She once tried writing scribbles on sand; then eventually, she did. Those lines seemed sweet and calm and soothing; for they were real–as alive as the water which came in tides and waves to gobble nothing but the words. And now, she’s someone who had written on sand; somewhere, at least.
BONES
There were bones in the closet,
with wilted flesh that smothered rotten against the walls.
I didn’t take them out to trash.
The smell continues to linger,
attacking all senses,
despite being blended with a fragrance I dared to keep.
Sometimes we choose to stand by the awful,
the eerie,
the prosaic,
—-the skeletons.
It’s that pathetic human trait;
never knowing how to dispose of,
something that’s already meant to be waste.
<December 17, 2009>
THE REALITY OF SUICIDE
Upon entering the front door, I knew I don’t belong here. The seat feels like metal chair, awaiting my execution. And those eyes, they gawk at me. Quit staring, please. Why am I here? Why do I continue? I don’t matter to anybody. They hate me. And I hate me.
These are lines I saw written in someone dear to me’s diary. Reading through them, I had the reaction you probably had too, I felt terrible. I froze at the lines for a couple of minutes trying to collect myself and hold back tears. The thing is, those weren’t my lines. Someone else penned them; someone else felt them; and someone else suffered from them. This someone is my extension, my brother, my kin… but I barely knew.
Those lines bothered me but life had to go on. I brushed off the thought by convincing myself that such a thing happens only in movies or in teledramas. That my loved one would be as strong as me. That he just undermines himself and would soon come around, happier and more appreciative of what he has got. Denial, in simple terms. And I slept soundly again, thanks to that "idea".
Then a few months ago, in the most surreal of ways as if someone just talked in my sleep, I was informed that a dear colleague and friend passed away. It was such a sudden going that we were all in disbelief. Were we Punk'd or something? But normal people don't joke about death, right? Cardiac arrest, they said; but later on we were told about the real cause of her leaving us too early. She hanged herself. Hanged while her little baby slept in the other room.
Coming to the wake, looking at those marks on her neck, that heaviness of loss,seeing that angelic face of a little boy, that reality of suicide, shook me. There's nothing like it. To attempt to describe it, it must be like water with plenty of tube ice and a lightning hit your brain. Or perhaps a dump truck unloaded gravel on your being. Shocking, and depressing. The cycle of melancholy gets passed on somehow. And you just feel how fragile we all are, how short-lived our lives would appear if it were presented in video and some snap shots. How everything really comes to an end, tragically for some.
After this, I won't be looking at my brother the same way. I'll always be reminded that once, he thought about ending his life, of how the world dejects him. And I am a part of that world which dejects him. It is true that I could be a nagging bitch, a know-it-all dimwit. Maybe that was what added to his burden, I must have shamed him by being tactless. And this is not acceptable, for a communications teacher or even for a sister. Perhaps our family experiences made him look at things in the weirdest, darkest way but it has to be acknowledged, not shrugged, just because I see differently. If I became stronger, those experiences must have made him weaker. I can't just ask, "Why are you like this?" and be angry at him. I need to help him out from this abyss. Or else, or else.
We are all so afraid of death, of dying. But the question is, what is the quality of our lives? We live in various spheres. I am a different Yen with my family, I'm someone else with my friends and others, and I am someone else with my God. But what have I been doing all this time? Have I uplifted a spirit? Have I consoled a brother, a pal, someone sad or depressed? Have I encouraged them to be stronger? Have I helped out in any way? Have I talked to these people despite the unwanted confrontations? Have I prayed for them even once? Have I truly understood? Or have I only been selfish, thinking of only I which matters as I turn away and stick my nose somewhere else? Somewhere light, fun and more comfortable? Seems like I haven't done much for people in need. For my brother in need.
Depression can come and go unnoticed. Life is that volatile too. Hopefully, we get to identify when someone needs a little hug, some kind advice, a word of upliftment or real help.
Christmas isn't only the season of shopping, gift-giving and wonderful dinners. Let's make it our mission to be reminded that kindness goes a long way. That Christmas tells us to be kinder, gentler with each other. Enough with the fights and bickering. Enough with the big words and hurtful throws. Kindness is what most of us need from others, in a world as fast-paced and tough as this one has turned out to be. As we enjoy this yuletide with our families, friends or special someones, let's think of those who feel sad during these merry times. Maybe it's someone so dear to you, like a sister or a brother. Maybe it's your mom or dad, an aunt or an uncle. Perhaps it's your best friend or classmate. Or maybe, it's you.
Let's include everyone in our happinesses. Let's engage everybody. Make nobody feel left out. Let's do something, exert some effort! Make great memories that could make the depressed feel they could turn their lives around. That there is hope, with the people who care for them. It's Christmas, share the love. ^_^ And from here, who knows how many lives we get to save. Every day should be Christmas day so the world would be a friendlier, kinder and happier place to live in. At the end of the day, I have to start with myself. And so should you.
Merry Christmas everyone!
<December 23, 2011)
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