My own self/safety

There's an illness in this mortal body of mine, the one I call my own, the one which is in fact borrowed for a lifetime from the one I pray to.

At night... These thoughts overwhelm me.

Am I my own or am I stealing this persona for a lifespan unknown to me?

If I am my own, I will find pride in that fact.

In the fact that I owe no one anything.

If I only claim to be my own, what am I stealing myself for?

What kind of act?

What kind of life?

...

I'd like to believe this life was given to me, that what I claim is true—I am my own person, no one else's.

I'd find comfort in that fact... for whatever reason...

You see me through these words I put on paper.

You understand me, don't you?

Transparent as it gets to some.

Complex as one can be, to others.

An existing contradiction.

I am both to myself.

Transparently complex.

Complexly transparent.

...

Writing, as I always do...

You'll find the real me nowhere else but in what I write, for only there lies the real me, my own self.

And when the darkness comes...

I know it is my own time to introduce myself to the paper in front of me, all over again, as if it suffers from amnesia, to make an acquaintance with the pen and make sure no ink gets spilled in vain.

The idea to leave this world somewhere behind is etched into my brain.

I used to fight it.

Now I find comfort in leaving all of this behind.

Leaving myself behind.

...

There are many ways to leave this world behind.

And so, over time, I began to do so.

Bit by bit.

I left everything that troubled my breathing, all that made my lungs collapse, anything and everything that punished me for existing.

I did so countless times.

And then I realized, I was one of those things too.

I troubled my own breathing.

I made my own lungs collapse.

I punished myself for the simplest act of existing.

I could not forgive the world, neither could I forgive myself.

So I left myself behind.

And only by destroying myself, I realized I am my own self.

In that act, I had perfect control.

Maybe that was another source of comfort for the ones who wished to depart from this world.

To me, it was.

...

I looked out the window, trying to see the point, something that'd make me stay.

Anything.

I saw nothing but a lack of point in existence.

No sense in existing in such a world.

I've had enough of living like this.

Darkness grew stronger.

It captured all of me.

And I was not so much my own ever since.

...

I didn't want to be gone, not exactly...

I simply didn't want to continue living like that.

And if my previous claims are at all true, then...

I had perfect control of how my own self felt...didn't I?

...

I looked up at the sky, tried to breathe, to reason with myself.

I talked out loud so I could hear my own voice, so I could know I was still present.

"Soothe my ache. Find a cure for the pain. Set me free."

...

I became a prisoner of the world I saw no sense in, stuck in the body of someone I did not want to be anymore.

I desperately looked for a way out.

Out of this world...?

Or out of myself...?

If I am my own self...as I claim to be, why abandon myself in a place I despise?

Out of this world, then.

A place to hide, a place to run to.

Somewhere else—anywhere else but here, so I can be someone else—anyone else but me—as I am now.

...

Stuck in grief.

A stranger in my own birthplace.

Knowing there is so much more outside of this world...

Knowing I am so much more, outside of this world.

To leave it all behind.

To save myself.

To save my own self.

The cure for the pain.

Nothing more soothing for this ache.

Safety.

The illness cured by a safe place for existence.

And if this world does not provide one...

I will become one.

I. L.

@Iviwrites