Eating Rose Petals And Other Fine Dining

I might never find a person to shelter me in their arms, not the way wet flowering field in a heatwave would. No one to dry my tears but the crisp breeze of blue spring morning. Not a soul to tell my secrets to but to the deep onyx night, not an eye to wink at me but the flickering Sirius of the winter sky. I will forever wait for Orion, right by the mailbox ad you will never write, but Orion will show up, time and time again.

I feel unfit to enter society.

Please.

Roof over my head, parents that love me, food in my belly, warm bed to sleep in, some good friends and plenty of acquaintances. I’m doing well in school and I’m startig out as a freelance translator, a field that seems to be looking up for me. I write a lot and make art, stuff like oil painting or collages. I love to read and watch films. I regularly go to the cinema, exhibitions, fashion shows, performances, concerts, festivals, you name it. Socially, I’d say I’m quite apt: people usually like me, for reasons unknown to me, and gravitate towards me. There isn’t a place where I wouldn’t run into a familiar face.  My life is rich, full and fun. There are issues, like family issues and money issues, those are ongoing and evepresent, but no one can have it all. It doesn’t make me happy, but it also doesn’t make me desperate.  In spite of everything I listed above, I’ve been suicidal for years. Never told anyone.  Probably never will. At first, I didn’t even realize it. I thought I was being dramatic. But it kept coming back, again and again, for various reasons. Funnily enough, at the beginning it was nothing but a thought. A passing thought in a deadly silent night; the only time when I could really be alone. Or myself. But over the years, the idea of actually following through with it, of actually taking my life, has become clearer, more tangible. It ceased to be an abstract concept floating around my mind. It started to look like my future. It’s what I see when I imagine my future anyway.  I hate to be that one miserable fucker, i truly do, but this is how I honestly feel. Future is a cuss, it’s pejorative, it’s hopeless, it’s nothing. Ironically enough, it’s everything one has. What passed isn’t, what is isn’t either, it’s only what is going to be. It terrifies the fuck out of me. I don’t think I should’ve been born, I have this innate fear of the neverending variety of possibilities - I can appreciate the beauty. But prettiness and scariness aren’t mutually exclusive. I don’t think I’ll take my life anytime soon. I’m still waiting for something, God knows what for. I suppose I’m waiting for something to give me a good reason not to?  I’m scared I’ll wait for the rest of my life, however long is that going to be.