Echoes

Imagining telling K that I love him again. How many millions of versions do I not have of that conversation in my mind now? I cannot write, I'm too tired, too shut off. I just sit and stare at the pictures of K and try to catch my thoughts but they all slip away. I could fall asleep now and sleep until noon tomorrow, or afternoon. It's 19:30 and I can't stay awake.

Thrown back into the world of starvation and self pity. Not that the dream world was that much better this time. In it I was raped a third time and still starving myself. It's the second time I visit that specific corner of my subconscious. I didn't remember having another dream similar to this one before I had this dream. Same place, same second apartment that I shared with my sister, a few friends from an old school and a bunch more people that I didn't know. It was a very large apartment with several floors and more like a cottage within an even bigger house.

Now back to killing myself slowly. That dream left a bitter taste in my mouth, cause at the end of it all they wanted to hear about was that rape. And I couldn't muster talking about it. Now I'm cold, wrapped up in blankets, tired and empty. I don't feel hunger anymore, but I know I'm near malnutrition. And it's possible that I have heart arrhythmia. I'll sleep with my underwear on, just in case.

My previous suicide attempts flash before me, all the times I could have died but didn't. How I still wish that I would have died the very first time I tried, almost exactly 11 years ago. I remember it was during January 2005, but I can't remember the date. Sometime around the 16th I think, but I'm not sure. Wood for the fire, it's all been. All those suicide attempt, leading up to this final one, or if this will fail too, then the next one after that.

I wonder how many failed attempts there will be before I finally succeed. 17, 18, 19, 20? The only food I've had today was a spoon of yogurt. I still count it as a fast, I just had to try it, and it was lovely. 168 calories so far today, I think I'm doing good. And I live for the smell of my cigarettes, before the actual smoke reaches my nose. Today I haven't really been feeling good, but not entirely bad either. Mostly just empty. The feelings hang in the air, lingering vaguely around me, but they don't affect me.

I don't wish anything regarding my feelings, not to be empty, nor to feel. But I wish I had something to say, even the most insignificant or trivial thing, but barely any words come to me. The emptiness carves out my creativity, dulls it. Left is only an echo. So I echo out, once more.