I don't understand why I'm not dead. When your heart breaks, you should die.
-- Harper, from Angels in America
So for one moment, my whole world entirely, absolutely, and irrevocably believed in that one little line. I truly wondered why I was not dead yet. Ever since I was 15, I have a recurring idea that I would not live to see my next birthday.
Eight years after, I'm still here. Alive. Surprisingly healthy.
I still have that thought once in a while. Not as regular as before, but not as apocalyptic in its impression. It's not a secret that I think about suicide too, but, again, it's not something I blow my wad off from unlike then. All of it just seemed eventually routine. Big deal, so I'm going to die. Everybody does.
Problem is, I think it was my dreams which died on me. I have no ambition to speak of. No vision to look forward to. Hope... has become a mere mote of an idea. A theorem on books and songs. A habit. Like eating, like sleeping. Meaningless in its entirety.
And besides, no one cares as long as I PRETEND to be normal. And pretending is what I'm good at. I've lasted this long with people thinking I'm a normal and happy person. Some of them even KNOW I'm pretending, but it's OK, as long as they can still see I'm breathing. They can deal with that.
So right now, since I have nothing to look forward to, nothing to push me, what am I running on? Nothing. I'm a whole blank, black slate. Spiraling downwards, waiting for rock bottom.
Sometimes, for a few minutes, I would think that I'd do OK. That hey, maybe I'm just going about it all wrong. But no. Deep inside me I know. My very core beats with persistence that I AM GOING TO LOSE THIS FIGHT. That I shouldn't bother going on.
But still, I do. For reasons I don't know yet. And don't care to find out.
