Sunday, October 2, 2011

Skinned (1)

I breathe in, bringing in the crackling, humid air into my system. I feel my chest rise and fall with every inhale and exhale. I am unfamiliar with myself. Who am I? What have I become? It's very tiring listening to these constant repeated and clich├ęd sayings—the questioning of radical doubt.
            I was depressed. Even worse, I was – excuse my language—depressing as a piece of shit on the side of the road, under the pouring rain. The clock strike 12:07 morning and I was still sitting, slouching, slumped on my bed, covered with papers and books that have anchored me down to an abyss.
Still breathing, I realize I couldn’t do much. I was as good as nothing. But in times where I feel down and there’s nowhere to go, I talk to the one person who understands me the best.
            Ironically, I talk to myself.
As bizarre as it seems, talking –or rather, whispering—to myself, and answering my own questions under the darkness helps illuminate the path. It helps me rehabilitate. My own ability to answer my own questions calms me down because I know that my problems—moral, emotional, psychological—can be approached. I am able to take control of my own life. It helps me sleep at night. 

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