I have always thought that I am prone to this feeling. But these recent and ongoing years of unkindness have brought out the worst in me and then some.
There are no words to describe the pain of feeling left out at the sight of others' freedom while you stare at them from the confines of existential prisons made of love, kinship, and regret.
Holidays. Weekends. Lockdowns. So on...
Wasted sunshine. Sleepless nights. A shit-scented house. And nowhere to go.
As much as I would like to put an end to the usage of the term, I also feel that I can only be nothing but brutal in uttering words to articulate this indefinite limbo of pain.
I can't find myself to be anything but brutal.
It has been years and each time I wake up in the morning I open my eyes to this ever-increasing temptation to give up the ghost.
I wake up to be reminded that I have nothing to look forward to in my life.
I wake up to the loud noise of the television as it is watched by deaf ears.
I wake up to the thud of a body hitting the floor and the blood-soaked head and fractured bones where adrenalin kicks in to respond to emergencies.
I wake up to pressing deadlines at work and too tough decisions that need to be made.
I wake up to messages of scammers and swindlers.
I wake to count the days of how cruel the pandemic has been to people I know and love.
I wake up to the darkness of political realities where hope seems futile wishful thinking.
I wake up to realize that the years have passed and I am lonely.
I wake up lonely.
Daily.
Feeling cold and alone.
Alive but dying a painful death on the inside.
We're on the eve of a long weekend.
In my case, the pandemic has not been kind to holidays and weekends.
It means long hours spent at home.
Longer hours of tension.
Longer hours of restraint.
Prolonged exposure to that weird space that lies between anger and pity.
