Hundred Days Ago

Dear Diary,

A hundred days ago if I try to remember, well I can't, but whatever I had been, without a single hint of doubt, is no better now. Perhaps I would have been waiting for this day, that is, today, hoping it would bring something new, while in reality it turns out to be a new kind of trauma. I feel like I had been runover by a car at the street last evening, after which I couldn't even walk back home and I still lie there fallen. I see my wide open wounds aggravating and I see them running out of blood. My eyes, run out of tears glow like the faintest star in the sky, farthest away. The blood at my fingertips has run cold and whatever I touch feels numb, lifeless. It's spring outside, fallen on the trees, on the skies and everywhere, yet I can't smell nothing of it in the air inside my room. Presently, I just sit collapsed at the corner of my room, shaking, eagerly waiting to faint and gathering every single miniscule of strength and every life force left in me to write this. Although I never wanted to write, as I feel so emotionally challenged that I'm scared of my own emotions, and it hurts, I do. It's when I couldn't cry behind closed doors anymore as it's chocking to death, I scribble it down like opening just a tiny window for rescue. It hurts me to realise the way I'm scared of killing my own self, the thoughts that loom in my head every time I see the knife and every time I walk on the road. But, no one cares. No one cares to lend a hand, not even to lend an ear. If it's pathological, it is. If I am helpless I am. If I am neurotic I am. But I am not weak, rather I'm someone fighting for my own life, so I praise myself and I pat my own back, and I say that I am proud of my own self, as no one's never going to do that for me. And I do hug myself when I'm shaking, and I hug my pillow and my blankets and anything I can find, I'm so affection-sick. Sleep indeed feels so kind to me. This morning I went out to get some fresh air after months, and it was a brave move on my part. I take a step towards life and just hope it does the same towards me. Perhaps my shoes are too oddly stitched to fit anyone else, no one can stand in them and feel my ground. If I were a garden people could walk over me, breathe the essence of my flowers but I am barren earth, where the sun shines and the sky pours yet no flowers grow. Is there a way to live without living, or rather a way to die without dying? Is there any way still, apart from writing to pour this cancerous heaviness in me out, as I stand here empty-handed, empty-hearted, with few remaining breaths? If I could call out to my heart, I would ask if the warm old apricity is still a part of the aftermath of its autumn? Or the sun would be down all winter? I would ask my soul if the grey roads once leading to the parts of my backcountry intermingled and lost themselves somewhere, the resultant of which is the way I lost to my rural self? Or is there a route to trace back to my own lost self? And in this process, do I win or lose?