‘I would rather die!’ , she said, squealing. She is muffling her smile while keeping herself together. Lately, everything has become tiring she is giving less and less care about her perception, life and whatever she used to uphold beyond herself. And when her long gone friend comes to her and asks if she can pretend to be normal for a minute, all she can say, all she can say was ‘I would rather die!’.
Good thing we live in the era of sarcasm.
Pain is no longer a dully noted reality for her. It is a companion of hers to be kept all the time. What is it to be alive? If she dare asks herself for a moment, she will just concede to the idea of living in a full of piercing pain. For every breath she sighs, there is a pain she feels. For every glance she receives, there is a dark shade she gives away. And for every pain she feels, there is a guilt of feeling it. Wouldn’t it be easy if her pain was just hers? Why does she need her pain to be accepted within the rest? Why is a physical pain justified, whereas a mental one is not?
If she were to say that she’s suffering from cancer, everyone would sympathize. If she got a broken leg, everyone is running up and down to make sure she’s getting what she needs. What is it about depression everyone hates? What about it? Is it not a sickness? Why does it have to be a visible scar that everyone must see? Why is it so complicated that it should be, anyway?
If she wrote this hiding it in a story or a poem, everybody would love it. It’s just harsh to hear the truth as it is, isn’t it? But then again, who cares?!
Rants of the Absurdist
Unabridged Manuscripts 
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