Damsel in Distress

ImageIt is with all honesty that I type this, a confession of sorts. A purge maybe. But regardless of what this is or who it is for, it is a revelation so I can hold myself together. For now.

I don’t cope very well with emotional stress. Give me a hundred pages and an exam the next morning and watch as I cruise along and ace it like it didn’t even pose even the slightest of a challenge to me. But throw me in a drop of helplessness, hopelessness and loneliness? Hold a box of popcorn and watch me unravel faster than a ball of yarn left to roll.

But as it comes to all problems, there’s always a solution. A pity mine comes either with alcohol involved, or evokes a faux display of concern graced upon an onlooker’s face. My coping mechanism is to self destruct and hope that when I’m done, what’s left can somehow pick up the broken pieces and become something better – the same way nature copes with problems too big to handle.

While it may seem ridiculous and outrageous to others, destroying yourself can be therapeutic. It’s not a cry for attention (‘cos I’d relish in the fact that you’ll leave me alone), neither is it a desperate call for help. I don’t want to die, I just want to make sure all the bad things are gone so the good things can happen.

You cannot contain a fire that’s determined to burn, neither can you change the path of a storm that’s destined to happen. The same way you cannot stop this devastation. It’s fruitless, and I don’t have the heart to tell you. Take away everything I have to cope and I’ll claw through with fingers and bones.

You cannot save a damsel who loves her distress, so stop trying. Especially when this one here knows that the adequate amount of distress will end up doing her good in the end.

#1

I don’t like the volatility of life. The fact that one day you can feel powerful enough to conquer the world, yet on another, you’re huddled in bed wondering what sick higher power insists on keeping us alive. 

 

 

Sleeping Death

I never knew that sleeping on the same bed could make us feel so far apart. That even as your warmth passes over in waves under the white sheets, we are cold inside. Then again, we’re both dead. At least you are at this very instant.

You’re not the person I fell in love with. Not now. This person that lays beside me motionless on this bed we should actually call a coffin. Save for the light snores that come in a satanic rhythm and the rising and falling of your chest, I am confident you’re already dead. You do not respond to my feather light touches, nor remember I once called out your name. You do not seek out my warmth the way you so feverently do when you’re awake. This thing we call sleep, it beckons you, whines for you. And when you give in, you leave the living behind to mourn for the dead.

Its not as poetic as propaganded. The light fluttering of lashes like butterfly wings preparing for flight, the curling of lips into a smile from a dream too surreal to be etched into memory, the twitching of facial muscles like ballerinas doing a dainty dance on his face. These, these are a lie. Watching someone sleep is like having to bear the uncertainty of life, the weight of losing someone to unconsciousness. Watching someone sleep and then regain life is like walking into a morgue and recognizing an old friend.

Every night, I sleep next to someone already dead. Maybe your heart is still beating, maybe your breaths are still strong, but your consciousness, your love, your memory, its all lost when you succumb to fatigue and the pull of unconsciousness. I lose you to a dream, I lose recognition of you in a thick haze. I cannot recognize you when you’re asleep.