I envy you

You weigh on my chest, capture my breath. I'm held captive in your hold and stripped of all that I know. I'm a helpless, fallen soul beholden to empty hope. I'm lost here, all on my own. I'm lost here, broken to the bone.

It was the doctor that made me aware of all this. She has me booked for 2 appointments, both 2-hours long, and both with two different psychiatrists. Messy, isn't it?

I spill my guts with no idea where it'll take me, and for what? To someday be "healed"? It's never that simple. I wish it were, but dear God: there isn't a soul on this earth that'll fill you in on this side of life. It's not because they've never experienced it, but because they've never been open enough to say a damn thing.

It amazes me that some people can live for so long without confronting the darkest parts of humanity. I mean, it's standing right there: the loneliness, confusion, the offensive inclination to scar, abandon and bruise. I mean, it's practically staring at you, right into your helpless, precious eyes. It's hungry to harm and persistently insatiable. So, I wonder how? How is it that people distract themselves enough to forget?

I wonder if it's a secret that begs to be learned? It might be the only way to modestly live. If you gather enough to keep you steady, hold onto it for dear life. God forbid you fall into the claws of reality and lose yourself in the process.

They don't teach you this stuff. They never do. Most people are lucky enough to have something to hold onto. The rest of us are naught. We're walking moot points, waiting to be heard. Damaged, bruised, discarded and yet— still burdened by the force that is life. There is only so much to bear before it's too late, so I have to ask: How?

As I see it, the secret is just an ability (that I sorely lack). It's the ability to adapt, so what motivates this ability to adapt? I beg of you, please teach me how it works. An entire life has passed me by and still— the forces that kill the monstrous, unfulfilling parts of life evade me.

Like nothing else, this may be the most painful thing I've ever had to grieve. This secret is the only thing that's clung to hope without slipping in my hold. It reminds me how to live. It's a security that life assuredly depends on and yet, I walk on everyday without it.

Every moment and in every way, I wonder how you do it. You breathe as you do, and I envy the air within your lungs. You smile so briefly, and yet, I still crave the energy within. I'm desperately awaiting the day that finally comes— however it may come, whenever it decides to reach me. The day I am rid of myself is a day that surpasses every miracle born into our world. The day that I await is a day that may never exist, but it's also the extent of my sour hope:

I awake and my chest is weightless. I'm no longer breathless and the sun leaves my skin unscathed.

Don't we all... live lifeless, awaiting for a day that doesn't feel like a burden, awake to time as though it isn't a death sentence, and live like life isn't just a force to be reckoned with. Don't we all?

I envy you if you don't.

I envy every single person who knows the secret to life.

I miss it. I miss living. My hope is beholden to the world and yet, the world fails me every day.

My advice to you is, hold onto it for as long as you can— hard enough to keep you alive once you finally lose it.

There isn't a psychiatrist in the world with the balls to tell you that.