At three AM, I woke up in the midst of my roomie’s blasting snores. Alcohols and pizzas didn’t really help with insomnia. I knew they never did but I had believed they would give me a reason not to go anywhere or do anything and to just sleep. Wrong. The pizza stuffs kinda turned cold in my stomach and sat solid there stubbornly amidst my sufferings.
Alcohols were a deathly mistake though; it’s not like *you want to get over someone, you go get a drink* but rather that when you were drunk the whole mechanical operation of a sane mind wasn’t so sane anymore. The cloudy thoughts and blurry images began to run wildly like unherded sheep that magically fused into one another when they clashed. And when they did clash, a plethora of memories spilled from hidden corners and pooled your un-fenced mind. Memories that you kinda hoped would just vaporize like the effervescence in your liquor glass. Memories that left you swam hopelessly. The suppressed balm of intense emotions.
There went the misery.
True. I was a little sober before went to bed. A little unconscious of action and speech. I cut my wrist with a knife, twenty times in a row saying this was my distraction. I saw beads of blood, crimson red but I did not panic. Nor did I feel any pain. I was fucking calm and I knew I wasn’t rationalized at all doing this.
Over the phone, a friend was frantically begging and yelling at me in turns like you do to a maniac. I wasn’t any maniac. Sometimes I thought people needed to get those cliche’ out of their stubborn heads before thinking. I wasn’t cutting myself to death nor was I doing on purpose of blaming anyone. I knew with sunlight clarity that it was all on me. I did not say that it was the fucking fate that I was living this way. I just need a little understanding, that sometimes it was hard and I squeezed myself a lot through this limbo world. Now I need a little of easing out. That was exactly how I cut myself…
The cuttings became scars, over the course of a few restless days. After that fogginess of the mind cleared out, multitude of scars that was painful both to look at and to touch surfaced on the subtlety of my wrist and arm. They were ugly like wriggling worms and excruciating on the touch, exactly like what they embodied.