Sundays

The darkness always come.

Silent, unexpected.

It’s the sunset of a dull, awfully dreary Sunday. It comes slowly, dragging the hours as though they weighed the weight of a thousand men. But it comes. Amidst the apathy, amidst the phlegm, amidst the usual, the lack of response, the lack of will to live, the lack of everything, it comes.

It comes quietly, without you noticing. And when you do, it’s already there. Sitting by your side, a weight that refuses to go, a darkness that clouds your mind, seizes your heart in a tight fist. Your lungs don’t work anymore; your breathing hurts, you feel dizzy and want nothing but to lie on your bed and never get up again.

It’s truly a sunset. You watch the hours go by, locked in your room because it’s the only place you feel safe. They pass both quickly and slowly, and your mind still hasn’t figured out how that could be possible. The days drag slowly, but the hours don’t. You keep your mind busy, so maybe, you come to terms, that’s it, that's why.

So you’re in your room in the silent of a warm Sunday. It’s hot outside, but you don’t feel like moving. It’s sunny, lively, the kids scream and laugh, their excited little voices irritate you to no end. It also makes you feel sorry for them. Their childhood will die one day, and soon enough they’ll be adults. Gloomy, unresponsive, apathetic adults just like you.

The voices stop at some point, gradually coming to a halt. The temperature is colder, the room, darker, and you have barely noticed the change. Everything is a shade of gray now. The walls once white, the sky, the light passing through the window. And then, you blink.

And you’re immersed in darkness. Can barely see your limbs, the hand in front of your face, the door, the window, the furniture. You’re blind. You’re blind and desperate, because you want to see again. It's a wistful, fragile truth that saddens you to the core: you don’t remember how colors look like now, but you want to, you need to, and yet you know you won't.

And it feels as though your life depended on it, because if you can’t see them, then what’s the point? This Sunday doesn’t come to an end. It keeps dragging and dragging, and it never goes away. It never stops. There’s no reason anymore, you just want to stop existing, stop breathing. 

Stop living.

You want to die, you come to realize. And the thought scares you. You want to live, to be happy, to feel things, to see things, but in the end, nothing matters anymore. You don’t feel the same, for the longest time you haven’t felt the same. You were a little kid and already knew what loneliness and depression felt like.

With a weight on your chest, a burden on your shoulders, you realize, nothing is worth living. Not for you. 

Not in this life.

hope is the thing with feathers

"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all."

After a time you begin to fade.

You had a face, mouth and nose, but it all went away. It vanished like a burning photograph and yet, you remain; intact, unmoving, unchanging. Everything becomes ephemeral as you wander across immortality.

You look at your hands, and they are pale and long, the veins are visible and a constant reminder; you try not to look at your fist as you flex your fingers. It makes it worse.

You don’t have photographs, family or souvenirs. You mostly have nothing. But you had a family once and a house and tokens and a life. Now, the memory is too distant, fragmented, bleached. The voices, the touches, the faces, they all disappear slowly. A constant death in your mind as you try to remember what was once there, what you were once part of.

What doesn’t disappear, though, is reality.

Never slowing down, always unforgiving. Taking things away and leaving you with nothing but regrets and the heavy weight of your circumstance, of your situation.

You had someone once. They had life in their blood vessels and you made a point of not sucking it away. They had a present that you were part of, it lured you and all the possibilities attracted you like a moth to the flame, dangerous but seductive. They also had a future, bright and short.

This time, you weren’t part of it.

You’re never in someone’s future, you’re not allowed in there.

You miss things, how they used to be. You don’t remember them anymore, but you know anything could be better than what you have now; a vast, interminable afternoon. You don’t sleep but you always wake up, it’s a feeling of never properly sleeping, of never having a good night’s rest.

Sometimes you just want to die and start a new day, rested and reinvigorated.

You can’t.

You wonder how Earth will cease to exist. You’ve been wandering across the globe for too long and know that civilization and cities have been destroyed, you know how life is delicate and momentary.

You wonder whether or not you’ll have someone by your side, and who will die first and if it’ll hurt. You’re scared of the truth now, you can’t bear it anymore.

Fear has a new name now. An idea and feeling behind the word. For you, it had been taught, the first thing you learned when you transformed, but now it’s something else. Now, it’s losing someone, it’s seeing them burn, it’s knowing their pain.

Fear is dreading that they’ll let go.

Expecting them to let go of you.

It doesn’t feel like a burden anymore, like you’re Sisyphus, all alone and rolling a boulder up a mountain, and all at once it dawns on you, it hasn’t for a long time. Now, you don’t carry it alone, you share the burden with someone who understands, who looks at your eyes and sees.

