Departed

Hi, I’m Dree Departed. How could I be departed, you ask? It’s simple. A part, or rather, parts of me died. I killed them. I committed suicide to kill my demons out of me, but I didn’t realize they had slowly eaten themselves deep into my soul. So killing them meant killing myself. However, my body refused to stop working, so it has stayed here on earth. Poor thing. Nevertheless, it’s not so bad. It’s like fasting. No nutrition, no feelings, no poison, no leftover, there isn’t anything to digest, to get over. No depression, no freaking out, only the blessed emptiness. Isn’t it wonderful? You’ll understand when you get to where I am. But there is a long way in front of you to deserve this. You’ll be suffering from pain, crawling on the floor, trying to rip out your heart beating so hard as if it would break through your ribs. You’ll be crying blood when you’ve run out of tears, and if you can’t cry, you’ll have to find another way to make the pain go away. You’ll cut your veins, looking at your blood, feeling happy that all those bad feelings, like fury, anger, guilt, loneliness, and sadness are leaving your body, your heart. There will be only freedom left. But then you’ll realize it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Crying and cutting are not enough anymore, you’re already in too deep. Food, alcohol, and music can’t help either. So you’ll start to live on your pain, trying to dig out the old memories to keep you alive. But they’ll also betray you. You’ll keep holding onto them, writing about them to make sure they are real, that all of that shit did really happen, that you’re not a pathetic daydreamer, who ran away from reality into the arms of the devil. But you are. You could find nothing good in material world, so you hid into your own one made of illusions. You knew it was just your imagination, but it still made you happy for those short minutes when you were there. So when you have used all of your handkerchieves, and your blade is stained with your blood, and food has stopped to ease your hunger for love, and your memories has started to fade away, you’ll write. In the middle of the night, when everyone’s sleeping, and they have no idea what you’re going through. You’ll write about what you wanted, who you loved, what grabs your heart and squeezes the life out of it, how you miss someone who has never been yours. You’ll write at school, in your bed, instead of learning. You’ll write onto paper with pen, into your skin with blade, into your heart with agony and disturbia. And you can erase the words from the paper, and the scars on your skin can heal, but your heart will never be unharmed, clean, whole again. It’ll keep your desperate writing forever, all those silent screams you wouldn’t let out, the scratching with which you wouldn’t do any harm to the wallpaper. The surface of your heart can’t be replaced. And when you can’t take it anymore, when you’ve had enough of the sleepless nights, the tearless crying, the voiceless shouts, the loveless heartbreaking, you’ll share your pain with others, with your friends or with the one who pushed you into this bottomless madness. But everytime you’re talking about how much it hurts, how you want it all to stop, you feel ridiculous, you think there are no words to describe what’s happening inside, so it’s not even worth trying. They wouldn’t understand anyway. So what’s left to do? What’s the last step if you’ve done everything to stop the storm rampaging in your soul, the riot in your head, the bloodshed in your heart, but nothing has ever worked? Letting go. Sacrifice. Murder. You’ll have to sacrifice the poisoned parts so that the healthy you can move on. It’s like amputation. You’ll ease your body of the chains which tied it to your suicidal heart. Now you can breath fresh air but not vitality, you can hear other sounds apart from your own pitiful thoughts but not laughter, you can see the world in its own colours but without sunlight and smile, you can feel warmth and touch on your skin, but they don’t make your heart burn anymore. You can come clean but not by crying, you can eat, but nothing can nourish your soul. You’re not living, you’re vegetating, but this is not temporary. It’s a fast that never ends. A coma you never wake up from. Neither life nor death. Like the undead. Immortal emptiness. How sweet. How relaxing. No more surprises. No more life. It’s gone, just like you. Departed.

/2009.08.25. 03:49/