I Don't Want to Go

The clock is ticking, like it always has been. For quite some time, I dreamt about it being halted. One unmoving minute, when everything is just silence, stillness, and I could stare at your dark brown eyes, the scruffy haircut you said you'd curse your barber for, and fading acne blemishes around your chin that you hated so much, for as long as I could.

"I'm scared." I said to myself, retreating further to the corner of the dark room. That's where I stayed for the rest of the week.

"You're stubborn," He remarked, "You're hopeless."

"I know," I replied, closing the text window and slipping into unconsciousness.

I only see you through my screen now. I know, aren't you worried? It irks me to be honest, that I don't care in the least. All I do now is crying to depressing music and eating biscuit crumbs for lunch.

I haven't felt like this in ages. This time it seems slightly different, as if I'm enveloped by some soft focus filter. I can't think clearly. I don't speak anymore. I'm lost.

It's kind of a reflex. Fight or freeze. I did the latter a few times during my early years, and it sort of becomes a habit that embedded in me. I close the doors, shut the blinds, and get under the cover, hoping for it all to go away. But they never do. They only waited, patiently, relentlessly, until I realized it's too late.

I'm a brick. My brain is a brick. Yet, my feet... they keep on wanting to run. But the only thing I'm running is out of time.

"Why are we like this," He inquired, less of a question and more of a matter-of-fact statement. His shirt was wet from my tears, and he stared into my tear-stained eyes.

"I- no idea," I replied, more of a whimper and less of an answer. We don't always have the answer, or rather- we don't always need one.

That doesn't mean I'm not curious, though.

"You're just confused," She remarked with a professional voice. I knew she's done this many times.

I was convinced there was something wrong with me. I don't buy this whole 'growing up' and 'maturing' bullshit. I wanted to incline to the possibility that I could be a special case, they would want me as a test subject on human psyche, and that my brain was wired significantly different than others.

But no. I was just another number in the statistics of quarter-life crisis, denying to bloom into adulthood and got stuck in the loop of golden old days' memories instead.

For a moment, I thought I could accept that verdict. I just had to do better. I just had to switch my gears in a more positive mode. I just had to talk to more people, and try more things. I could do it. I was normal. My brain works fine. I was fine.

But like I said, they never go away. Only waiting... patiently... relentlessly...

I was exhausted the first time. I didn't know what made me think I could do it the second time. Unarmed, unpacked, and unprepared even. It's looming closer, and I can't run away anymore.