Two and a half years ago, I left everything I was used to, everything I had, to return to where I thought would be my new “home”.
During these two years and a half, everyday I wish I was never given the option. Every minute I yearn to be back to that quiet, calm, slow life; back to where humanity was cherished, back to where stress was not an excuse for poor attitude, back to where everyone was equally respected regardless of status or income, educated or not.
And yet, time can never be turned back. Age forces one to consider futures, and yet, I can see no future, not here, not me. What was once so desired, now slowly shredded, until one tip of a scale can shatter all my will.
The only future I hope for, is one week later. And this week will crawl like forever, like two years and a half.
I’m tired. Life has killed the dream I dreamed. The search for “home”, the overconfidence in one’s ability, the blind faith in a better future, just to find, I was happy where I was. Every one is on a mad climb to their death jump, why must I follow? I laugh, and yet, I followed. And now, the plunge awaits.
Suddenly, the patient that swallowed 100 pills seemed quite courageous. Depression is no longer a diagnosis, but a suffocating tearing pain nibbling inside my heart.
Don’t worry, I won’t. I can’t bear to see my darling all alone, nor my grandparents in their eighties to bear that pain, nor my parents and my dear sister. Home. So I will stay strong, for now, for as long as I can. I will be strong, for one more step or another, as I walk the plank into the oceans of unknown, the waves of fear screaming in my ears, death but two meters away.