Counting the days as they mercilessly abandon me one by one. One day, two days, three and so forth.
If someone were to remind me that several days ago, I was panting like a madman; begging desperately for some psychological painkillers; gasping for breath as if the oxygen had bid their goodbyes eternally; struggling for some light in the consuming darkness, then I'd laugh it off and say, "You're mental."
I think I am the one who's mental here.
I usually keep all my series of breakdowns and pain in a small book. That book holds more pain in this goddamned world of mine than all the pain people could ever think of. That way, I am able to access the memory of what I felt and what I dreaded at the time of the occurrence.
Funny how brain works, somehow. It could dim, even diminish the most painful pain you've possibly ever felt in your life, in only a matter of seconds. Or, days, in my case.
Yet, the thought of me being in excruciating pain feels like a fever dream—like it never happened in the first place. Like I'd never known how the wounds felt like, despite it being an open wound; figuratively bleeding. The despair was supposedly unbearable.
I was left completely clueless, oblivious, but at the same time, miserable.
You see, I could only get the remnants of me crying, and, well ... that's it. Only crying, lots of tears—as if it was a lake and I was stranded in the middle of it—and my ugly swollen red eyes staring back at my inflated cheeks. But, no pain.
I don't remember any pain.
That is why I keep doubting both myself and my altered memories. I keep questioning, up to this day, "Was that real? Was I imagining things? Wait—was I faking it?"
Series of doubts will play inside my head like a television drama. And then, out of the blue, I will sulk in the corner. But then, I'll feel better in no time again. Yes, no pain is present, again.
If you couldn't understand me, worry not, because I do, too. I keep wondering and wandering, again, trying to find the agonizing pain that supposedly stroke me several days ago. Where is it? Where did I bury it? How did that happen? What could potentially hurt me that bad to the extent that I just want to give up all my breath?
I am panting, once again. Racking the shelves which are billions in number, kept quietly inside this storeroom which I call my mind, desperately struggling to find a little piece of evidence of me being in agony, other than the ones stored in that small goddamned book of mine. Praying hopelessly, that at least, I am able to find out one tiny little proof:
Am I sane?
Where should I find the pain, once more?
Why was I perilously wish for it to be gone before—yet, now, I am dreadfully longing for it?
"Oh, to be, or not to be alive," I murmur, finding myself holding a two-headed coin, once again.