Empty

I think I've been hungry for love ever since I was born, and isn't everyone? Aren't we all desperate to fill the emptiness in us with something ? At times I wonder about the people hungry for power, could love not fulfil them? Why am I driven by another desire instead? Is life supposed to be a mix of moments that make want us to live and also to die? I remember the unfortunate day I was molested as a child, when the desire to become non existent first arose.

Every day I would try to meet the expectations of my parents at home and entertain my classmates in school. Yet every night, my desire to be gone would rise while I lay in bed. I wished I could will myself out of existence or that if I held my breath for long enough, I could suffocate myself.

In the summers, when the sun would start setting I would position myself halfway on the terrace railing and sway with the wind, my feet dangling while I imagined falling off. My broken body sprawled on the concrete, a horror that felt awkwardly spiritual.

By that point, I had become adequately numb but being molested once wasn't enough of course, I experienced it again. Adults could not wait to ruin a child’s psych, could they?

It increasingly became clear to me that I wasn’t a human being to most people, and in reality most people treated humans like non-humans. Perhaps a nonsensical notion for some but this belief would only solidify with time for me.

I might have appreciated the economic stability provided by my parents more, if I didn't feel the hollowness of 'lack' so much. Negligence by them drove me up the wall, but it also made me think I was being too greedy, to want them to look at me with affection rather than expectations.

The only reason I endured life was because of the secret hope that love would one day repair me, that it would recognise these desolate feelings in my ribs and be a soothing balm.

But the cracks created by people who took too much of me without any intention of returning anything, has left me emptier than ever. Nothing gets better, only more miserable, I understand that now as I become aware of my twisted up insides. Do I have to keep living like this? With contusions all over my body? For whom and to what end?

'Life is precious', they say but I find it as meaningless as the sun and the stars, bundle of gases that people romanticise to feel better.

Its simply that I don't want to struggle anymore, if that's a bad thing I can't say I understand this world any better than the day I first wanted to disappear. Life refused me love, yet it wants me to live in this ugly reality?

Not anymore, I refuse to, instead with bitterness in my heart, I give up on life.