It makes you want to protect him, because you cherish that boy, cannot seem to find anything that you would love more than him; than his voice, his presence and smile, the feeling of his body against yours.

This is the thought that scares you the most.

"And sweetest in the Gale is heard; and sore must be the storm that could abash the little bird that kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chillest land and on the strangest sea yet, never, in extremity, it asked a crumb of me." Emily Dickinson

Dread

“I’m terrified.”

“Of what?”

She shrugs. “Of, y’know, being betrayed.”

There’s an expectant silence and she knows he won’t let her get away with it. It’s something she hates about therapists. They keep it quiet, force you to spit it out.

It’s unnerving.

“I’ve been betrayed too many times. I’ve had enough, y’know? But I’m still terrified of it. I haven’t get used to it.”

“Do you think people get used to being betrayed?”

“Yes,” she says right away. Then considers. “Maybe.”

“Tell me about this fear.”

“Fear?” She laughs. “I fear my first day of school. I fear dying. I fear many things but being betrayed ain’t one of them. It’s dread. Terror. I’m not scared, nor afraid. I’m terrified of being betrayed.”

“So you’re not terrified of dying?”

She sighs, aggravated. “Yes, I am. I’m terrified of being hit by a bus or falling in the subway tracks. I’m terrified of these kinds of death, y’know? Being exposed, pitied on. But.” She pauses, look inwards, tries to explain herself. “But…”

“But?”

“Well, you could say I’m terrified of that too, but dying… you’re dead. It’s final. Being betrayed is… you’re degraded to shit. It’s just a means of saying, “you ain’t worth shit.” It’s like, you try to be nice, to be someone people can count on, but it’s never enough. People just don’t care.”

“Isn’t it a bit arrogant?”

She frowns. “How so?”

“You’re putting yourself in a superior level. People shouldn’t betray you because you’re nice to them. No one’s nice all the time. You try to make people count on you, when it’s not your responsibility to make them feel like you’re trustworthy. Everyone has their motives and motivation, their own stories. When they betray you, it doesn’t mean you’re unworthy. It doesn’t mean they were purposely trying to degrade you. We do things that hurt others; it’s in our nature. I’m sure you’ve done the same.”

“I have. I never said I was perfect.”

“But aren’t you acting like it?”

She breathes in deeply and breathes out. “Can I smoke a cigarette?”

“Of course,” he says with a smile that she immediately thinks it’s sarcastic.

She lightens the cigarette and takes a drag. “Anyway,” she says, but remains quiet afterwards.

“Why do you think people get used to being betrayed?”

“Why! Don’t people become jaded? I think I’m becoming too.”

“Tougher skin.”

“Yes.” She sighs. “Tougher skin. Mine has become so… it’s—” she snorts. “I never wanted to be like this. It’s troublesome, exhausting. I feel like I can’t connect with people anymore. I feel weary. Apathetic. Lonely, y’know.”

“A tough skin doesn’t mean you don’t feel things. Disappointment, for example.”

“No. Unfortunately it doesn’t. I’m so strong, man. So, so strong, but I feel like—like I could cry like a small child.” She laughs, curt, embarrassed, derogatorily. Inhales cigarette smoke and feels it burn a trail down her lungs. “God knows I have.”

“Talk about it.”

“As if.” She snorts, breathing out smoke, and rolls her eyes afterwards at his silent treatment. “Well, what is there to talk about? Tears fall down my face and shit. I’m human, you know? Humans cry. Maybe you don’t, though, but I’m not you.”

“There’s no reason for you to be defensive. I’m not here to judge, merely to help you understand yourself.”

“No. You’re here to force me to talk about the things I don’t want to talk about.”

“Exactly. We fear discovering the dark sides in ourselves. Our weaknesses, our fragilities, our flaws. We think ourselves perfect, despite our known imperfection, which we often ignore. Real flaws are someone elses. It’s paradoxical, actually.”

“Well. Yeah, but I’m not like that. I’m well aware of my flaws. It’s what makes me different. I use them in my behalf. I embrace my flaws so they won’t use them against me. I don’t fight my own nature.”

“You’ve shown otherwise, though.”

She takes a drag and considers his words. It’s true, she knows. “I’m a work in progress. As I said, I’m becoming jaded. I’m not jaded as of now.”

“You constantly degrade yourself, but you always come up with excuses for your behavior. I find this truly interesting. Have you been aware of this?”

“Well. Now I am. What can I say? I’m the only one who can badmouth me.”

“Interesting,” he says, looking up at the clock. “Well, I fear our time is up. I’ll see you next session and we’ll finish this discussion.”

She snorts. It’s always the same line, always the same shit. “Yeah, sure.”