rare

The Edge of Uncertainty

We abandon ourselves from the Truth, which may be the substance of who we are.

We would not do so, if we knew what our Truth is.

If there is one, how do we know it?

We all gaze, we search, but how do we know what we found is- just a dream even for a moment?

Of course, we can't fail love, empathy, beauty, and  grief that this life gives us. A pursuit. But how is it the pursuit for the Truth?  If this pursuit is the Truth, where is our Self that we went looking for?

Have we found ourselves by the Truth we thought it was?

How do we know, what we know?

When we say, this is true therefore I submit my life to this tune and float forever in its melody. What we submit to, will that decide our path?

***

The  truth is, I do not know, but i don't want to abandon my Self, I want to keep looking. I want to stay and hum to the beating of the universe. I'm uncertain, and this uncertainty, that I do not know, has become my belief. I pursue the glories of this life, with a harmonious tie with the unknown, to the thing, I know, but might never know.

For so long, what have I done with this agony?

I have built it into a spear to kill my selves the ones people do not like or accept. Now, after so many murders, guilt creeps in, a disguised ghost of my past asking for redemption.

My dreams are no exception.

The darkness of them settles around my eyes. They scream Killer, and the ghosts echo: free us, brute. When I wake up, pieces of my soul are spun into a demon. What a sin.

To escape my nightmares, I search for temporary relief, in my work, my romantic obsessions, my reading about death and life after it. I do not escape; I forget. Until I hear people thinking about my peculiarities, calling them weaknesses. There is one more me to kill. The vulnerable one.

I either live my symptoms and die, or live and get pulled by death every day. Neither is easy. I have tried both.

It is difficult to dream, seeing pain create more pain, and I, the one who must contain it, an atomic reaction of suffering. Then I must smile and be kind, because that is the girl I knew. It is harsh.

I have asked for help, tremendous help. But even the strongest seem incapable of seeing this chaos. I questioned their strength. I questioned mine. You are weak. Another death.

The more I kill, the scarier my dreams become.

Waking up gets harder.

I hallucinate.

There is no difference between a nightmare and a day spent killing, cleaning knives, and escaping.