Left
Only a few days left. Only a couple of hours to go. Only me. Not even another week. No chance of counting in sleep time nor free time. No people who could even bear.
And so, I might just have nothing left. Nothing and no one, no time and no person. And so, I might just have to turn into exactly that. I would not mind, but if only I also could. Yet even this I am unable to do. I would like to get the sleepless nights, the nonstop writing, the correct answers on the goddamn sheet, the coffee cups piled up in the corner of the desk. Not even this can I achieve. Why, could one wonder. Well, for that one who dares to question, well: I blame it on the tears. The tears running down a pale face, slipping from jet-black dark eyes, falling upon disappointing breasts, drying up onto another dirty piece of clothing. The tears pouring, as if from a night sky into a twilight zone, constantly and unnoticeably. The tears that no longer stop, that no longer wait for one to complete the aforementioned journey as another joins in too quickly. The tears cried with a certain reason, for a great cause, in good faith, with what once were high hopes. Rivers of sadness leaving the blood flow behind like some rebellious teenagers. A sea could be gathered at my feet as I maintain, for what seem to be decades on end, my seat. It would not hurt if only the tears were felt, yet I can sense my own eyes catching fire. I can see them turn to red, or at least to a pink shade of red. And as they do so, I use them once more to catch my reflection in the window. It’s merely a contour of a human. I blame it on the darkness which has taken the rest of the world. I blame it on the lamp which does not shed enough light upon the situation. I blame it on myself, mostly, for I am, indeed, a mere shadow, a shape that keeps on shifting. I blame it on the crystal clear tears and the fiery red eyes, for I am almost sure they come together only to help cloud my judgement. Yet how could I personally ever tell? How could I ever know, believe, hope, guess? How could I ever do a thing, when I can not even appear to think.
It’s dark out but it can easily be ignored if it’s also dark in. And it is. Looking towards an inner self, a conscience, a soul, pretty much any organ, one sees nothing. Not anymore. Not since I have come to learn that mistakes are made and most of them are made mainly by yours truly. But I am not talking about mistakes such as taking the wrong turn, doing the wrong exercise, learning the wrong lesson, listening to the wrong people. I am talking about some other ones. So many of them, too many to count on all the hands I’ve ever seen, too many to write down, too many and far too hard to think of or even believe if told. But, ever since, I have learned that they do indeed belong to me, I seem to have turned the light off. I appear to have lit a fire and to have wasted my tears on cleansing the body instead of putting out the burning of the soul. Perhaps my tears would like to help and they simply no longer know how to. And if that’s the case, they are not to blame, because, once more, it must have been my mistake. So it’s still dark out, that will change as soon as the sun shall rise. So, the sun will rise, and yet, this one time, it shall rise and I shall not try again. I will patiently wait for its arrival and it shall part take in my departure.
Another cup of coffee and a brand new test subject, another day with not enough hours, another reminder of the loneliness and one more shape added to the list, another chance for another mistake.
And so, it has passed. The unthinkable has actually happened and it was indeed unbelievable. And so, I found myself right here once more. Whatever has just happened has passed as soon as it had started. Same old dirty clothes covering a sick body, same old bottles piling up on the bookshelves, same old cigarettes drowning in an overfilled bin, same old books covering up what was once a white desk, same old songs blasting in the broken headphones, same old me. As if what I had waited so long for had never even existed as if the day had only passed for me. All so polarized that it seems almost impossible. I can now call the vitamins pills for I know for sure that they do indeed have a certain effect. Yet what was it all for? Why the tears, the pain, the migraines, the thoughts, the coffees, the meals, the subjects and the tests. What was it all for if not for that one day? I might just never truly find out, and even if one day I do, I might just no longer believe. Let it all come, let it all drown, burn and ultimately kill, for I no longer agree to believe. Be as it may, hope dies last and I will be the one to bring it its own death.
