From the Archives: A Poet's Path.

The revised version of a story I wrote back in 2019. I wrote this version in 2021. It's about someone who struggles with depression and self-harm.

Notes: I wrote this initially in 2019, and then revisited it once in 2021. I haven’t touched it since I made the revised version. A lot of my older stuff was very tangent on emotion based storytelling, and this was definitely no exception. CW// Depression, Self-Harm, etc…

A journal rested upon his bed, flipped open to a page half torn out. When he glanced at it, his hands shook and tears welled up in his eyes. He was wretched and torn by the path he had set upon himself- years of depressing thoughts and anxious bursts marked and scarred across his skin. An ever going obsession over things he couldn't change about himself, a new chapter to be later written in the confines of his journal. His thoughts and feelings were his when he wrote them down, because only he could see what he had written. Out of all things, it was that which made him feel safe.

When he could pour his thoughts into a book without fear of intrusion. Like there was a soul inside it he could trust not to tell anyone. Only a piece of leather and skin could become such a lifeline for someone like him. His anxieties, or his overwhelming longing for something better. Every single plea for an end to the traumas that filled his dreams at night; it was in that journal that he could confide to about his life. There was something almost magical about the experience. While sometimes he wondered if it was just an escape, he was almost always proud of it.

Snatching the journal from his bed, he sat down at his desk to write a new line of mind bubbles. Many things were rumbling through his head, but steadily he wrote, despite the shaking pen in his hand. The world around him spun in circles till everything was replaced with only a dim light. The zone crept up to him like a robber to their victim, and shoved him into his next line of thought. Feelings, memories, distant occasions that only sometimes rung a bell. He was in the present, the past, and the future. This was it.

"So tell me," He wrote into the journal, staring at his nearly empty canvas and pained determination. "How does it feel, to get to me like no one ever has before?" He took a deep breath as he recalled past events. Then he set the journal down, and stared at the blank popcorn wall in front of him. His face twitched and his legs shook as he stared down that popcorn wall. It was almost as if he was trying to push a thought onto the wall instead of the journal, like if he could will it out of its existence instead.

Then he was drawn back into the moment, his eyes flickering with a deepening melancholy. Days so long ago where he could feel alive, a free touch of any emotion he pleased. Those moments where he could be happy, and could feel some enjoyment. Each breath back then had been taken full of energy, and now his breaths were ragged with flashbacks and breakdowns. To even think about any of it, it was like a spear piercing his chest.

"What do you see when you look at me?" A bright smile of a soft and young face greeted him as he slowly painted the picture. A girl he had met years ago, a childhood friend, a person he had held so dearly in his heart. "Am I all you ever wanted to see in a man, or were we doomed from the start?" A tear welled up in his eye, then slid down and caressed his cheek. Hadn't there been more to what they had felt for each other? Some euphemism that they could have laughed together about today, or maybe all the older conversations the two had shared together when they were young?

He grabbed the notebook and threw it against the wall. He should have never thought about any of it, as he had always been ill tempered about it. He cupped his face into his hands and sobbed. The pen he had used to write with had fallen from his hand, landing softly on his bedroom rug. If he couldn't get over any of this, when would he ever get better. The thoughts, the uncontrollable emotions, would it ever end?

Perhaps never, but that was just what it felt like. His sadness inside reformed into bitter frustration. He had stopped crying and was looking at the journal he had thrown moments ago. Then if you looked closely at him, you could almost hear the angry buzzing vibrating over his body. It was like torment running through his veins like blood cells carrying oxygen through his body. A maddening realization that though he was ready to die, all he could do was sit and fume until morning came, or until he passed out.

As he was finally about to fall asleep, a knock on his bedroom door jolted him awake. As the door slowly opened, he didn't really know what to expect. His body ached with exhaustion, and he wanted to be alone. But for now, he would have to hide all that and put on a show. Just faking a smile and hoping to god that his mom wouldn't see the pain in his eyes. When the door fully opened, he was greeted by his mom's silence, and a sad frown on her face. Something was off.

"Mom...?" He lied backwards onto the rough brown flooring of his room. Maybe it was better to look away, his mother wasn't normally so sullen. His mother did not move, nor did she say anything. Instead, she merely stared at him, like she was assessing for any particular emotion in her son's face. This went on for minutes, but it became increasingly clear that she wanted to say something. Finally, she opened her mouth, quite anxious to speak.

"You keep telling us you're okay." Her voice cracked with disbelief and uncertainty. He looked away towards where his journal had landed on the ground, it sat open to an event he didn't want to recollect anything about. "You keep telling us you're okay- you tell me that you're fine," she said a little more confidently this time, but you could tell she was still uncertain. It was as if she knew the truth, or at the very least suspected it. She knew.

"Mom..." He whispered quietly. His head was an exploding mess, and now all he could see was disappointment in his mother's eyes, although none was really showing. She knew that he wasn't okay? She knew?

His mom looked to his bedroom door and sighed. She walked out, leaving her son behind to ponder the encounter. Yet all he could do was repeat Mom over and over quietly to himself. Each time he said it, the louder the feelings of shock and disappointment got in his head. Over and over, his face dampened from incessant crying. As the night grew old, and the longer it took for his mom to return, the more defeated he had become. Eventually, sleep crept upon him, and the dreams began. 

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