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This article contains suicidal content. We do not recommend you to continue reading if you’re having suicidal thoughts. If you need help, please contact the nearest mental health professional in your area.

I grab a pen and a piece of paper,
To lay down tales of the early hours.
Have you ever arisen from slumber,
and your vision a black-and-white blur?
A depressed palimpsest of once-colorful world,
overimposed by a tyrannical instagram filter…

Energy to move these limbs, M.I.A.,
This heart a thunderstorm, its drumming a thousand B.P.M.,
In a blanket of sheer fear you curl and curl,
This bed a nest of barbed wire,
The outside world a squall of free-flung razors,
Eyes shut tight, hope it dissipates,
Yet flashes of last night’s dream apparates.

The ghost of dark nights, more vivid than daylight,
A dream of your mom,
Yes, your mom…
The beloved and kind,
Yet often carelessly, jovially, with a smiley,
states, “son, your talent will never manifest!”

Mom visits in dreams, smiling and warm,
As she drags a raging chainsaw as big as her,
The machine whirs thousands horsepowers of force,
As she greets you with one vertical swipe,
One brutal buzz clashing with your bones,
You’re surprised at how brittle they are,
Rain of carmine blood spattering
across her innocent and tender smile.

And another dream,
Playing chase with your sisters through thickets of elderberries, trails of a lush forest, they fall into ravines, heads squashed like duck’s eggs,

And another dream,
Of your own funeral, a thousand times, your lifeless body drowned in pungent acid, or engulfed in cremation’s claustrophobic pyres.

And another dream,
Where best friends depart without a single word of goodbye, where sweet friends were stuck in a building as engulfed in flames as the sun, their molten carcasses lumped into a moldy pulpit, as their toasted skulls greet you only with the hollow of their eyes.

You wake up, you limber, you slugger through your day.
Coffee-fueled, hazy, enter office’s disarray,
Since for psychiatrist’s bill, you need to collect remnants of your meagre pay.

Yet before you know it, sun descends, darkness blossoms, anxiety roars, for what if those dreams visit again?

And they do, a thousand times,
Only the solitude of your sweat stenched pillows, the fortitude of these potent thriller,
offers companionship.

Grab my pens, my pointed ends,
Tear me away from these forks, pencils, scissors, rulers, long fingernails, Starbucks straws, goddamn toothpicks,
For the sick
temptation of jamming them deep into
my eyeballs,
The skull reaching exploratory depth,
Picking this very own brain, quite literally,
like poor monkeys in a Chinese eatery,
like poor captives of the KGB,
sticking these in, bloody,
hoping to find a button to cease
the anxious melodies whose singing persists.

They say, when you kill someone, you lose a part of your soul. Your conscience no longer whole, a gaping hole where it used to be.
But what if your soul was never whole to begin with?
What if the only soul you’d like to grind and fry and maim into oblivion is your own?

Your soul never whole,
This penumbra, a charred-scar, cheese-grater savannah,
Persistently clamoring for a soothing lotion, a stranger’s companion, sexual motions, TV serial marathon, endless lulling hours of fiction, a crate of melatonin, or even better benzodiazepam, substance addiction,
Just a little help of distraction.

Your soul never whole,
Too far gone, Pluto’s moon, the trench of Mariana, a universe only assholes and jerks and monsters
would traverse.

I get it, Chester. No matter how numb, how much we’re crawling, how many blippy papercuts, in the end it doesn’t even matter.

I get it, Chris Cornell,
For this world eventually disappears into a black hole sun,

I get it, Amy, your house is heroin and wine because we all wake up alone waiting for tears dry on their own,

I get it, Anthony, for however much blue ribbon cuisines we devour, that emptiness never sates,

I get it, Kate, that fashionable scarf along your trachea, paints the breadth of your prison, panes the flight of your release.

Some people anoint their neck with noose,
Set their foothold loose,
Hoping to be teru teru bozus,
that summon monsoon rain to wash away the pain,
Some would climb skyscrapers as they leave behind a note stuck below their favorite sneakers,
Hoping wings grow from their shoulderblades,
Before they kiss the concrete ground as their spine column shatter like dominos.
Some crunch pills,
To disappear into sleepy hills,
Where anxiety’s lobotomy no longer drills.

I grab a pen, and a piece of paper,
Write down my rant, let mind’s chaos simmer,
Dark thoughts poured out,
This perhaps the only medicine at this trembling hand’s disposal,
The zigzag of this stormy river finds its delta,
A bit of calm,
a bit of reprieve,
The only way I remain alive.

I write.

This article is originally posted in Uphie’s blog “Little Dragon“.

Uphie Abdurrahman
Uphie Abdurrahman
@uphiedragon adalah seorang interpreter/editor profesional dan event manager yang memperjuangkan hidupnya, dikitari bersama ADHD yang tidak terobati, kecemasan, dan trauma. Terbakar dengan es kopi hitam dan kecintaannya dengan naga dan fantasi, ia menulis puisi-puisi nan surealis dan tembang-tembang mengenai dunia mimpi dan perjuangan menuju sehat jiwa.