I knew then that it would end, that that was it; the last one I’d ever see. There was no cause for celebration, only mourning for who I was right then, for I’d not be there for much longer. I was on this world, but not of it; and soon not even that.
I’d realized that my demise was imminent and I’d accepted it. No more self-deception.
“My playground,” I’d once say. A place to let loose, be free and play. A place where I’d go to see the colors extinct from my own life, to cry away the clouds and just spill my heart and soul.
A place of ruin and decay.
It scares me deeply, the thought of it. Let me hold on to this nothingness for a while longer, for once gone, I will never live it again.
It scares me deeply, the thought of living in the real world.
The truth is you’re alone; you’re up there standing all alone. There’s no one there with you, no one to hold your hand. There is no comforting companion, it’s just you on that ledge, you and everything that brought you there: your regrets, your wrongdoings, your hopes and dreams, everything you’d hoped your life would be, the picture of who you dreamed of being, the disappointments of everyday life, the let-downs from everyone around you, “you wouldn’t be there to help me,” “you’re selfish,” “you’re a disappointment,” “you can’t do anything,” “you don’t care at all,” “you’re so full of yourself.” It’s all right there with you. A thousand voices, screaming at you over the noise of all the times you’ve ever thought about killing yourself and how you smiled beneath the tears just feeling so happy about the thought of dying and all the voices stopping and the silence and the nothingness, just the nothingness, complete darkness, an end once and for all. You’re standing there alone, as broken as you’ve ever been, in equal parts sad and angry, shouting at the sky and covering your ears. Death can come no sooner. Sweet death.
Can you hear my mind through the silence in-between the songs? Can you hear the poems in the back of my head, or the love my synapses sing whenever I turn to look at you? Do my fingers speak of how they would stroke your hair and glide along your cheekbone? Do my eyes project onto yours the same images I see? Images of us on our backs, holding hands, looking out for falling stars.
Do my lips speak of the happiness they find on yours?
There’s always something, something for the monster in the back of my mind to feed on. There’s always something there, keeping him from starving to death, even in the brightest of days, there’s always something, hiding behind the sunlight. Come darkness, it’s all that I can see. He rears his ugly head and sinks his claws deep into my brain, throwing it on its knees and shattering it into a million pieces.
I can hear him roaring relentlessly in the back of my mind, lurking; waiting.
There is a wildfire burning inside of me, engulfing every fiber of my being in its relentless flames. I have welcomed it, helped it spread, and am unwilling to attempt to put it out. Why would I?
It’s the best thing that’s happened to me in I don’t remember how long.