3 Chapter Three

Chapter 3:

It's surprising yet unsurprising, considering how human beings' resting heart rate is supposed to be less than 80 bpm; I check mine, and I am not all-too-shocked to acknowledge that mine still races more than 120 bpm early in the morning. I awaken to the familiar feeling of restlessness; my heart is threatening to pound out of my chest any second. I have developed this weird habit of checking my heart the first thing in the morning. It is normal. Not being restless is now unique.

It's 8:40 pm. I am neither late nor early. I slept for over two hours, which isn't bad. But now I will have to be up at night because I will not be able to fall asleep. That is a shame!

But at least I am not overthinking. Neither am I thinking too little. Right now, my only problem is me.

The ceiling fan dismisses the quiet of the room. The room isn't diminutive, but the walls still feel like they're slowly closing in on me. There is still some remnant of the previous night's lavender in the air, and it makes me stir painfully. I could never stand the smell of lavender. Why did I buy those repellents in the first place? The walls are making me suffocate, and it's ironic because I dwelled into these walls with so much love and care once. I adored these walls as they were my self-deprecating abode. I made a home in this room. I lived, laughed, cried, and loved in this room. The walls have over a hundred stories and a thousand dreams, but none of them feel comforting enough now.

Everything in my room is placed with such thoughtful calculative execution that it is impossible not to get the hint that I am a hoarder. Of memories. I hoard them. The room is an amalgam of my past and my future. Mementos, photographs, gifts, art, and some extra love are what this room conspires of.

My own shadow prances around the room, which is in a big mess. I haven't changed my sheets in over a week. Scratch that—I haven't even made my bed at all in over a week. If I look closely, I know for a fact that I'll also be able to spot cups and dishes from nights ago and bottles from the previous morning. My desk is the only thing that is clean. Next to it is my bookshelf, and next to that is my violin. Both of these areas have remained untouched these few months, and I almost want to kill myself for this obnoxious behavior. I should have listened to my mother and should have packed them all and tucked them away safely. At least that way, they wouldn't have collected the amount of dust that they adorn silently now. I make a mental note to sort this dumpster of a life I have been living—metaphorically and literally.

The ghosts of my interests slowly make way again.

And without warning, this room makes it difficult for me to breathe. I move out instantly to get to my evening ritual. Brewing tea does help, but it doesn't help much if you're drinking it by yourself. More than a commodity, tea is an excuse for family wonders for me. Every morning I used to wake up to my mother bringing me a cup of warm ginger tea, and I knew that the day was going to be fine. But now, I am not too sure. The silence is deafening. But I must learn to endure it and I must make it family.

Every day I sit religiously at my desk, feverishly trying to think of something, waiting for an epiphany, desperately praying for any dawn. But nothing. I get nothing. Although It doesn't hurt that I am obsessed with trying, but what instills fear in my core is the fact that despite putting in a gazillion amount of effort into something, the outcome may as well collapse.

Which is putting me away from trying at all.

Life is a great paradox. The blatant dismissal of my righteous indignation is making me feel terrible.

The day is about to end, and I finally feel the tire kicking in. Although I am delusional into thinking that I will be productive and spill pages worth of art, I know better than that. I have been in this routine for way too long. And honestly, how much can you lie to yourself? At one point, you accept your defeat and proudly wear the crown of embarrassment.

To give away my fortress of hope would be like giving up my will to live. Do I know how to break?

Am I lost in my head? Are these feelings getting me down?

I think I am losing it all again.

Every night I lie there and wait for sleep to overtake. Tired and tired of everything—cough syrups, teas, herbs, you name it. Maybe one night I won't have to try at all, and it will all feel like my body's natural defense? That's it. I will fly to the other side in the midnight. New starts are overrated. New cities are equally underrated.

Growing up, I didn't think that in order to sustain a life, you will need to claw at everything in sight. Life wasn't like fairy tales that my mother whispered in my ears while tucking me to bed every night. Those whispers are now sweet nothings to me.

Instead, life is a bitch.

Am I being bitter, or is life truly a bitch to you sometimes? I'd say both.

My happy and humble abode was completely wiped out within a fraction of seconds in front of my own eyes, and I could do nothing. I couldn't have saved anything.

I get out of bed to reach out to my window. The night sky is engulfing and comforting in some strange way. I have always found nights to be more attractive than days, for they make me think. There aren't many stars in sight, but I think that's because of the rising degree in population. I sit at my window and think.

I think about things. My own thoughts suffocate me. I feel like I am choking on my own voice. I am drowning. But it isn't the death of my mental health that bothers me. It's the fact that I have been able to do nothing about this.

Maybe it's time I looked out for a change. I grab the camp proposal by the table and take a deep breath. It won't hurt to maybe go through it just once. Right?