It is to my belief that the evolution of language has ultimately damned us all. From the day we were capable of speech we had been under the conformist attitude to explain ourselves. Why did you do this? Didn’t you know that vase was a gift ? That it had meant a lot to Mommy?

At the end of the day, you resort to crying or lashing out because there is just nothing to say. What do they want you to say anyway ?

I feel that way sometimes. Actually, right now, while people around me are trying to get me to speak, just through those electronic messages, patronizing pats; I don’t like it. It’s like constant tapping into a semi-opaque glass you’re in, and they keep saying “I can’t see you, but I know you’re there.” Same as last night at dinner, when I had deliberately ignored my aunt’s efforts to speak to me at any level further than pretentious dinner talk. I wonder if they understand, or maybe they know it’s out of my own making that it only drives me further, recline into the illiterate backbone of my words. From Sunday to Thursday today, my week has been a blur. Monday is when I went to the gym with my sister and that’s all I can recall.  I’ve slept 10 hours plus on three of those night – this morning I woke up twice and saw a standing figure at the end of my bed, the second time it was a gunslinger, and then it was my coat rack –  and I figured out finally that when there’s nothing to do you simply ask your body to shut down and hibernate. It is questionable to ask me at the moment what I feel, if I feel at all from time to time, because when I sit at home alone I am very clarified, almost ignorant to a degree. I think the greatest irony is the prominent language that allows us to speculate our sanity. A whole other ball game seems to be thrown out in the field when I step outside. All of a sudden, my words, those very things that are my companion, my explanation, my reality to the world become tools. They hurt the people I love unless I reign them in, in which case, my silence hurts them the same.

Grandmama, please don’t grasp ever so weakly on my arms and say you miss me – while all I can think about is how you would feel if I were to actually die – I will break your heart.

How to explain this, a perfectly normal looking girl if nothing else unprepossessing, sitting rather rude and stoic at dinner, while in her head is that deciding moment imagined too many times, it becomes real. Death. But I am too afraid, and I’ll admit that. So I think about how it felt to carve myself. Every damn time the images come back so fresh, so anew that salt water irrevocably springs from my eyes. I can’t be kind to these people. I have no words for it.

In the same breath, I am just as nauseated as the next person when a blessed North American talks about death, but it doesn’t mean it’s easy, does it? As my steps approach the pavements leading to my new home, the grim resolve to cut dissolves, no, it dissipates into something I can’t name. Home brings a calmness in which I sat listlessly on the couch and watched Girl, Interrupted until 12:30am and felt much more refined. My current co-worker’s 13 year old daughter told her school counselor two days ago that she is suicidal and I guess nowadays the school boards have transported back to medieval days because they had her immediately placed in a psychiatric ward. It’s like nothing has changed from the 1960’s, those remarkable stigma against the crazed. I think about Winona Ryder reading her favorite sentence from the book-gone-movie: “People ask you what you have done to get here. What they really want to know is whether they are likely to end up there as well. I can’t answer the real question, but all I can say is this, that it’s easy.” The movie is comforting though; my situation put into perspective. Am I truly throwing everything away? Just driving myself crazy? No, I think all I’ve ever wanted was to uphold the enigma of a first impression. The elusive dream of a fantasy character, and I need you to believe it in me before I can. After all, an illusionist will always need an audience.

…I think the truth is, I am very disappointed in myself. And I cannot withstand the conscience of disappointment from you as well, who had believed in me and thought me so brave. You have exposed me, and in my despicable cowardice, If I cannot have your praise, then God help me to be selfish enough to desire only spite, soaked through with the work of my own hands.

I will never forget Winona Ryder commenting at 28 years old post-movie that she did not want to be self-indulgent. I hardly ate dinner last night, under the watchful eyes of my family. I never answered my calls or messages either. A true class-A asshole. Of all the narcissistic adaptations, I choose this.

There is however, a distinct tangent between these two incredibly lucid thoughts. I don’t really think I want to die – but just thoughts that I don’t want to be here anymore. There’s no real explanation for it and I’ve come to the conclusion alas that I don’t owe the world a damn thing.

At times, I wish I at least had the indecency to simply give up on myself and throw it away in casual sex and other meaningless obscenities. Like drugs and cigarettes – things I’ve never done before nor could allow myself to do, but being perfectly aware of how stupid this all is, still feeling entirely entitled to the forefather of all stupidity, like why the fuck not? If I completely shame myself, will you ultimately give up? Is that what I want? At other times, I feel like a needle on fine point, just poking at the thread and people try to wobble it all about to go through, but the more they do, the more frayed the ends get, and at one point I will simply tip over and stab into the unknowing finger of some unexpected stranger. Someone I probably care about.

When I lift my fingers from the keyboard, they shiver lightly. I don’t understand this at all. I am afraid and incapable of crying when I am alone. Words swarm together when you try to express yourself and no amount of anger will change the ambivalent character of language. It is not here to serve you, this once magnificent medium you used to tell elaborate tales and stories. For words that do matter, you are cascaded with a heavy dose of irrelevant catch phrases instead. I am pissed and angry. And scared, watching the phone light go off. I will hurt you, so please go away. It is to my belief that suicidal death is the last exhale of the bravest and of utmost cowardice. I can’t explain it, this fanatical vexation of being prideful and confessing my sins. But I’m a single minded fool, so between those two contradicting emotions I will probably pick the more theatrical one and hurt you indefinitely.


“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” – Ernest Hemingway

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because the words diminish them – words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worse, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.” – Stephen King