To those who know someone who gave up.

We should not claim to understand what goes on in the mind of a person who has given up on life.

Have you been there?

Have you been there, teetering at the edge of despair when death seems like a better option than survival?

Most probably, you shake your head vehemently in the negative.
How can you judge, then?
I know, it is better to live a long, full life. Someone who chooses death must have nothing to look forward to. NOTHING. When they put their heads to rest, they don’t lie dormant staring at the ceiling until they fall asleep.

When we look at their lives, we find it going so good for them.

What was the need?

But no, in the mind of someone pulling the trigger, she’s caught between the dilemma of jumping from the building or getting burnt along with it. When I watch from afar, I want her to stay put because it is not me faced with a choice between the devil and the sea.
So in the comfort of your friends and family, it is easy to miss what ghosts wreck the psychological defense of someone suicidal.
We have been talking about recognizing depression as a real threat to a person but we miss the signs that someone might be in the pits and we go on pretending that he’s seeking attention or just throwing tantrums.

Our answers to helplessness and desperation have set in stone.

You should go out.

You should think positive.

You shouldn’t watch such depressing stuff.

You should stop thinking.
You should stop existing.
As my bus approaches the bridge,I look down and see murky muddy water in a rage.

And I can feel myself drowning already. And I know, not one amongst the 50 people on the bus is looking at that possibility. They’re looking ahead, because this journey ends. And that is the purpose at hand. I look at the dilapidated structure as we cross it and wonder,

This bridge is in such a bad condition. It’s going to fall any day now. Will it be the day I make the return trip? And again,

I am sinking, trying to breathe, unable to see anything, the weight of things crushing on me. How much longer will I be able to hold on? I don’t want to feel death just yet. But I AM staring at it.

We have crossed the slight momentary trepidation but I am still there, I am still sinking to the bottom. Can no one see it at all?
No.
Someone who knows me, might.
So the only people who can save others from drowning in despair are the ones that truly know how the mind of that person works.

As friends, it is our responsibility to at least try. To talk and listen. To stall.
As friends, we distance ourselves from the ‘negativity’ and start telling them to not post depressing shit on social media. We ask them to not constantly seek attention because for us, the range of emotions contains only two:

You’re either happy.
Or Sad.

And nothing comes in between.
They’re not seeking attention.

It’s like a ‘save our souls’ message. Will you respond?

Will you be first responders?

What will you say?

What makes me want to write?

The important question is this: Why do I write?
I have found entire worlds form around me as I turned page after page, reading what someone else had written. I find that words comfort me and can explain what I feel. 
When I read a sentence that goes:

The forest filled with the sound of birds chirping, as if it celebrated the birth of the boy.

As I read that, I have a picture in front of my eyes. And anyone who loves reading does so because the image the same sentence creates for him can be entirely different from mine.
Isn’t that wonderful?
I think I want to write because I love reading and I know what words can do to you.

Writers inspire me.

Poets create magic with their distorted perception of this world.

Novelists create entire universes full of unique characters between the yellow pages of an ageing book.
I write because I know, palaces will be razed to the ground but words will never die. And it is my shot at avoiding Oblivion.

Writing helps me cope with the dilemma of existing in the absurd. I place my life before anyone else and yet fail to find it’s purpose.

I write because it is much like talking to myself: unraveling the innermost thoughts of this mind and putting it out to censure.

Distance

I know we are miles apart: you and I. Yet I’ve been thinking about us. Distance does nothing to lessen what I feel for you and that is what I am concerned about.

What if, when twenty or thirty years later, we do not even know where the other one is and I am still stuck in time, thinking about you?

This is a trying time when we exist after having said our goodbyes because we have so little a chance of meeting again, though that is as good a chance as me wearing my favorite shirt tomorrow. And yet, if years later, when we’ve forgotten all about what brewed between us and you have forgotten I exist, 

If years later, I am still trying to extricate your name out of my memories, wouldn’t that be sad?

Because it will remind me how lonely I have been all these years.

Forlorn

image

You are a devil forlorn:
The surreal stream of my consciousness
Morbid and morose you rise,
Even when it is bright outside.
And I imagine meteor showers as I walk to work.

And for a reason unfathomable,
My feet are at your command,
With roots that perlocate the ground,
When rain falls like a thundershower.

Yet inseparable as we are,
You make me wonder,
What it is like,
To drown,
To burn,
To suffocate,
To be crushed under the weight of bridges that collapse,
When I’d rather shut my mind to thoughts.

And yet you make me meet death,
Time and again.
And see this world in an afterlife:
Tears in my eyes before I go to sleep.

No I don’t want to die.
I have watched myself from the other side,
Again.
And again.
And again.

But you’ve told me countless stories too;
Where I have saved lives,
And where I have discovered magic amongst the clouds.
And who can I credit,
For the fact that I really can,
And I have said this before:
That I really can tell where the nails in someone’s shoe hurts the most.

How I detest you sometimes,
Fickle imagination,
For showing me horrors that only exist in nightmares,
When I am wide awake.
But you have let me know,
That the solitary reaper might be singing,
Somewhere,
When he watches me intently,
As I sing my song.

You make my words come alive,
On paper like castles of sand:
Fleeting.
You, momentary as you are,
Make me the person I know I can be,
And oh,
How I love you for that!