The Hungry Mutt

The first time I said I wanted to die.

The admission of my own weakness and inability to not take anything anymore, without pretense and without a hint of regret, dawned on me like the first snowflake on winter season. Beautiful, delicate, cold. The thought of dying by my own means, unlike what I presumed as something so selfish and laughable, came like common sense on that day.

That day, I was just looking at my wrist. Wondering how the others do it. I imagined blood coming out of it a million times now. And I wanted to see it real time.

I buried my nails on my skin. Deeper and deeper. In search of some feeling. Maybe fear. A pulse. Or sadness. Something.

I discovered a different one. And admittedly, it scared me.

Freedom.

The second time I said I wanted to die.

Someone I knew died. He's still young. The way people remembered him made me wonder if others would feel the same way with me too. I'm not even remotely close to him. He's just usually around my vicinity. But it felt like he mattered a lot.

I imagined that's the kind of impact I would bring when I leave. And I felt... Relieved. If I die early, with my goals still unfulfilled, I would matter still.

I used to think that the same people who promised me to join me to consult a shrink, would regret it more. People who received the small things I did for them, would value them more. People who rely on me would miss me more.

They could, but I actually didn't want that.

It's funny how much resentment I did have for them. Maybe because I treated them as my world so I once wished they would treat me back like it. Not anymore. They have no responsibility for me whatsoever.

Sentimentality means more guilt. I'm done with guilt. I feel comforted by the fact that someone will still remember me even if I do the bare minimum and just float around in the vicinity. I existed. That's it.

The third time.

I was just staring at the ceiling. Unable to move. Unable to sleep. Thinking a million things and nothing at the same time. It felt like no one's willing to listen, and I have no reason to tell anyone. I don't even know what I'm thinking, so how should I know what to tell?

I'm just there, lying on the the bed, like an atom floating into an endless void.

This time, I didn't want to die.

I'm just like a breathing corpse, cursed and left in an unopened dungeon.

I did my best to survive and all I get is this overwhelming feeling of acceptance every single day. Every minute. Every second. Acceptance that I am too weak and gentle for this world. I didn't have what it takes to live. I physically and mentally can't make myself do anything, even useless ones. Not even the biggest amount of saving grace can lift my finger.

How I wish I could reset to the first time I wanted to die. Because at least, I wanted to. At least, I can still feel my nails against my skin. At least I wanted freedom.

Or maybe reset back to that second time where I wanted to be remembered. Where I still have this ability to decide what others would think of me. Where I still have this bit of anger and resentment against anyone.

At least I wanted something. At least I felt something.

But these days...

I simply can't.

But I'll be damned if I'm not alive just to see how stupid he is.

My dog is currently barking and growling at his empty bowl.