Purgatory

Hands forever outstretched forwards, reaching for something that isn’t there. Let me tell you about my life; I am a conscious coma, living in irony.

Poor me, pity me. How tragic and ironic that what is keeping me from living is now keeping me alive; I am too depressed to die.

If I could lift my head, I would watch the clouds drifting away from the world. If I could open my mouth, I would sing to the gardens sprouting new life for the optimistic Springtime.

However, I fear if I could raise my arms, I would find something sharp make its way to my hands, cross hatching my wrists and dragging itself around my own throat; slicing my tongue and gouging out my eyes - my skin that needs teasing, tame at last.

If my eyes were open, I’m sure I’d find myself basking in the glow and the glory of life and all its wonderful presence; the flowers that bloom in the footprints of strangers I never bothered to meet; the Sun’s thriving dawn that welcomes another day I won’t live; the kind words of family and friends I’ve become too deaf to hear. Poor me, pity me. I am blind to all but these four walls and the view from my prison bed.

It’s OK, though. I’m not going to end it just yet. I don’t have the energy.

How tragic and confusing, living in Purgatory, where what is keeping me from living is keeping me alive. The Sun doesn’t shine through my window, so I think I’ll sleep through the Summer.