Intricacies

By Siri Nitta

She cried, 

for she was mourning the death of her emotions

the real ones, the ones that made her feel human.

She lied, 

to those who asked her if she was okay,

but most importantly to herself, 

because she needed to survive somehow,

because she tied herself together with those hollow lies and feigned smiles,

because if those ties broke, she would shatter, 

and putting herself back together wasn’t worth the risk of falling apart all over again.

She was weak, 

because feeling nothing didn’t only mean a lack of emotions,

it was a lack of hunger,

a lack of thirst,

a lack of seeing even the faintest hint of a light

at the end of a long, dark, treacherous tunnel.

It was too much sleep, only to still be paired with a constant sense of exhaustion.

It was too much thinking and too little action.

Because this wasn’t just some chemical imbalance in the brain,

or a lack of serotonin;

it wasn’t just a little survey at the doctor’s office,

or a lack of a support system,

it was a lack of life within her,

it was the flame of emotion, depth, and passion in her that had now been put out,

burned even, and trying to ignite the spark again was hell in and of itself. 

She was one amongst billions,

but not one in a million.

She was a pathetic excuse for a human being,

a mere ghost turning the corners of a dark alley at night,

trying to find her purpose even after death.

She was an extra in the film outlining the story of her own life,

and it wasn’t even a paid job.

She felt like the walls of her room, her mind, and her life were slowly closing in on her,

and instead transforming into a deep void that she’ll never be able to climb out of.

Because no matter how much work she put into fixing herself, 

it would never amount to anything in the end,

much like how sand simply slips past the fingers of an outstretched hand

and falls through as if it never existed in the first place.

In a world full of loneliness, angst, and violence,

she was alone within herself,

she was stricken with fear herself, 

and she was at war completely with herself.

She forgot what happiness was, 

she forgot what sadness was,

she forgot what hurt was,

and so she forgot herself.

She forgot how to see the things that make life worth living,

she forgot how to feel the things that make up the nature of a human,

and so she forgot to live.

But still she persists,

because the egregious voices in her head make her feel like there is no other way out,

because the choices she makes determine the kind of lifestyle she could have if she tried,

because the thought to just keep going, 

despite the silent but excruciating pain of apathy,

was motivation enough.

Still she persists,

because dying would mean causing pain to those who don’t deserve it,

because even if she didn’t want to live for herself, the least she could do is live for others,

and that was motivation enough.

Still she persists,

because even though she doesn’t feel like it, she does exist,

maybe not to the whole world, 

but to those that matter most to her, 

and that,

that was motivation enough.