On some days, I feel as though I would immediately disintegrate if I should take a step outside my house. On days like these, I lay in bed for hours,not moving a muscle, not making a sound. I lay there, just barely existing. The world outside is passing me by.
On days like these, music can kill me, and I try to sleep away my pain. I cannot get out of bed, but sleep is impossible to achieve for every time I close my eyes, all the things I fear materializes to me; I am frightened. I am haunted by all the little things that I have secretly feared. One by one, they slip pass my mind's defense to unleash their monstrosity. Through the rusty gates of my memories, they attack, each strike causing my fingers to grasps at my hair, and I scream silently to the empty room.
My limbs are trembling. The freezing sun never reaches out to me. It knows that I do not like it, and it purposely mocks me. Outside my window I know that the rest of town is drenched in its rays. I know outside of this box, people are living, not merely existing. But this is my box...Although I did not create it, I cannot seem to recall a time when I did not live here. It had been nearly five years since I have been caged,but I somehow convinced myself that it had not been long at all. I have made myself blind to the illness. This place has infected me, and I cannot grow.
On days like these, I touch my fingers to the glass and yearn to grow wings. I wish I could tie myself to a bouquet of balloons and leap into the air, but I am trapped inside my own body, and I become my worst enemy. I think, if I should be able to break from this shell, perhaps I should blossom more beautifully. But I forgot about the virus that had sealed my fate. Even if I should shed from this skin, my core is still sick. And should I ever grow wings, they would be broken and too weak to fly away from here. Still, on days like these I gaze up at the constant sky and pray that I may be able to spontaneously take flight.
On days like these, time does not seem to exist, but the songs I play are proof. Time is actually drifting away quite mercilessly. The grey sky gets increasingly darker; and now I cannot tell walls from windows. Nothing ever changes here, and I am left with unexplainable pains from phantom memories. Time does not seem to exist here, but I am getting older and older as I speak.
I feel trapped by time though. I feel like I can neither move forward nor recoil. I cannot advance into a greater plane, nor can I regress into something more primitive. I am stuck here, in this limbo stage of life. I feel as though all my thoughts and all my words are also stuck here, and regardless of how desperately I try, my voice cannot be heard by anyone, myself included.
On days like these, I lay inside myself for hours, often times contemplating my value, On days like these, more often than not, I dissect myself to examine the countless malfunctions within. Today, I am observing my phobias. Yesterday, I diagrammed my weaknesses, and tomorrow I will analyze my regrets. I lay inside myself for hours,and still I come up with no conclusion as to what is wrong with me. I say my disease was contracted from this place that I now reside, but I cannot find the source within me.
I look at all the things that I hate, and I try to find a cure for each and every one. But...in the end, the only remedy that I can conjure is Blame. It is your fault, her fault, his fault, their fault. The remedy requires everyone but me... I am never to blame. But still, more often than pointing the finger, I look in the mirror and sneer at the image on the other side. It is my fault, my fault, all of this is my fault.
On days like these, I cry about scars long faded. With each second of the clock, each progress of a verse, something more heart wrenching comes back to my memory. The sorrows that I thought were long buried with time revitalizes; my heart aches the same. I cry for death, I cry for living, but mostly I cry for whatever stage it is that I am in. I cry for the life that had left those amber eyes long ago, and I cry for the girl that sits staring out the window for days on end. I cry for the lost of a childhood that never was, and royal family ever broken. I cry for the child surrounded by dolls, and for the songs that were never sung. I cry for the bird with the broken feathers and the princess with no name. I cry for the king of yesteryear, the empress of defeat. They always catch both my fancy and my pity on days like these.
I cannot feel my body, and I am walking on air. My head is stuck in inked storm clouds, and I cannot tell dreams from truth. I drift in and out of consciousness with only the hope that I may remain unconscious longer and longer each time. I do not know where I am, nor do I know my own name. I lose my identity in the confusion, and I am stranded, unable to arrive at my destination, unable to return from which I came.
On days like these, there is so much to question, but so few answers, and even fewer voices to say. I talk to myself, but I too am drowned out by the melancholy. I close my eyes to let some stray tears escape, then I sigh. I scream into my pillow, but the pillow suffocates me temporarily, and I die a little more. I punch the walls, but my fists begins to bleed. I find no comfort in violence.
Instead, I hide away under my covers and lay perfectly still like dead. I hold my breath and count to ten, and then I start all over again. I try everything to break the monotony, but still I cannot seem to find a way. I roll on the floor, I jump on the chair, but no matter what I do, I am faced with a vacant stare; my own. I laugh before I cry...still my sadness is not conveyed.
On some days, I just want to crawl into your arms and die. On days like these, I am terrified of myself. I want so much to jump, to bleed, to disappear...to die. I do not trust myself with a pen, and I flinch at the sight of steel. I have taken every pill in the cabinet and drank all the syrups too. I have been here before so many times, but still I cannot find my way out. I have been here so many times before, but still I make the same mistakes again.
I ponder whether or not my absence would be missed,would be noticed. I usually come to the same conclusion that perhaps I would be mourned for, but within months I shall be replaced. I ponder further whether it makes a difference should I live or die. I have always been so little and insignificant. I doubt that my absence would matter much to anyone. Although I know this much to be a lie, I hold onto the bitterness on days like these.
On days like these, my thoughts of you are intensified. I call your name just to hear it echo in the vast abyss of my world. Reaching out for the picture frame, I look at how happy we are together, and I remind myself that I will be happy yet. I hear your voice on the other line, and even though it is but a recording, my spirits are suddenly lifted and I am somewhat at ease. I pacify myself by an excessive message, telling you nothing at all, and then I hang up.
You call back, on days like these, just knowing that I am in trouble, and immediately you come to my aid. You offer your perfect-to-me smile, and you jest and tease. You do whatever it is that you do, and I stop dying. Perhaps a hint of life returns to my eyes and I just do not see. On days like these, you are the only thing in the world that could rescue me.