Disappearance, coming soon

There’s a kind of exhaustion that any temporary rest or sleep or pause can’t eradicate. It cripples you from head to toe; extinguishes the teensy amount of energy you have left; it takes away your ability to think and speak and move the way “normal” people do. It’s the kind of exhaustion that grows prolific, hefty branches of depression, helplessness, frustration, and melancholy–their stabbing weight hammered upon you. I don’t know how to tell everyone how painfully tired I am. What do you do when no words are enough to express how you feel? Where do you run when you’ve already reached the very edge of the world? Or, what do you do when you feel like the entire universe has left you alone, and yet, expectations still barrage you? 

There are millions of words. We can form a supernumerary of oceans with them. To think of the right words is almost always overwhelming. I have been sitting here wondering why among the multifarious number of mixed letters out there, I couldn’t find the ones that can give voice to the devastation I feel. If words have emotions, would they feel like they’re doing enough for all of us who take hold of them in every instance? I? I have never felt that I’ve done enough in my life. My inadequacy beats the vastness of cosmic space. It causes the stars to explode out of disappointment. I will be the one to explode in absolute madness next. I wanted to be certain to leave no traces, but rage and sadness are mightier than my most potent bones. Rage and sadness linger on the walls and the floor as darkness. How do you tell everyone you cannot cater to your obligations because you’ve been searching for a way to die? 

I was a little less disenchanted by being alive when I was a child. Even so, I was still either detached or forsaken. Peace has never been familiar territory. I’ve been looking for a way out ever since. But then every day, I wake up with immovable wrists, with eyes that had cried a decade’s worth of tears, with excruciating pain from the inside that transforms into a physical one. You won’t be able to look for a part of me that isn’t hurting. I wish I could finish my sentences and my apologies with enough courage. I wish I could tell how genuinely sorry I am for the disappointment that I deliver as I have been crying here for over ten hours, waiting to run out of blood. I wish I could let people know I made multiple, challenging attempts to write that long overdue research paper, that article, that assignment about to rot for waiting to be opened for too long, but instead ended up writing a letter trying to explain how sad and sorry I am to feel the desire to end my own life. Every night feels like it's going to be the last, and oh, how frustrated I am to wake up realizing I’m still here. 

There’s a kind of exhaustion that seeps into your flesh. It’s a hell lot more than just being tired. How am I supposed to express how fed up I am? Attempting to explain how I feel is like traversing a labyrinth floored by blades while I am barefooted. When I say, I couldn’t want anything more than disappearing, how much of it is felt? How much of my agony is seen? The feeling of helplessness turns off all the lights in a suffocating room so appallingly far from everyone, everything. 

I want to disappear. I will, I will.