Dying with the writer

There she was, agitatedly clenching her fist with her index and middle finger hardly pressed together to keep the pencil’s head stable as she grumpily fight over her squinting eye against a flickering light while attempting to sharp the tip as thin as she could. It was her habit. Dedicated and deadly compulsive sometimes, especially with her pencils. But that night was unlike every other night- she’s pressing hard against all possible obstacles, including her doubt whether to write or not. In her inmost desires, it has to be fulfilled and must be done that night, only on that particular night. Either with a significant reason to do so or not, her drive isn’t fleeting anywhere. It has to be done! And so, as soon as she almost pricked her index while assessing the sharpness of her pencil, she carefully laid a white clean paper in front of her. But before she neither started nor had assumed a completely comfortable position, she extended a hand and killed the other candle thus leaving only one to strive on its best in order to provide an ample light. Why she did it? Perhaps to limit the stimuli or perhaps to invite death itself in this darkness, it was hers to say in silence.

“ And there, standing at the edge of the cliff, the woman on a thin chemise looked down. The cold breeze rushing up from the bottoms of that graveyard was cold enough to send volts of shivers over her entire body. Teardrops started to form on the corners of her eyes” she started scribbling. Letting out a sigh, she paused for a moment and closed her eyes. There she could see the woman clearly. The smell of sea water, the sound of inviting death, the excitement of liberty being pumped out on that woman’s bosom, the fear running to her spine- all of which she could feel and see. Then, she opened her eyes and began writing again.

“The woman’s heart, heavy on it’s course, amplified her desire to seek immediate alleviation. Her feet, burdened by the living isn’t giving in and hence only her mind would send out the decision.  Soon, the woman closed her eyes and draw a sweet smile on her face.

Alas! Alas! She could hear it. The soothing melody of melancholy passing through the leaves. The echo rattling the unsettling silent of the night, out from the forest to the cliff. ‘Ahh.. it was peaceful, peaceful indeed’ she said to herself as she took one last step. The step that was as light as a feather and as invisible as time. Still with her eyes closed, she lightly travelled to an unending abyss, that which channels her to the underworld.”

Again the writer stopped and leaned backward, pressing her cold flesh over the hard wood. She sighed with sadness consuming her eyes. It was her. She could visualize it. It may seem not but she knew consciously who that falling woman was. It was her. She desires death but she knew she couldn’t die. She has to wait for death to call her, to take her but he never came or perhaps he hasn’t come yet. But she has to die. She was as good as dead anyway. Lingering alone in the dark longer than anybody she ever knew, love had became a fallacy, hatred was forced to be numbed, happiness was bought with satisfaction, loneliness was aided with monologues, and hence leaving pain the only sensation she can ever recognize, anticipate, and respond to.

Tears seeped out on the corners of her eyes and yet, her fingers fumbled in agony. She started to weep and agitatedly drops the pencil. Looking down again at the paper, she scrutinized her unfinished writing. ‘ Everybody knows what the woman would find at the bottom of that cliff’ she mumbled to herself. Knowing the irrelevance of necessarily writing down a word or two to finish the story, she folded the paper and shoved it to her pocket. She grabbed a coat and did not hesitate to go out with a flashlight in hand. Battling her way against the cold night, she managed to reach her supposed destination. Standing at the edge, she look down. Although dark it may seem but the clear illumination of the moon’s light down the water makes her see what she wanted to see.

The woman was down there. All white, dressed on her chemise and slowly sank to nothingness. Soon, the wave calmed and the breeze settled. She could hear her warm breath puffing out from her mouth. Taking out the paper from her pocket, she stared at it for a moment before letting it drop to the waters.

‘It wasn’t necessary anymore, dawn will break soon and another life was reborn.’

Slowly, she turned her back away from the sea, away from the cliff but before she could take another step further, she could see the leaves turning green. She smiled again, this time far better than she had ever have before. Gazing back to the forest, she knew she had to drag her feet and walk faster as possible. Right as she assumed, the kettle was already whistling as soon as she came by the door. She then rushed up to the kitchen, just across the main door, and turned off the burner.

“I thought you’re in the library. Did you ever managed to catch up some sleep? And much more.. where did you go early this time?” said a soft voice as that person approached her.

“Which should I answer first?” she smiled while taking two cups from the cupboard and filling them with hot water, completely ignoring to see who it was she was talking to.

“Where did you go?” again that person asked.

“By the cliff,” she shortly answered.

“Hmm… you shouldn’t frequent there you know. It send me chills every time you go there and I know you know the reason why,” that person said, sounding more concerned than disappointed.

She turned around, handling one of the cup to the other person with a grin.

“Worry not, I won’t be ever going there again,” she assured.

The other person seriously stared back at her for some time before getting convinced.

“ I hope you really won’t.”

“ Promise,” she assured and walked past that person. All she knew was that someone died and that would never be changed one way or another.

I walked on a daily path constantly in dispute with my own self. Sometimes, I do consider the existence of  a dualistic personality within me but at most- I know it was only my ego I was talking to. I laid off smoking and alcohol when I chose the pen and paper but the other me- the illusionary me is completely drown on those vices. However, it was she who keeps telling me the words I must write, of which , I don’t exactly know what they mean. The deformity of my physical being, guided by two mindset, was left on a confused state. One day I found myself blabbering something unconsciously while walking but sure I was aware of what I was talking about- only that it was obviously weird for one to talk with no one talk with while walking. At this very moment, I am perplexed on what to do. She wanted me to write and so I do but at most, my being, as others had raised me- always come in between and question my actions. The me which others had built kept on reminding me about the impossibility of things especially when my ego says and ardently encouraged me to do – that I must only write and keep on writing.

I can never be a writer nor find a writing job- that’s what the old and sober me says. Thus implying my need to find a ‘real’ job which I honestly hate anyway. For security purposes, people do that of which they hate and undoubtedly, that’s the struggle I’m always caged at. Living is futile indeed and something I cannot escape from as I utterly spent my days on sadness, loneliness, and misanthropic behavior.