While I'm still here

It's like your entire life was seen by yourself from outside a window.

You can look through it and even shout a thing or two, but in the end you're not doing that big of a difference on most of its outcome.

You had all these hopes and dreams, those rules and believes. And then, as life passes you by, you start getting disappointed with the people around you and specially yourself. And one day you turn your back and see that your footprints are a mess and the trail you took it's just one mistake after the other.

Life it's not that interesting anymore, is it?

As time goes by, you come to realize that you're not even closer to what you wanted to be, or even thought you were. And you start dropping stuff you held dear and believed in. It's so subtle. 

You hurt people you love, they hurt you back, and you start seeing everything differently.

All of the sudden you don't dream of a house with children and a dog. You look back at your old self and it hurts to see how many wrong steps you took from what you planned to be. 

can you imagine that now? Having children. How far from it have you come. That would be so unwise. You can't kill yourself if you have children. Not saying you have to take your own life. But can you imagine not having that option anymore? God that sucks.

And that's all you have now. Rants that you already know are stupid, silent complaints about stuff no one can do a thing about. You have those plans you tossed out the window, the aspirations you had as a young one, those thoughts of greatness, all filled with raw and thick disappointment. 

All of the sudden all you want is a deep cave with a tv and a video game so that you don't have to fail anymore. What you've done so far has been more than enough.

"I'm not leaving you"

She sat by his side, trying not to cry and lose her shit over it all.
He was still there, and she couldn't believe.
When she walked into the hospital a few minutes earlier her brother was sobbing like a young boy.
She thought he was dead.
Not a single change on his condition tho.
It's funny how we deal with death differently and yet the same way.
How much would her brother cry when their father was actually gone?
She knew he was crying out of love, and for seeing him in that state. But there was a part of them that knew it all along. Still he cried. There was something weird about that. She didn't know if it was because he missed his dad the way he was before he got sick, or felt bad for something he did in the past, or maybe even something he didn't do. There was something odd about that scene, she just couldn't grasp what. She rushed into the room through the double door to find their dad in the same exact way she left the night before.
He could barely speak, and that was heartbreaking.
His spotted hands with basically no strength left on them.
It was hard not to think about death in a hospital.
They both knew he wouldn't get up from there.
Maybe that's why her brother was crying. He was anticipating that moment, dreading it, fearing it.
She didn't want to cry. It was hard to know what was in her dad's mind, but seeing her cry would probably put the same thoughts in his mind, and it would be heartbreaking to see him not being able to say anything to comfort her.
She couldn't do it.
She thought about that day with rain pouring over her, while she dragged herself to the train station, feeling alone like she hasn't felt in a really long time. She thought about killing herself that day, just because she couldn't handle being alone. It wasn't just that, but it wasn't less either.

Do old people think about how many years they have left? Would they be counting them and thinking if they would make it to their next birthdays? Would every human act as a teenage who thinks he has all the years left and that death isn't crawling nearby, just waiting? Would they act so oblivious in front of the obvious end? She didn't know. She would never dare to ask.
Would she count the years left when she was old?
That night her dad got around speaking a little, and asked her to go home, so she could sleep in a proper bed.
-it's no big deal, dad. My brother stayed here yesterday, I'm staying here today.
-you shouldn't be here, you hate hospitals.
-that doesn't matter. I'm not leaving.you.
"i'm the one leaving you", she thought for a moment, and wrote that as a mental note that to use in her deathbed, if she was ever so bitter and evil to make someone suffer like that.
-i know you're not. But I will only sleep until tomorrow... you should go.
-not leaving. I'm responsible for you.
She just held his soft bony hands until he left her a few nights later.
How was she responsible for him? He still left in the end. She wasn't responsible, She was helpless, grasping for words to give him and for confidence that it would be different from what everyone already knew. Because no one wants to deal with death before it comes.
Her brother didn't cry at the funeral.

créditos de imagem. Ms Kühl

Remember it. Remember the pain.
Put the knife back into the wound.
Reopen it, don't let it heal. Don't you dare let it become a scar.
Jump from that cliff and never climb again.
Up there is not where you belong.

Don't you ever forget.
Bring back every detail you can from it, extract every bit of anger you can from that.
Dribble with rage.
Embrace it and never let go.

Just poke yourself.
Deep.
Now do it again.
One more time.
A little deeper.
Push it harder.
Just pull the needle from your arm and feel it burning.
Let it consume you.
Make yourself worse without any help.
Maybe that's how you feel alive.
Let your mind torture you.
That's how you feel alive.
Now hence and repeat.
Never forget.
Don't ever let go of it.
Poke it deep.
Push it harder.
Make yourself bleed.
Do it.
One more time.
Don't you dare to forget.

Various Methods of Escape

You can't look back.
It was too long ago.

You start your walk towards the empty room.

Those words written on those 6 tiny pages were always your favourites.
You used to think they summed up pretty much everything you enjoyed about your life. 

And they did.

Those 6 pages were perfection.

They don't exist anymore, though.

Those words are empty now.

Those hands that wrote them down are not the same anymore. 

They don't exist any longer.

It's time to leave them behind.

Let them sit on your drawer.

You can't look back.

Just walk into the dark room.

Don't look back.

It's over. 

There's nothing you can do about it.

You don't get to choose.

Walk out of that room, do whatever it takes.