A Page I Had Closed Opened Again

I cannot even count how many times I have wanted to leave, wanted to die.

Do I really have some task to fulfill? Am I really meant to do something supposedly great? Otherwise, why do I keep being pulled back and forth? Ha. All right.

I don’t think I am very good at keeping my emotions steady, but my capacity to endure is far from ordinary. It has been more than ten years, after all, and I am always struggling with myself. Isn’t death the worst that life can do? Yet I haven’t relaxed. If it were only that I had nothing I wanted to do and nothing I would miss, that might be easier. It is other things that frighten me so much: the fear that I have not fulfilled my responsibilities, that I owe someone something. Fear is stronger than death.

How, then, can I stop being afraid?

One more thought before bed. Am I feeling sorry for myself? Am I letting myself sink? It won’t change anything, but I don’t want to judge myself either. That makes me feel a little better. Am I waiting for God? Am I the person who turns away three boats sent to rescue him and then drowns at sea? Maybe I cannot see them. But if I cannot see them, can I really call them a rescue meant for me?

And yet that is precisely why I am free. So I need to find a way, don’t I? Not to destroy my life, but to find a way of making a living that suits me.