I live in constant heartbreak.

This was my passion, creating this window to my life was a way of going on. And now I can’t find the words that used to come to me effortlessly. I can’t write anymore, not even about myself, and it breaks my heart. It makes me hate the person who made this happen. 

The boat docks at Jetty 1 and I get off on the busiest road, no makeup, not even a fabulous dress – couldn’t be bothered with the dress and the makeup. I mean, what even for? For this shitty city? Pass.

Try to hail a cab, but have no luck – because cabs have their own lives and have no time for you just like you barely have time for yourself. Stop blaming cabs. Start blaming you.

Exhausted, I start making my way home. With the heaviest backpack carrying my pretty laptop which I bought years ago just because it was teal and I thought was the cutest because laptops need to be cute right? (I’ve seriously got to start making better decisions). Also with books, I thought I might feel like reading eventually but haven’t opened in years. 

The roads are a mess, the smoke, the traffic, the smell and the people, shooting scrutinizing glances – what do they see?

My anxiety rails. For the next twenty minutes, I feel like the biggest loser walking this earth.

Skidding through vehicles and ridiculous sidewalks, home is finally a little closer.
Crossed over to a more quiet but darker street now, I hold my purse tightly against my chest and make a little run home – my breakdown is officially a half an hour overdue. 

Isn’t this similar to life’s journey itself though? Aren’t we all struggling to get here, to surpass the mess life is and come home?

At the end of the day, week, month, or even year. You just want to be home, where it feels safer and less chaotic. And I’ve been homesick for a place I’ve never known ever since I can remember. My never-ending hustle to the other side.

You spend your whole life trying to live each day, trying to survive, trying to stay sane, trying to make it. For the sake of all those people who love you, care about you and maybe need you. And then one day, you wake up..

You’re tired, you can’t keep going, you can’t anymore, not a day more.

It’s so so painful, getting used to the world letting you down.

How selfless should one be, trying to stay alive because your death might hurt people you care about even when you’re dying everyday.

I hide here in my world, behind closed doors. My soul trapped in a body I hate with thoughts I wish I could erase.

My misery stretches beyond anything this world could fix.

It’s a sadness so deep I drown myself in it everyday, over and over.

Your apology is eight years too late I want to say, but I don’t. I tell you it’s okay. You ask me if I hate you, I reply that I don’t. Why would I. You were only such a little fragment of all the unfortunate things to happen.

I was young and naive, which was your excuse?

I’ve learnt that you don’t always have to be a people person, you don’t always have to be up for adventures and little get togethers, if you’re exhausted, let your body rest. Stop keeping up with the world, take care of yourself before anything. If time is necessary to heal take as much as it requires, if surviving becomes hard slow your pace but don’t stop, never stop.

I know how it feels to live on the verge of not wanting to be alive. Constantly trying to convince yourself to exist when your brain goes fuck this no.

I’ve made an interesting observation. People think of you only if you come up on their timelines often.

You know what we never recovered from? Your lies.

One year, one year since I woke up to a life changing news, one year since I made a choice to let go. One year of struggle, depression. One year of running in circles. One year since I’ve last been okay.