By Jennifer M.
Lately it feels like there isnít enough water in existence to sustain my tears. I cry and cry. Sometimes itís that silent cry, but those tears turn into the horrible wailing Iím too familiar with. I donít write as often as I used to. Yet, I feel like what I have to say has surpassed anything Iíve known before. Iíve become so afraid of reflection. It seems so horrible to think back, or to see all of the pain on a single page. Reduced to meaningless words. Making myself feel oddly insignificant. How am I supposed to help other people who feel the same way I do, when Iím afraid to say how I feel? Or afraid to feel at all? But thatís part of the problem, isnít it? Iím always doing it for the multitudes of nameless people out there I hardly do it for myself. I started writing this book for myself. To help me get over my first love, that love that will never go away. Why do it for someone else now. It should still be about me, my needs, my selfishness. Me, who is always beyond absorbed in other peopleís thoughts, yet always seemingly self-absorbed. Is that ever possible? To be so completely focused on other people that all I see is me? The me that isnít there? Itís all a circle. No beginning and no ending. Why is existence so unlike life? Life has a definable beginning and end, existence is circular.
If every time a teenager said that their life was over, and then they died, it would eventually bring about the end of mankind. But you can say it, and life will go on. See I went from me, to mankind. What reasons do I have for continuing this? Reasons that are just mine? Iím still searching for that answer. An answer to a question I donít know Iíve been searching for as long as I knew. Knew what? Knew that there was something I didnít know. Something so important, there are no proper words to describe it. Iíve been looking for this answer long before this book began. Was death an answer? Obviously not, because it didnít work. My whole life has been this question, and a search for an answer. All I can find are more questions. I donít even know the question that spawned this great search. It should be are of the countless that exist. Whatís the meaning of life? Is there a God? A heaven? A hell? Whatís the meaning of death? Where do babies come from? Whatís my favorite movie? Or is it a question that canít be asked because it is unknown to everyone? Iím back to everyone and very far away from me. So is this search my reason for continuing this book? Because surely Iíd still be looking if I had no hands to write with Maybe continuing this book is just something I feel I have to do for many reasons. So why canít I think of one? Maybe the thought of completion is it. Something to finish. Because so much of my life is a cliffhanger.
Sometimes when I cry, the thoughts accompanying my cries get worse and worse. I go to all the places I never want to be and face everything I dread. I can see my life as a fast-forwarding movie, depending on what I say or do. I can see my life how it could have been had I said or done differently. All of the things, that needed to be said, that I swallowed. All of the I love yous, I hate yous, and fuck yous. My thoughts race through this movie of my life and I always die at the end. It makes me wonder if I would be happier if I could say these things that needed to be said. Itís like I censor my life. And I wonder if all this pain was avoidable. If maybe itís all because of me. Like, when I was crying yesterday and told my mother to take me to the hospital, would things be better? Or would I feel the let down I caused myself? If, when I had the scissors in my hand, cutting the X into my ankle, I could have asked for help then, or gone further and killed myself like I wanted. Why does everything have to be like this? All of the answers suck, just like the question. Itís all too hard. The teenyboppers sing about pain, like they know what pain is. A broken heart is nothing to a broken mind, a broken person. You write a letter and arenít answered. You pick up the phone, it just rings. You scream and are met only by the echo the emptiness inside of you brings. Is that life? Drawing hearts because yours has stopped, and because youíre dead. Writing to no one because you need help are too far gone to realize this pen doesnít create anything, it just mirrors what you dictate. The page is empty because you canít fill it. The glass is empty, because you are already gone.
What is there in life that you canít find in death? Everything we do in life, we are doing as we die. All that life is, is death. If Iím insane can any of this be taken seriously?
Days like today make me believe in you, God. Okay, so I felt like shit today as I have for the last few days and nothing was going to make me feel better so I did my best.