I slowly started to walk in her opposite direction, and I wasn't in the right state of mind. Perhaps my delirium had overwhelmed me so much that the sense of wrong and right, of direction, had faded, and I was merely following the path of my footsteps. My head ached, not from the cold but from the absurdity of the given situation, haunted by the guilt of how I had ruined my last bit of hope of ever being with her. I was in deep despair, not even knowing whether I would ever be able to see her again, or whether I could utter the words that had been eating me up. That overwhelming sense of false hope that I had been clinging to needed to be quieted by her final verdict.
I looked up at the sky, hoping to be greeted by the warm, radiant stars that always felt as if they were smiling at me, only to be met with the daunting reality that there was nothing above me and that everything I had adored had abandoned me. How could I go on living like this when everyone who held my heart had discarded me? I didn't know how to reach out to them, how to cry out to them. I needed to cry in that very moment. I wanted to flood everything. I wanted the peace of tears to cover the fabric of my clothes and moisten the gloomy atmosphere. Then why… why was I unable to cry as of now?
There seemed to be no end to me rotting inside. Inside, I was screaming to be uncovered. But no one was listening. All they could do was feel jealous of the shell that covered me. I felt so irritated, as if someone were pressing my neck tight, taking my voice away. I wanted to speak, but I lacked the words to do so. I did not want to mislead anyone, but I failed to do so. I wanted my actions to align with my thoughts, but I failed to do so. All I was was a man with ambitions but no motivation. I sought winter when it was hot, yet I threw away the unappreciated breeze of wind. I sought summer when it was cold, yet I threw away the unappreciated jacket of leather.
The path wasn't long; however, I couldn't bring my body to walk. All that was going on inside my head made me take frequent breaks to sit on the cold ground and think about whether I should or should not. Yes—whether I should or not—without even being aware of what the activity was. "Maybe one day will come where we meet again, maybe a distant future like those distant stars awaiting to be gazed upon," I said loudly. But then I thought: why would I want to meet someone like her again, someone who doesn't wish to gaze at the stars with me and has let me go? Am I just being unfair to myself? But at the very next moment I thought: well, I am not the best person, am I? I have yelled at that poor soul and tormented her with my nuisance; if I were her, I wouldn't have forgiven myself, either.
Even more time passed, and I desperately looked at the sky again and again and again, hoping to be greeted by an ounce of bliss—maybe a hug or a hug (which I knew wasn't real, however I could imagine it; if given the smallest fire, then an entire forest can burn)—I wanted to cry again, and I was able to shed a few sly tears. My body, my head, and everything ached so much that I wanted to throw myself under a nearby vehicle, to run off to the train station and jump, to grab something sharp and mark my body inside out.
I wasn't aware of how much time had passed, but seeing a distant light pole, I felt some relief, knowing I was nearby. It is common for a physically ill and weak man's legs to hurt from walking so much; however, today, anything but my legs hurt. "How strange," I said with a confused grin. Sometimes my mind slid off to rant about something else; however, it always redirected its way back to her. I was bewildered about whether to pursue a clearer sky or hope for the rain to go away and gift me the sun again. Would I ever be able to find a blooming rainbow like I had seen somewhere else? And how could I go on pretending I had never seen it? Maybe I should wait. No, but why would I want to wait for something that may never return? And I dislike her anyway, don't I? I mean, now that I think about it, there wasn't even much to begin with, and it is my lack of knowledge about people. But the way her interests marked her different and her innocent smile… "Oh, how could you say that?" I said with sorrow, clutching my heart, thinking about how unsuitable her actions were for her smile, for her radiance. I did not wish to be swarmed by a deceiving storm yet again. However, how? How could I leave my dream of seeing the sunsets, of gazing at the stars, of being different and having the most compelling love story? But does she want it? We were not even that special, were we? Oh, my love, if we could be again, I could live to see you smile, to tie a ribbon around you and adore you. "Oh God, save me, I beg of you," I started hitting my head, hoping for a way to escape all this meaningless conflict of mine. I started to dash toward my home, but my mind still wasn't at ease. Oh, maybe we don't need to be—but only if I could have a bit more time with you… Only if I could kiss you again and tell you you are pretty. Oh, only if you were how I imagined you to be. But if you were forced to love me… No, no… why would I want that? You either love me or you don't. I shouldn't force someone, can I? I chuckled a despair-filled "Ha ha," and then I sighed.
After reaching home that night, I didn't bother to even change and headed straight to my bed, not even bothering to drink a glass of water or eat some food. The moment didn't feel great at all, and I was left in a great delirium of displeasure. I was at the mercy of my own thoughts, and they only brought me closer to the point of self-destruction. I moved my body, closed my eyes, closed my ears. I was yelling and screaming at myself to spare me an ounce of freedom—freedom from all the delirium, delusions, and thoughts. I am not religious at all; however, I began praying, I began praying to God to make me forget everything, that I'd change and be a better man, that I'd live to be bright and not spend hopeless hours in my dreams having ill fantasies. None of it was of any help, and I wasn't able to rest. My legs were burning, my heart was numb, and my back felt pierced. I could feel a hammer and nail being thrust in my head. My bed and pillow were wet with mucus and tears. I was unable to even breathe properly. My nose was stiff and my eyes were swollen. I was so ashamed of my looks at that moment that I wanted to take a rock and smash it against my face so I wouldn't have to look at my horrifying, atrocious visage.
