Living with Dying
The clock blinked 2:47 AM in dull red digits. Alex lay on their back, staring at the ceiling, tracing invisible patterns in the darkness. Sleep never came easily. On nights like these, it felt impossible.
They sighed and reached for their notebook, the cover worn smooth from years of use. The pages inside carried everything—prayers, confessions, regrets, thoughts too heavy to speak aloud. Words had always been their anchor, a way to make sense of the chaos inside.
They flipped to an empty page, the pen hovering over it for a moment before the words poured out:
There's nothing telling me to cut.
No drugs to forget about my life.
I clearly remember those voices, those pictures,
telling me to cut—
it was a constant pressure that I had to fight
every single minute of every single day.
Their hand hesitated. Even now, the echoes of those thoughts remained—memories of an old life that still whispered in the quiet. It wasn't just the pain they remembered; it was the strange comfort in it, the familiarity.
I feel sorta free.
But that sadness—I miss it.
That uncertainty, that numbness…
I won't forget how it felt.
Even though it was painful,
it was still comfortable.
Living with dying.
Alex let out a slow breath, their fingers tightening around the pen. The words felt like a confession, a truth they rarely admitted. The sadness had been a constant companion, and without it, they sometimes felt… lost. But they couldn't go back. They wouldn't go back.
They pressed the pen harder against the page.
But I have to move on.
Life has other things as well.
God, I won't waste this temple of Yours.
If I ever get to the point of giving in to the endless void,
stop me by any means necessary.
They closed their eyes for a moment. It wasn't the first time they had prayed like this, asking—begging—for something to hold onto when the weight became too much. Their faith wasn't perfect, but it was all they had some nights.
I'm flawed and not perfect,
but for You, I breathe.
My faith in You is my lifeline.
The room was silent, save for the faint rustle of wind outside. It was a strange kind of solitude—the kind that felt both peaceful and unbearable.
Even though the days are long
and full of solitude,
I shall still continue.
I am weak,
but my faith in You holds me.
Alex glanced toward the window, where the city stretched beyond the glass, distant and indifferent. The thought of being out there, among people, felt exhausting. Seeking connection felt exhausting.
Seeking human connections is really difficult.
I don't want to be at parties nor bars.
I don't want to grab a drink.
I'll wait and wait
for as long as I have to.
That one connection might appear before me.
They tapped the pen against the notebook, rereading the last lines. A quiet part of them hoped—believed—that someone out there could understand. Maybe not now. Maybe not soon. But eventually.
My nights are restless and long.
I don't really get sleep,
but once I do, it's so rewarding and nice.
I'll just bear with my insomnia.
A yawn crept up, unexpected. Their body ached for rest, but their mind refused to quiet. They closed the notebook and pressed it against their chest, exhaling slowly.
Memories drifted in—foster homes, unfamiliar faces, places that had never felt like home. Pieces of a past they had carried for too long.
I keep dreaming about my past foster homes.
It really has been an adventure.
Alex let the notebook slip from their hands onto the bed, their breath slowing. Maybe tonight would be another sleepless one. Maybe not.
Either way, they would continue.
They had to.