Category: Literature

The doors closed. Inside, there was only you and me. I could feel our breaths merging. When the ringing in my ears faded, the first thing I heard was your rising voice. Why were you so angry? Though I tried to defuse the tension before it began, I knew I’d failed. I’ve always been like this. I knew you’d never grasp the worth I placed on him. Perhaps you’ll never meet anyone like me. I tried to show off my superiority complex by remaining calm. My sense of alienation was nothing new.

Through your mounting shouts I barely caught a few words. Why was I repeating myself? I thought about responding, but saw no need. I’ll never understand why my writing always surfaces in my mind during my tensest moments. Unspoken words turn into ink. What remains unsaid fills the pages. It shouldn’t be this way. Some things must be spoken—and, once spoken, truly heard. Aren’t most problems born from the failure to understand what’s been said?

Even though I hate fighting, a part of me has always secretly enjoyed it. If I’d known, while still in my mother’s womb, that war—an indispensable force of evolution—would one day besiege our collective consciousness, would I have opened my eyes at all? A few blows to my chest brought me back. The voices rose even louder because I stayed silent. Then a single sentence slipped from my lips: I love you.

Someone collapses to the ground. I’m trying to discern who it might be. A curious crowd begins to gather—so many people, so many different faces. The air is filled with a stench reminiscent of a massacre—the reek of corpses assaults my nostrils. My stomach churns—I feel like I’m going to vomit.

For the first time, I long to open my eyes; I sense that this is the sole moment in which I can truly behold reality. I crave a life that will blossom through my own death. I’ve always known myself to be a dreamer, and now I embrace it entirely.

Amid the corpses, there is one corpse—amid the tapestry of lived experiences, an ordinary life. I remember the past: how I was once a pure, untainted child, surrounded by others who found no pleasure in my presence.

I feel a relief in realizing that my abandonment is not confined solely to this final moment. I suspect I have led a failed life, and thus, a failed death. My body sprawled on the ground appears so utterly ineffectual that it would scarcely serve as sustenance even for vultures.

I no longer see as I once did…

Sometimes, I feel my breath tighten. I wonder if I have ever truly surrendered myself to anyone. I’ve always thought I was too intelligent to fall in love. Was I too rational to trust someone unconditionally? I think about the times I took the initiative to trust people—maybe I was letting myself be used, or playing the fool, but in return, I got the chance to understand the other person better. I always learn too late that I shouldn’t ask too many questions; the more I ask, the more my sorrow or excitement fades. The deeper I dig, the more my once-pure thoughts darken.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it really means to love. Is it a feeling of pity, acceptance, admiration? Maybe it’s just a simple admiration, but does everyone admire the person they think they love? Maybe admiration is necessary to overlook the parts that don’t align. I keep noticing similarities between people, as if the common traits of those around me are hidden within what I find attractive about them. For some reason, I don’t like people who are too pure, nor those trapped within their own rigid rules. I always love those who seek to discover themselves more, who dare to go deeper. And perhaps that’s why I constantly find myself feeling insecure.

I feel completely detached from society. Maybe I’ve even lost my self-respect. I wonder if all of this stems from not being enough for others. Do you have to constantly strive and improve to be enough for someone, or do you let yourself go once you realize you’re enough for them? I have no idea. I believe I compensate for my social incompetence with my ability to observe. At times, I also get angry at myself for failing to stay silent, and that frustration always leads to deep regret.

I keep asking myself the same question over and over again—why don’t I love perfection? Why do I crave flaws? Why does something flawless seem the most flawed to me? Why, when I have the chance to live a smooth life, do I always choose the most imperfect one? Why do I sometimes enjoy the suffocating contradiction of hurting myself just to be able to choose an easier path? The success that comes after the pain we grow up with seems like it will haunt me forever. I will always feel like I need to endure great pain to experience a sense of accomplishment. Maybe I’m even in love with the painful process of earning my reward.

I’ve started to think that bodies hold no allure for me. I am an admirer of marginal thoughts within the mind. Whether it’s a forgotten body or one remembered by all, the richness within the mind has always been overlooked. I wish I didn’t have to work so hard to discover them, or that I didn’t feel the need to enrich my own thoughts every night by weaving them into different scenarios. I eagerly await the moment when I will finally regain confidence in myself. As I pass by people without looking into their eyes, I wonder what thoughts I stir within their minds. Maybe I’m wasting my one-shot life by simply wondering…