The drums hit hard this time, the cymbal bells behind my skull banged hard forcing me to awake to yet another doom of a day. It had become a death sentence to wake to the brightness of the sun’s rays.
What is it to life to inflict pain on its children? A daily question; “Why do you still try to live when the after-death experience is another world to explore, why do you have to wait until you are old and grey?” I had found solace in darkness and peace with emptiness, I had lost reasons to live with the ones that had reasons to go on with life, for I am doomed.
. . .
Today, I chose to die.
Yet there were the voices in my head so dim saying “it is not time yet”, fighting for their voices to be heard even in the noise of the darkness, “stop trying to die, stop trying to kill yourself, serve your time here.”
Today, I fought to concede that there’s more to life If I would try to find my place and my own space. Life needed me to see that, life needed me to know that it needs me.
Then I found my path, I began to write my stories with ink rendering an emotion into each line, I became one who dreams in the day and writes stories at night. I told my stories to find inner peace, finding my pieces gradually.
Gradually I began to heal, not completely, but the signs were there, they couldn’t hide.
I wrote every character out of pain and equally joy, and people began to see light from my stories understanding the plight of my characters and the tough fight for peace and healing.
So even if people didn’t know my true story from the limelight, they knew me from my stories and they also began to heal gradually, finding their pieces and settling for harmony.
This is my story.