Once, I was a person. I must have been. I had dreams, and I wanted them with a fierce desperation. To achieve through my hard labour, to succeed on my own merits, to thrive in my surroundings and inspire others to do the same. My end goal was to be a good person. A person who embodied all those characteristics that the society of people, a society of my peers, would find favourable, admirable. I was to do those things that would allow me to hold my head up high at the end of every bad day, and keep myself grounded on the good ones. I would have pride, but less in myself and more in the people who were to be close to me; for, they were the ones who would have allowed me the space I needed to grown, to make my mistakes and successes, to treat them equally as lessons in my ever-growing life. I was to be unstoppable. I was to be so close to impossible that I could not know anything but happiness. I was to be happy.
Now, I do not know if I can be considered that; a person. Not entirely. I suppose I look like one, but looks can be deceiving. My brain function, paints a picture of who I am, and what I see, what my mind tells me, is that I am a loathsome creature. An ugly creature. Grotesque, horrendous, the list goes on. Such a disfigurement, a scourge upon this world that space is given to me so that I may disappear. Into a void, into a blackness of non-existence, a hoe so deep and so narrow that light cannot touch its recesses. That is where I remain. How long have I been here? One day, three? A week? Five years? Each passing moment the air gets denser, the darkness a bit deeper, the silence more deafening. Do I stay here for the remainder of my existence? Do I end my existence? Finally relinquish the hold I had on that fading memory of what it was that I meant to be; who I was meant to be. I cannot remember who dreamed those dream. I cannot remember what that person looked like, but it surely cannot have been me. I do not have aspirations. I do not have hope. I have misery, loneliness and isolation. I have sorrow and despair. I have this solid ground on which I can lie. I can waste away and no one will know, or care, or miss me. Do I end it?
Or, can I climb? What would it entail? That my limbs be stronger than they feel. That my brain can somehow know hope again, that it maintains a state of mental conviction that I may be accepted, as I am, by a populace I do not know, do not identify with, do not remember. If I reach the surface (do I dare dream that can be so), how will it be different, for I am not different. I am still a monster, still a demon, still a wastrel. Yet, I find myself thinking about it. How high is it? How long will it take? Will I make it? Can I climb? Maybe some other time; when I can catch my breath, when I feel better about myself, when I can sit up, when I can crawl, when I can stand. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow, I can climb.
Tomorrows, todays, days and nights. What do I know of these things anyway? Always in the dark, how can I know? I only know that time passes, it has to pass. Surely, time is passing. I still remain in this place, in this darkness. I become uncomfortably aware of the ground. It doesn’t conform to the shape of my body, though I have been here for…a long time. I do not know how long. Even the ground won’t accept me totally. It feels cold and hard to the touch. Almost clinical. Maybe another day here and it will be more comfortable, more bearable. As if my own past doesn’t exist for me. Stay one more day. Just one more. No one can see me in the dark, no one can hear me when I scream in frustration or pain, or desperation. No one can see the scars I have made for myself. I am ugly. They wouldn’t want to anyway. I will stay. The world that is apart from me, it really is a concept that is beyond such a thing like me. Let me hug myself one more time 0 I may not wake up again. I wonder, how far could I get, if I climbed? No, it’s too painful to think about. For now, let the ground take me. Who knows? I may not wake up again.