The death is alive inside me

A few years ago, my friend’s friend hung herself at home. The person who first found her body was her 16-year-old son. At that moment, her impulse for death must have been so intense that she could not imagine what her death could leave behind afterwards.

It is a desire to destroy. You know that, don’t you? It goes towards the things outside of you, or it goes towards yourself. I hate walking towards the very edge of the cliff because I might want to step ahead and I am not confident that I can stop that desire.

I have sunk in-depth, but I was lucky to have a hand which pulled me out. I believe that it is not only me who knows the profound crack. Who could have not ever experienced that?

Death is just there. It’s invisible, but is sitting next to me. It’s staring back at me just like a skull which I met in the art classroom in my high school. It is as light as a plume and floating around me.

Death is wandering around, just like an animal whom you cannot see but you can hear and you know it is there because of a crackling sound caused by someone stepping on dry branches or leaves.

Death is alive inside me. It’s a beast who is a sleeping lion sometimes, but can become a harmful tiger anytime. The trigger may be as tiny as a click or blink.

I write to exchange the fear of death into something else. I am a writer who writes something; who weaves stories, diaries and poems by manipulating languages and letters just as warp and weft.

Writing is a mirror. I mirror myself as I write while I am tidying up my memories and feeling.

The reality is that I don’t know who I am as much as I thought I knew who I was. I write. I look down at someone on the deep lake surface who is looking back at me with its fishy eyes.

The next moment when I stand at my inner cliff, I will still be wanting to write. I will write my fear of death to exchange it into a passion for writing. And then, I would come up to the surface to breathe again.

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