The Ones Without a Choice
Søren Kierkegaard once wrote, “The most painful state of being is remembering the future, particularly the one you'll never have.”
From almost two decades of being in a limbo, the one thing I have learnt is to give up entirely on hope. I have come to understand that amongst the humans that walk this earth, there are some of us who do not get a choice. I do not get to choose joy or happiness even if I want to. Pain has become the gatekeeper of destiny and grief paints every aspect of life with its own trace.
Can there be anything crueller than when we stop expecting joy from life altogether? Hope becomes expensive and faith has long left through a door, shutting it behind so tightly that its hinges are now rusted.
Life comes to a point where when another blow lands, it feels more like a confirmation of fate’s harsh reality. It is as if destiny took a thick red pen and underlined my name with remarks – "Not meant for this one" – on every tiny moment that could have turned into joy.
There are versions of me that remain decomposing, looking up at the sky from the grave of dreams, tending to each wound that refuses to heal, and turning them all into “life lessons”. Now, I stop asking, "How much more?" and start asking, "Where will the next pain come from?"
Because there doesn’t seem to be an ending to how much pain and sorrow life can throw my way. Every time I think that the ache might finally run out, pain finds a new way to introduce itself. In this place, longing has learnt to whisper to every version of tomorrow about the things that the heart remembers. Pulled together by something stronger than time or death.
In the miles of windswept solitude, when there is nothing to look forward to, I spend my time looking back. I can only stand here and see my dreams crumble for now. Sometimes, when the tears stop and I am able to breathe again through this splitting pain, I try to pick up the shards and piece them back together again.
There is so much that churns within my skin, but I constantly find that my words have lost all meaning. Silence has replaced every emotion in my being and I cannot find appropriate words to express it. I silently wait for death – not in a morbid way – but as a friend that I cannot wait to meet. Because, what can death take away that life already hasn't.
In the meantime, the blades that are plunged deep in my back remain; they are not to be removed for they are a solemn reminder of life’s treacheries. The wounds there, I keep picking on them, so they remain fresh and remind me never to let hope rear its ugly head back up again. I carry these stabs as treasures won from the decimation of my beliefs and devotion.
I used to believe that grief is an alchemy that transforms loss into gratitude. Today there is only a hollow where my heart once resided. Life has become a never-ending battleground where I am forced to keep fighting, keep breathing, keep pretending to be alive. All the while I am already dead inside. For everything that my heart has ever truly desired, I have been made to grovel and still haven't received even a scrap of it. I have spent endless nights awake questioning my own existence, every day doubting my own worth, and I have found no answers. For all that it was ever worth, I only received grief and a pitiable life.
Pain that never lets you forget
That which is lost
That which is gone
Always alive
In the shadows of time
A pain that stays
A pain that slays
Cutting deep
Leaving scars
Wounds open
Bleeding stars
