On a gloomy Friday night, you think about your life choices. You tell yourself to reach out to someone. But you decide not to. You still refuse to share your demons with anyone. You fight the urge, repeating words, "They would never understand." People close to you keep proving you right, anyway. So you talk yourself into bottling everything up again. You resist the temptation to drown your soul.
On a fun Saturday night, you almost recognize your laughter. But, not really. All you remember is the aching. All you feel is the aching. You want to quit again. The pain keeps swallowing you whole. You try to fight it. You laugh. You laugh at it. You laugh at yourself until you feel numb. Until you fool yourself enough that it is locked up some place you would dare not visit. Some place dark. Inside of you. And you tell yourself to forget over and over. Until you do.
On a beautiful Sunday morning, everything comes back. The locks are opened as easily as you open them eyes. Your own thoughts betray you. Your dark thoughts you secretly cherish. But you stay. A little longer, every time. There, at some place, with black clouds above your head, you stay despite your resistance. There, where you left your heart. You hope to leave someday.
On a basic Monday, you wake up again. Not even a stain of dirt on your feet. You look normal again. Oh, how you look naturally normal. You wash your face. You're going to make it. Until you don't.
“My point is: in this whole wide world the only person you can depend on is you.” — Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
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