I am like a fragrant, colorless, ugly flower—something that blooms with no meaning, no purpose, no beauty. I am somewhere in the middle of every other flower, something similar yet different—except the difference isn't a cause for attraction but rather repulsion. Though I'm among everyone, flowing and blooming amidst others, there is this never-ending, meaningless sense of guilt and purposelessness. Why can't I have color like others? Why can't I have fragrance to attract bees and others? Why can't I produce any honey or help reproduce? Why am I unique in a way that provides no benefit for me or others? All my existence does is take up space and resources that could have been used for the greater good and flowers that do serve a purpose. I bring nothing, I provide nothing. I am an ugly flower, I am a bland flower, I fail to blend in and I fail to provide—yet why do I exist? Why does someone water me? Why does someone refrain from removing me from the garden? Why are my roots not being ripped apart, taking my life away? What did I do to deserve being a double shell over someone's turtle body? Why did I grow to rain over flowers that have already been watered? Why did I grow to pour an ounce of water over a mountain of fire? Why did I grow to be who I am? And why am I still going on? Shouldn't I be abolished for this privilege of mine, as I am not deserving or qualified for it?
I tried and failed to console myself. The search for what I lack to do so still remains unsolved. At times when the flow of time stops and each moment of suffering torments me eternally, I put my face on the table, wiggle my body around, and move my eyes, looking for a route that guides me to an exit. My own sanity seems to be killing me, and the will to fight it seems to be dying out too. What can I even do other than shed some tears, yet not even a drop of moisture wets my eyes? How would I cry when the feelings haunting me are the reasons why I should so, let alone pain or happiness? Moments I had held onto for long are fading away, but no part of me wants to keep them. I am left between the decision of mourning them or wondering why I should mourn. I am hearing screams so silent that I cannot even feel them, yet the thoughts of knowing they exist won't go away.
It doesn't feel like I am living, yet I have never felt livelier. This is an experience I do not wish for, but I know I will come across it again.
I want to sleep, and I don't want to wake up. I have longed for a dream and a moment of consolation for very long—a moment that I can cage up and keep within me to replay over and over again. What better way to achieve those fragments than to create it myself? If I were to pray every day, waiting for such moments, they may never come. But for my dreams and delusions, I can shape them to show me the moment of peace that I seek. And if I were to encounter such moments inside my dreams, wouldn't I wish to stay there forever? Waking up has no value for me than to face the harsh reality anticipating me.
Each day when I wake up, I am left questioning my existence. I have to put aside the subjects that I enjoy and wrap myself around ideas that I do not seek. When the night passes and I am left silent with myself, that is when it all comes out to greet me. For such unfortunate events, I am left evaluating my actions and motivations—something I find so little enjoyment in, yet I am forced to give up so much time on it, rather than the objective that I dream of. After this, I am left alone, feeling empty and lost on where I should spend my emotions, and do I even want them building up somewhere where I do not wish to live? I have awaited answers, and my conclusion is, "What better way to get rid of this attachment than to detach my overall emotional engagement from the objects that I find ever so useless and haunting?"
I am always stuck in the middle of a delirious, never-ending, yet sweet hurricane. I seem to be thinking, "Oh yes! Of course I know where to go, how to hide, how to protect myself." Yet when it comes to actually fighting the hurricane, I cannot seem to recall anything I practiced. Heck, I'd say I'm worse at remembering than an amnesia patient, though I don't think I have amnesia. Sometimes I doubt if there is even a hurricane, or maybe it's all just inside my mind. Oh, wait… maybe it IS all inside my head and I'm pretending it's not and making it seem like it is. But why? Maybe because I get to talk about it, I get to be spared a moment of pity that I'd deny but I seek deep within. But the people from whom I seek it have already defeated their hurricane; for that I had prayed. Yet now when their mind is resting in paradise, I cannot help but feel spite.
After hours of blood‑chilling, never‑ending, tormenting sleep, I was finally able to close my eyes for a bit. I don't have vivid imagery of what I saw; however, it felt very pleasurable. Dreams turn to nightmares only when we wake from them. I saw a garden filled with tulips lit by the starry sky. Upon walking around, I saw a nude woman lying in the field, as if succumbing me to her beauty. Yes—beauty; I, with all my heart and my life, can plead that not an ounce of lust was in my eyes. The sole reason I had seen my love, my dear A—, naked was to embrace every part of each other. It not only marked who she was at her most vulnerable and honest state but revealed the sides she may be afraid to show me. We lay together there and held hands. She didn't bother to say a word; her warm smile was enough. Seeing her smile made me want to pour out my heart, to lay my head in her lap. I started weeping and trying to reach out to her, and when I finally touched her skin, I woke up crying to realize that it was just a dream. No—it can't be a dream; dreams aren't supposed to make me wake aware, crying and sweating. I shouldn't be so frightened to not be able to breathe, nor to not want to live. "Why… why can't you leave me alone, A—, even… even when I—" I coughed and breathed heavily, running to the kitchen, hoping to grab a glass of water to calm my dry, illness‑ridden throat. As I desperately drank water, I was banging my head—the pain inside my head was terrible. I almost choked but regained control. I started desperately searching for food; however, not finding a crumb, I slammed the cupboards and table, accidentally hitting too hard and bruising myself. Though it was night and I had spent hours weeping, I started screaming out of pain and frustration at myself. I began speaking to myself: "Oh! I see you want to hurt me. You know what hurts me more? I will help you." I reached for a knife to cut my arms but stopped right before proceeding. My heart was beating so fast I thought I could have a heart attack. Covered in sweat, I felt disgusted by my own physical presence, let alone my mental illness. I put the knife down and sat beside the window, hopelessly in solitude, looking at the empty sky. I thought, "Oh, my dear A—, we will meet, right? I beg of you. I cannot live on. I am ill. We will, right? Please," and with such thoughts going on and off, at last I was finally able to slip into an undisturbed sleep