I have said it over and over, again and again,
And yet it never seems to be enough,
It always starts with this missing piece,
Something void of form, a friend, a lover, a family, a home,
So many doors to knock, so many rocks to turn,
And all of it for what?
What is the real essence of this struggle?
At the bottom of all this emptiness,
I find terror, exhaustion and loneliness,
But these are still just symptoms,
Of a far deeper sickness.
Terror of what? Future.
Exhaustion from what? Marching towards it.
Loneliness? Is just the fear of falling,
And having no one to pull you up.
So what is the antidote to life?
How can I end this struggle within?
Should I just stop wherever I am?
I have tried that too but this sickness travels in circles.
At times I have lost the terror of future,
For why should I fear what doesn't concern me.
At times I have felt relief from walking,
As I have sat and looked at the bare night sky.
And at times like this, when I'm writing one line at a time,
I do not feel lonely anymore,
For I am reminded that the reason I am afraid of falling,
Is the knowledge that I would have pushed myself,
And then there will be two of me,
One who should fall and die,
And one who should walk thereon.
I am reminded loud and clear,
As my thoughts race my fingertips,
That the cure for this life is another one,
And the cure for every death is a suicide.