Diving
There is too much hate in the world. This thought has dawned on me before, but I feel I have to write it down and let it be known. I mean, what's with people today? So many angry feelings, so much hurt in human hearts today…is this what we live for? To make others miserable? To make ourselves miserable, for that matter? I don't know. I really don't, and I don't know if I ever will. There was a time when I thought I did, when I guessed that pain was the only answer, but even still…did I really?
No.
Never did, actually.
And, I never had to experience suffering in the first place.
So why'd I do it, then? Why'd I curse myself at night, knife myself in the morning, starve my body for as long as I could without caring if I died? Must've had some weird death wish, right?
Yeah-huh.
It's true that I did, cutting my left arm till it bled, hoping all the poor, pathetic blood I had in me drained out to leave me with nothing. Honestly, that's what I wanted most: the absence of a body, the emptiness of a soul, a total and complete loss of self. To feel nothing, be nothing, and have nothing. Lovely image, isn't it? The thoughts that plague and dazzle your senses simultaneously: drowning in the stench of suicide, caressing the velvet cushions of a coffin, freezing in the iciest, loneliest hole in hell as you idly wonder who would show up to your funeral as the wildlife around your burial site feasts on your rotting flesh. Just grand imagery to toy with, just fine, marvelous ideas to dwell on, wouldn't you say?
Yeah, right.
Who in their right mind would want something like that for themselves?
Who would have the nerve, boldness, the sheer, brash audacity to pull that?
Well, I did. Don't get the notion that I'm wildly proud of that fact, or that it's some deranged self-esteem booster for me. It's not. It never was, and it never will be. That part of me, the masochistic, gotta take pleasure in pain side is gone now. Sure, the scars on my forearm are a grave reminder of those times, but that's all they are. No regrets, no mourning over losses, no whining about what I could've, should've or would've done if only I had listened or ate well or played the game of life better. It's this moment that matters, just the here and now that I can really make a difference in. It has taken my adolescence and teenage years to figure that out, to be reasonable and understand it in my head, but it's there.
My manic, self-loathing, self-mutilation days have ended.
Here I lay as a writing journal-smooth, clean, and clear, unblemished and new as if I had started over again emerging from the plastic wrapping . I've had it with sitting on the shelf and watching life go by. I'll take whatever writing instrument I have and fill in my own blanks. Look out Carrol, Wordsworth, Monet, and Miyazaki. The world hasn't seen what whimsical tales I can concoct, poetry I'll illustrate, flowers I can draw, or movies I'll direct.
The world is watching.
And they're waiting, too.
Waiting for the artist that will captivate them, the next poet or movie magician to hold their ever-fading attention.
Tag, everybody, I'm it. You can stop hoping and praying for an innovative trend to follow. Spread your arms and dive in already.
Dive into the deep pools of sapphire water you see.
Dive into the essence, the innermost part of me.