If I Dissipate...

So much that I can't move my body. It's almost over a week today, I guess, that I had given up all the possible working cells in my system to my bed. It's the sole witness to what I am as of the moment. I am unspeakably wrecked and dead like a wilting prayer. And I don't think there is something left to see in my ruined eyes but tragic crimson lines that poisoned my freezing brain 'til it's rotten.

What occupies the bravest parts of my existence is nothing but hollow humid air. It's the kind of sweat in something dreadful where you have run out of nerves to shield yourself from. It's the same destructive lament from an ancient television that no one even understood what for. And what's maddening is the lingering obsessive intent to murder that skin of anticipation and fear without signs of being daunted at all. It lies in my mind like an inheritance. So I can say I have conquered what other's openly fail into but then I am twice as broken. I have buried myself deeper than human loneliness could ever dig.

Maybe I should ask away. Know if people do have their own definition when they suffer from it. Emptiness is what it is. I want to exaggerate this word to the fullest so you'll know that what I feel is not just an idled pleasure that everybody can have once in a while. I want to write it and achingly define what my mind cannot. To the best that I can do if not for the worst. Or find ways eventually, to be numb from the idea that the meaning itself is just as void.

Countless words flash before my eyes yet I cannot construct a single sentence to justify whatever horrible spirit has taken over my frail body. My head is hurting like million pieces of needle poking at the back of my consciousness. It won't let me rest, will it? Tablets are just there to take it away for a while and haunt me again all through the daunting night. And when morning comes it's there—the hollow pit in my stomach; the churning flesh in my head; the world suddenly turning a three-hundred and sixty degrees. It's a mental abyss full of deep-sea water. And I will never know where to swim.

I won't know how to resuscitate the life out of my space-cracked heart. It's like floating above a spiral machine that I have lost track of over the days. Yet here I am, from awakening 1st now suddenly at 10th and tomorrow for the several 20s left.

I'll either find answers that a remedy is somehow given to me who have gained enough or come to my senses—as I should've been—that this is just as inborn as my mind. But there has to be a way for such a horrifying feeling to saunter in my head as if enslaving me whole. There should be some kind of treatment without ever costing a skin to open again and again just to know what wounds are bleeding in me. I fear of being heard—from parts of me that answers to this exact filthy thing.

Despair tasted like capsules and midnight tragedies down my throat. It's like I was plucked one by one 'til what's left of me is my internal turmoil. Mayhap after death what only transcends is the quiet half of my brain, the dead silence in my left temple when all is trembling and beating my existence to a pulp. It has always been like that. I get rid of it as I thought, and it comes back a dozen stronger than my pain tolerance. And not only does it cost my physical soul, but it also sucks the life out of my sanity like a sentence from being alive for a while.

As if I was pulled from drowning, followed by the terror of being able to hear life again. So much heavier and cruel just to take all of me and left with nothing but a null heart.

@rks.wuhdrelis

_{A warrior of liberty. With ink stains on her mind and soul. Maayong adlaw! This page contains the information you might want to know about the author. She goes by the name Arques and is under the username @rks.wuhdrelis. She lives in Cebu, Philippines, and is a proud Bisaya. She is a listener of music and is currently drowning in the rhythm of her pop-punk playlist. And she reads too, either depressing or hilarious books. Words from MJ, btw.}

_{Arques is an 18-year-old girl, on a mission to her dream college and a writer wannabe is her reputation. There's a thin line between writing and music that enthralls her mind to scribble every time she has a chance to. To write is to dream and to dream is to be free. Except for nightmares, she believes so. She fancies writing prose poetries that is usually about childhood, life, love, tragedy, something peculiar, or even unnamed emotions. Stay tuned!}

_{Her muse is Julia Choi from the K-POP girl group, ITZY. Images from this blog are retrieved from @itzy.all.in.us on Instagram. Thanks for making it here!}

_{P.S. Hello. It's nice to write something tonight out from a stressful week I just had. I'm glad I'm feeling well now and I hope to fill up the days I was absent 😆.}