during the years of my elementary school, these promises I made so resolutely merely a month ago, will inevitably shatter; so will each of them. At the beginning, I dare to imagine, it is going to feel like a slap on the face; but in the end I will lose either the interest or the incentive to actually chastise myself. Dubbing it an ineluctable phase of growth, I will walk away entirely intact. This is, at least according to me, a less-than-honorable ending. Yet the irony is, I am unbacked at every level, and the only sane option appears an eventual concession - a very caustic and profound lesson indeed.
The torment I have felt so deeply up until this moment, the clenching of teeth, the punching of pillow, the smashing of phone, the reluctance to eat, so many goofy tears and saliva and a horrendous peek at the suicide, these will perhaps become my upbringings - that in the future I should always take care of myself no matter how indignant I feel, and never allow another person, intimate and caring as she may be, to steer my own happiness. But these realizations, come off a price whose payment drains me, and a loss whose sincerity decapitates me. And I, numb and weary, glance at the pair of rooms where I once dwelled, at the black kettle with apple juice, at the video in which I shake my butt, at the rain and snow and sun outside of that glass window, at the stickers on it, at the drawing of me with toothbrush, at the two campus cards I carry simultaneously, at the bag of condoms, at the cinema, at the hotel room, at the toilet in which she is taking a D, at the hairdryer I used to dry her shoes, at the gentle whisper, at the screeching groan, at the Big's 1995 cap, at the riverside bench, and at the seashore of Lisbon, only to find a simple truth, that is, for this male earthling of twenty years old, in his limited lifespan, the spot that is the most unadorned and tender, has already been taken by a person who has loved and hurt him, and whom he has hurt and loves.
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There's only one bottle of beer left, and I don't plan to drink it - one bottle will never make a difference to me and as a matter of fact it even helps me recall things more lucidly. I'm casting my eyes for wine now, a little hesitantly for I don't want to change my name to Dimitri and move to Russia upon graduation. But I digress. I won't change my name and I won't move to Russia. I will still allow myself a week-long window to be pensive about the past, and occasionally to relive it - though the images are often blurry and I am hopelessly alone in there, it serves as a tribute to those good-old days which I now think I'm entitled to call.
One thing that is still with me, perhaps one of the few things that still braces me, is my finesse in objectifying my own life, so no matter how dark and deserted it feels and how latched I am to such grandeur of misery, I can laugh it off as I would to that of the other's. I make fun of it, I depict it with clarity, and I sympathize with what has happened, watching my own soul crumbling while patting the back of that orphan down the street - o' so unbearably sad, someone else's suffering.
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A timely epiphany has been captured amidst the meager soil of my thoughts, that rather than dwelling on the deteriorating emotions that will surely drag me down to the unthinkable, imposed on my reality are worldly issues whose direness is beyond estimation by my current state of mind, that in the coming years I would have no means of support aside from the payment of university fees, that I will be living entirely off a campus card, which alone, convincingly is not even going to cater to the necessity. And if the students ask for further rebate, and it is entirely in their reason to do so, I will have been deprived with all the alternatives but the bleak mire of debt. My health, bad as it is, still underscores a likelihood for a possible strife. However, alcohol makes me functionally inapt at addressing even the most trivial of problems and depression is snuffing out the last few glimmers of brilliancy for which I so ardently vied. I'm fully fledged at telling myself not to panic; I am not at my liberty, for that would cripple the already tarrying faith my entire family has placed on me. Sardonically, it is during these times that God will lead me away from the notion that I shall carry all the weight in my solitude, and that all the steps I have taken thus far will end up unrequited. Yet I no longer feel certain about a thing. I don't feel certain about anything. All I sense is a sort of dreadfulness not as an emotional contrivance but as a result of meticulous calculation. It is all wickedly dreadful, dreadful and dreadful. Van Gogh left this world saying "the sadness will last forever", and I am terminally scared.
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I can barely recognize myself. Even my endeavor to write is failing me - I have lost all the elegance of prose and indifference of mind; I have lost my words. What I see formerly as a capable person is gone; what's left is a moving lump of patchwork. I wreck myself to the last of all pieces, hoping to smash the stubbornly limerent core; I keep beating it, keep beating myself of no avail. It won't fucking die off - it just won't no matter how hard I fantasize and hoarsely I scream. Seeing in the mirror is a vacant corpse rid of soul, I have tried and corrupted every single trick; but it is still there.
Oh dear Lord please grant mercy to this struggling youth; please point for directions and escort me out of this mist, fainted and agonal and with the last reserve of strength I pray.
