Trapped

There ought to be a word to describe that inexplicable empty feeling that you feel in your stomach sometimes. When you just want to curl up and die. When you don't feel like living anymore, simply because there might be more misery than you have already seen.

If you don't have the guts to die, you want to do the next best thing. Leave everything and just go where no one can find you. You want hit that cold gray road, alone, and walk till your feet go numb and you can't feel them anymore. You want to walk on that road, emblazoned with sharp, spiky, jagged metal pieces and crinkled broken glass with shards so thin that you can't even point out where they sliced into your skin to cause you the intense pain you feel. You want the howling wind and the harsh sheets of frozen rain to lash against your naked chest. And you want the cold to pierce your skin and drill into your bones to make you feel totally incapacitated to fight. Just so that you can find out how much of this cruel pain you are able to take. When really, you wish that you cross that limit and all this just ends. You find that you are really really sick and hold a twisted desire to be a masochist. At least that would make you like pain. And there seems to be so much of it. Would it be a little better if you liked the misery? But most of all you want to resist the temptation of believing in all those colors, fragrances, smiles, happiness and beauty of this world. Because deep down you know, that all of it is just a very flimsy facade that shabbily conceals the vast ugliness of this world.

As you walk naked on that dead, dark, and quiet road, it all flashes by you. The misery, the pain, the suffering, the lies, naivette, the regrets, the censure, and the condemnation. And there are some flashes of the 'happy' times when the pain was missing. You are actually afraid of those times now because should you have to face them again, you don't how you would measure up. Happiness and positivity seem like such a big lie that you think you can never pretend to buy into it again. But you don't want to think of that. Right now you just want to keep trudging into the arms of the only loyal friend you seem to have. Pain. It always lurked in the shadows and you knew it would be there throughout your life. You can't imagine a time when it is not around and now you have grown to like it. That's the only truth you know. It is cliched, but while the going is good, your friends know who you are. And when the going is tough, you know who your friends are.

You hate yourself when you realize you are able to look at all the innocence and beauty around you and scoff at its seasonality and temporariness. You are unable to laugh a truly happy laugh and you can't enjoy anything anymore. You can only smile to yourself when you think of how all the beauty and innocence will die soon and pain and suffering will take over. The only constant.

Theres a new game you play with yourself. You enter a room full of happy people and start guessing when each of those people will die or become miserable. You make small bets with yourself and celebrate when you get it right. And then you feel sick and nauseated with yourself. And the cycle repeats.