The tragedy they call life.

"...What I am aches in me" - Fernando Pessoa

How many more sunsets do I romanticize till my heart heals? Or will I do this forever?

I need answers.

Or perhaps there are no answers.

But it is okay, isn’t it? After all, we only create art when we’re fractured.

Yes, it hurts and I find myself twisting and turning for a second of solace. On the better days, I picture myself laughing and that itself feels like punishment enough. Knives twist inside me like door knobs at the thought. Why? Because deep inside, I know and I’ve always known, I am nothing but the tragedy that rests on my shoulders, inside myself. The tragedy they call life these days and if this was to depart, what would I cling to?

If I lost this agony, no matter how gut-wrenching it may be, I would lose everything that I have. Somehow, this feeling has turned into a home for me, I would allow it to stick around even at the cost of continuously piercing my heart.

There is a certain sense of warmth to it, to the feeling of blood oozing out of me. The comfort of knowing that there exists something to hurt for.

I know…I know, I’ve heard it enough times to have it memorized, ‘you just need to allow yourself some happiness’ and yes, it sounds God, so pleasing. It sounds exactly like the feeling I have when my coffee has a perfect proportion of everything - perfect.

But that is all it is - a feeling.

I do not know how to hang welcoming posters for bliss on the walls of my house, the same house it turned barren. How do I turn a blind eye to all the years melancholy shook the cot that my heart fell asleep in?

How do I betray it?

Having known the very feeling of betrayal better than I should have, how do I become the very cause of it? Forgive me, but I can not allow myself to be human once again, that is, if I was to still know what it feels like.

And so, I will continue to deny myself the mundane pleasures of life, I won’t walk down to the park that reminds me of my childhood days, I won’t sleep those extra hours on days that feel like a chore, and if I ever make the foul mistake of doing so, I will compensate it.

In doing so, I will protect myself and I will keep myself safe, and for such a pleasure, a grieving heart and numb eyes are nothing but a fair cost.