The woods are lovely, dark deep
but I have promises to keep
and miles to go before I sleep
miles to go before I sleep.
I remember repeating this to myself again and again, like a spell, during days when I was being crushed under a mountain of to-do lists.
I have blood on my hands. Faces I left in the dirt. Faces I couldn’t save. I kept trying to catch up, make up for those faces I couldn’t save. The more I try, the more I lose. It’s an endless cycle. And at the end of the day, I am haunted. Haunted by those faces. Faces filled with pain, gasping for life. Every kitten, every child ran over by a bus.
It’s a recurring nightmare. Every time. My heart racing, my brain processing as fast as I can. Time slows down. I see death standing in a corner. I run, and I run, trying to grab their hands, trying to pull them back here. The faces staring at me. Pain in their faces. So much pain. So, so much pain. I fail.
I fail, every time. I can’t save them. A life, gone, because I couldn’t save em.
I have blood on my hands.
I think I went through seven stages of grief with this whole phenomenon. Given my psychopathic nature, shock or denial was never my forte. Neither is acceptance or hope. Pain and guilt, yes. It’s insurmountable. I used to work myself to death, trying to make sure that I don’t lose the next fight. Yet, I lose. It’s an endless cycle.
Anger and bargaining. Yes. I have felt earth-shattering rage. So much rage. I have even bargained with God. “Take mine”, I said. “Take it right now. Let em live, just this one time. Let em live.”
Depression, loneliness, and reflection. Upward turn. Reconstruction. This list feels obsolete now. I tried many-many coping mechanisms. Told myself that it’s not up to me to decide who goes when. Told myself that I’m suffering from a delusion of grandeur. Told myself I’m just a small clog in the system, gotta try to impact the whole system to bring proper change. Told myself I should make peace with it, it’s part of the job. Told myself, as long as I have my two hands, I’ll keep trying. I tried fortifying myself up, so I don’t feel pain for them.
But, he was a baby. A small, two-month-old baby. I want vengeance. I want vengeance, on something. Anything.
I have blood on my hands.
There’s an eighth step of grief no one tells you about. It’s exhaustion. When all you want is vengeance. When you are too tired to move on and start again. When you are tired of finding coping mechanisms. When you are tired of telling yourself things. When you are… When you do not give a single fuck.
You know I always advised people, to forgive yourself for the pain you have received and the privileges you didn’t receive. help others with the privileges you did receive and the pain you didn’t. I thought that was my duty. To go out there and try, because my privileges are a responsibility. Well, the advice still stands, just… just not for me anymore. Because I can’t. I can’t do this anymore.
There is also a quote. Death and stupidity, in a certain way, are the same. The one who commits them isn’t affected by them. The ones that love them and surround them, death and stupidity affect them the most.
Unfortunately. I do not give a single fuck. I think it’s time I stop by the woods on a snowy evening.
I am sorry, I couldn’t save you.
15/3/2022. 11:30 am
Shadhin, the end.