Where do I start?
From the beginning? Well, that was way before my time.
Before I knew what was happening. Before I even could. Before I even experienced Life in fact.
So where do I start?
I am not sure of the beginning. I am not sure of the history. I am not sure of the reality.
I do not know which is more wrong, or which is more true. I do not know which is clouded by anger and judgement, and I do not know which is overcome by pain and grudge.
I do not know what he is like when we are not around. I do not know what I don't see. I am not sure of what I hear, or what I think.
I only know, for sure, what I feel.
And what I feel,
is a jumble of so many things. So many bad things. The worst things.
So many things, I am unable to distinguish them from each other anymore.
Like paint running over each other, creating colours that do not have a name.
Like the water from a river, merging with the water from the sea.
Like the mix between love and infatuation, confidence and arrogance.
But all of them have something in common.
Colour.
Water.
Feelings.
Personality.
And though I do not know exactly what I feel, I know that I do not like it.
Fear.
Pain.
Insecurity.
Doubt.
Anger.
Who does?
I know how I feel, and how I want to react in response.
I want to run away. Escape. Seek refuge.
I want to find a safe haven. A bomb shelter. Open arms.
Anything.
And one of the worst things that can ever happen, I have learnt, in this world,
Is running away but never being able to be freed.
Like strings pulling you backwards, all the things associated with what you fear most.
Memories. Sights. Sounds. Smells. Feelings. People.
Responsibilities. Filiality. Respect.
Humanity.
I could run.
I could slam doors. I could say no. I could ignore everything. I could drop everything.
I can hate them all. I can not ever give a damn about it.
But then I'd be irresponsible.
I'd be unfilial.
I'd be disrespectful.
I'd be inhumane.
All the hurt has been done.
And now what feels like everything that I do,
brings me back and reminds me of everything.
I am trapped in my own mind.
I am trapped in my own body, in my own life.
People waltz into my life.
When I try so hard to forget.
And they remind me of everything again.
They tell me to sympathise.
To understand.
To give in.
To stop resisting.
To try to reconcile.
I think about it so often, and at times I question myself, why is such a thing so hard to do?
But at the end of the day, I am unable to do it.
What they demand of me is too much.
I've spent my life being sad about it.
And suddenly, I've started to become angry.
I've started to not resist admitting my anger.
Because I am.
I am angry.
I am upset too.
I am so upset that words cannot describe, nor colours, nor analogies.
It seems like Life would never be okay.
But I am angry,
about how people decide that I am okay.
That I ought to be.
How people assume that I am strong enough.
That I can handle it.
That I will listen and I will do.
I am angry,
that people think I'm too young to understand.
But at the same time,
expect so much of me.
I am angry,
that people had the audacity to tell me
that they understand and they empathise,
but that he is hurting too.
I am angry,
that such comparisons are made,
as if my pain is any less than another.
I am angry,
that he, the adult,
is being stood up for,
as if he is an abused animal,
sad but 'no, his actions are understandable,
no, you have to understand,
no, he is only lashing out because he is hurt.'
I am angry,
because out of everyone who is in pain,
we, the children,
are the ones who are not being defended,
not being understood,
and not being protected.
When can there be a day,
when someone tells us,
'I understand',
and never, ever,
have to include the word 'but' behind it?
When can there be a day,
when someone talks to me,
with no motive other than to make me feel okay?
When can there be a day,
when no conditions have to be met,
when nothing else has to be said,
than what I feel and what I know?
It seems awfully self-centred.
But I've already become uncaring.
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