Three Reasons To Die || A.W.G

|| Afraid Of Living ||

Can you save my heavy, dirty soul? - Heavydirtysoul - twenty one pilots

//

dear alex,

The night holds a dark shade amongst the clouds, the sunset tone that begins to dawn is on the verge of haunting. The breeze kicks in, blowing haphazardly at my hair and flattening the slither of a flame that snakes out from a year old lighter. In the simplest form, Alexander, I am afraid of of living.

The reason for this is a commixture of abstruse reasons. For one, even though I play off my slashed wrists as an uncomplicated chore; tugging on bloodied sleeves to conceal the insanity of my mind, has become quite tiring.

I'm holding a green stem above the flame that flickers as the wind falls silent, the band of greenery blackens almost immediately and the edges of the flame differ at bright orange and sloppy yellow; the same kind you once considered dying your hair. And, if you tuck away how mystic it is for someone to ignite a piece of nature; somehow, there's beauty to it.The process of it inflaming is surprisingly and soothingly slow, not hurried in combustion like the second hand kiss we shared in the gas station in the middle of fucking nowhere.

The previous particles that once held the stem together char and fall into embers, black and dead. That explains the charcoal smudges at the corner of this sheet.

Maybe I'm afraid of living because I'm scared of my own mind. I'm still unsure of what it's entirely capable of, but in the span of my life so far, it's done terrible things. I guess, the only way to truly live is to kill your mind, but to kill your mind your soul must be at rest and far from horrors or insecurities.

Albeit, I never for one second thought that I would buckle down the same cobbled path my mother stumbled down, I shamed her for a disorder she couldn't control, yet the genetics did their things and this sick insanity has been passed onto me. Karma really is a bitch.

I'm watching now, the bone-white skin of my fingers are shaking while gripping the remains of the stem. I presume, at a brief glance, this scenario that's unfolding would probably seem eerily poetic in the sense of Allan Poe, granted it's frowned upon to seek thrill in burning shrubs.

I've learnt to accept the fact that I possibly will never recover, and so, death would be serene, I'm not afraid of dying at all. And fuck, maybe I wasn't supposed to live, maybe my destiny was to fall upon my death bed the minute I gulped my first breath, maybe I was never meant to be here. Maybe if I just die it'll all be fine once again. It wouldn't make much of a difference anyhow, cleaning the surface of the earth of one more mentally maladjusted being wouldn't do harm, rather a favour.

I want to laugh at my catatonic mind. And right now I suppose you haven't even read these letters, it's fine.

I enjoy believing that my mind would have readers of my life on edge, silently screaming at the stupid choices I would make without conscious, perhaps nibbling the skin that banded their nails at the image of my mutilated legs, swinging at the edge of a crumbling bridge, a cigarette would be slotted between my roughened lips as I let everything go. But soon enough, I would burn away along with my mind, the left overs would be simple black ashes and even in death, while rotting, decaying away. I will become nothing.

And so, my first reason to die is as simple as the fact that I, Lizabeth Kai, am afraid of living.

- lizabeth